Never Logged Out by Ria Chopra is a book about Indian Gen Z’s relationship with the internet in a world that is now chronically online, often much to the dismay of the people doing the scrolling. Across eight essays, the author documents various internet trends, mixes them with psychology, sociology and cultural history, and liberally sprinkles in her own experiences of growing up online. Experiences, largely belonging to a particular kind of urban, English-speaking and relatively privileged Indian Gen Z.
There is an interesting idea in the book about how the internet has fragmented us into tiny chambers. You can be famous to a few thousand people in one corner of the internet and completely unknown everywhere else. Algorithms sort us into bubbles; the same names, jokes, controversies and cultural references circulate within them until everyone inside seems to inhabit the same world. It is through one such little corner of the internet that I knew of Ria before reading this book. She is something of a micro-celebrity in certain online circles. I do not know her personally, but back when I was a chronic Twitter user, before its enshittification, considerably accelerated by the Musk takeover, I would occasionally stumble across her tweets. Opinions about her were remarkably polarized. She had plenty of enthusiastic fans, as her large following makes obvious, and an equally enthusiastic contingent of haters. I was indifferent to either side, but reading this book made me understand both of them a little better.
The book begins with the author recounting her early relationship with the internet. She created her Instagram account in 2013, at fourteen, by which point some of her cooler classmates had already established themselves online. Elsewhere we encounter Ask.fm, Tumblr fandoms, Facebook relationship statuses and the peculiar rituals of an internet that still required you to consciously log on. There is considerable privilege embedded in this childhood, something the author duly acknowledges. In fact, the opening essay itself spends a fair amount of time discussing how internet access in India was shaped by class, geography and infrastructure.
That acknowledgement nevertheless produced a strange experience for me while reading. Ria was born in 1999. I was also born in 1999. She grew up largely in New Delhi; I grew up in Tier-2 cities. As I read about the internet culture surrounding her adolescence, I kept remembering the richer kids in my own school talking about many of these exact things, and the enormous FOMO I felt because an internet connection at home was still a luxury for us. While people her age were stalking Ask.fm profiles, navigating Tumblr fandoms and building online identities, I was begging my mother to take me to a cybercafe so I could finish a school project about scientists and their contributions.
This is not an attempt to win the Trauma Olympics. I had a perfectly decent childhood, and life has dealt me a reasonably good hand since. I mention it because this gap matters when discussing a book claiming to document the internet experience of a generation as enormous and economically diverse as Indian Gen Z. The internet may eventually have become democratized in India. Growing up with it certainly was not.
That distinction repeatedly surfaced while I was reading. There were moments when I recognized the internet described perfectly; others felt like overhearing conversations from the expensive table at the other end of the cafeteria. That probably also explains some of the hostility she receives online. Privilege produces resentment even when the privileged person acknowledges it, because acknowledgement does not erase difference. There is nothing inherently wrong with writing from that perspective, for you can only honestly write from the life you have lived. But it necessarily narrows who will see themselves reflected in the mirror. And to her credit, the author writes extremely well for the people who do.
Every essay begins with an engaging hook. The prose is conversational, accessible and usually effortless to follow. A typical chapter begins with an internet phenomenon, expands into some psychological or sociological idea, and eventually asks a larger question about what it means to be human while living through all this. The book is particularly good at explaining ideas without sounding like it is explaining ideas. You do not need to know what parasocial relationships, algorithmic identity formation or the attention economy are before picking this up. It is nonfiction written for people who grew up reading captions rather than Enid Blyton or PG Wodehouse. That is a genuine skill. Unfortunately, I often found myself wondering whether either the book was not meant for me or I simply lack whatever organ is required to properly appreciate internet culture.
Take the Orange Peel Theory essay, which uses viral relationship tests as an entry point into how Gen Z understands and performs romance online. There are several interesting ideas in it. My problem was structural. I genuinely thought the essay was ending on at least three separate occasions. Each time it seemed to have reached a natural conclusion, another thematic door opened and off we went again. There is nothing wrong with following an idea wherever it leads. But occasionally the book follows ideas the way I browse Wikipedia at 2 a.m - one perfectly reasonable link at a time until I suddenly realize I am nowhere near where I started.
I had a similar reaction to What’s in My Bag? The essay is broader than its title suggests: it moves from tote bags as cultural signifiers to celebrity bag videos, aesthetic identities, consumerism and the transformation of ordinary possessions into tools for performing the self online. The argument is perfectly coherent. I just could not shake the absurdly simple question - does this really require an entire essay? Human beings have always been fascinated by what famous people wear, eat, buy and own. Magazines existed largely because millions of us apparently needed to know which shampoo Madhuri Dixit used. Instagram and Vogue’s bag videos have changed the scale, speed and monetization of that curiosity, but I am less convinced that they have fundamentally changed the impulse itself. The medium is new. The monkey wanting to know what the higher-status monkey has in its bag is ancient. Perhaps, again, I am simply the wrong audience.
There is, however, one criticism I think survives the target-audience defense - the book can be extraordinarily meandering. The essay on fame provides my favourite example. Within a remarkably short stretch, probably not more than three paragraphs, we move through early Indian YouTubers, YouTube becoming a legitimate career, YouTube originally being conceived as a dating service, users repurposing it, the human instinct to rebel against intended uses, children running up playground slides, teenagers irritating their parents through literal interpretations of instructions, and Chinese citizens using a Bappi Lahiri song on Douyin to protest zero-COVID restrictions. Individually, every link in that chain can be explained. Collectively, I began to feel as though I had forty-two browser tabs open and could hear music playing from one of them but could not figure out which.
Perhaps this is deliberate. A book about an internet-addled generation whose attention is constantly being yanked between unrelated stimuli may itself benefit commercially from moving rapidly between unrelated stimuli. If so, the form certainly matches the subject. Whether that makes for good long-form nonfiction is another question.
There is another section that I hesitate to call a criticism because I suspect it explains, more than anything else, why the author sometimes rubs people the wrong way. In Post-Knowledge, the author asks an extremely important question: what does intelligence mean when machines can increasingly perform tasks that we once considered evidence of intelligence?
This is a question I care about enormously because it is not abstract to me. The kind of work I do could genuinely be transformed, or partly replaced, by machines that become better at scientific reasoning. I could explain why that worries me, what it says about intelligence, and what it might mean for the future of knowledge without telling you that I have a master’s degree in organic chemistry, that organic chemistry is considered difficult, that I am doing a PhD in computational chemistry, or that my work involves quantum-mechanical calculations. None of those credentials are necessary to make the argument. If I include them anyway, I am no longer merely making a point about artificial intelligence. I am also quietly making a point about my own intelligence.
And that is roughly the discomfort I felt while reading the author’s anecdote introducing her argument. She recounts appearing on Kaun Banega Crorepati, encountering a question whose answer she did not know, and reasoning her way towards the correct option using clues in the question. She ultimately quit rather than risk her winnings, but her inferred answer was correct. The episode becomes evidence for a larger distinction she draws between knowing and thinking: perhaps intelligence in an age of abundant information matters less as recall and more as deduction, synthesis and pattern recognition.
The philosophical point is good. The anecdote leaves a faintly self-congratulatory aftertaste. It is not because she mentions KBC. Personal essays obviously require personal anecdotes. It is because the anecdote places the author herself at the centre of an argument about intelligence and then uses her successful reasoning as evidence for the kind of intelligence she values. There is a fine difference between demonstrating intelligence in your writing and telling the reader a story whose conclusion is that you are good at thinking. Most good nonfiction writers simply let you infer the former.
I do not think this is malicious arrogance, nor do I think the passage deserves the kind of personal vitriol people direct at writers online. If anything, I suspect the author is simply unusually comfortable making herself the specimen under examination throughout the book. Sometimes that produces honesty. Sometimes it produces moments where the microscope appears suspiciously flattering.
And then there is the final essay, which contains my biggest disagreement with the book. Its broad argument is that despite how thoroughly the internet now structures our lives, Indian cinema and television have frequently struggled to portray it convincingly. The essay discusses why - filmmakers may be older than the characters whose internet lives they depict; digital communication is notoriously difficult to render visually; internet culture changes faster than production cycles; and, perhaps most importantly, India contains audiences with radically different levels of digital literacy. There is plenty here that I agree with.
But the essay eventually walks into a contradiction that I could not get past. The author praises CTRL for committing fully to a digitally native form of storytelling. She describes trying to watch it with her mother, who gave up within the first thirty minutes because the screenlife format and digitally saturated narrative were difficult for her to follow. The author herself understood it effortlessly because she belongs to precisely the demographic at which the film is aimed. Fair enough.
A few pages later comes Anupamaa. The author criticises the enormously popular daily soap for repeatedly using implausible instances of videos going viral as plot devices. A dance video goes viral enough to reunite a family. Another video from a party spreads almost instantaneously and causes scandal. To someone deeply immersed in internet culture, these depictions understandably look ridiculous.
But who exactly is Anupamaa for? My septuagenarian maternal grandmother watches it. She grew up in a remote village in Gujarat in a world where reliable electricity itself was not a given, never mind broadband internet. She does not understand why one reel gets 347 views and another gets three million. She could not care less. Nor should she. If “a video went viral” efficiently communicates to her that many people have now seen this thing and therefore the plot is moving forward, the device has done its job. So why judge Anupamaa by the digital-literacy standards of urban Indian Gen Z?
I understand the obvious counterargument - the criticism is about accuracy, not comprehensibility. A show can remain accessible without depicting virality absurdly. That is fair. But there is still something strange about demanding sophisticated internet realism from a daily soap whose core audience neither needs nor particularly wants it, immediately after praising a film whose accurate portrayal of internet culture was inaccessible even to your own mother.
It reminded me of watching Dr Salunkhe’s laboratory in CID as a tenth-grader who had just developed an interest in chemistry. I would look at some of the “experiments” and think the whole thing was completely bonkers. The chemistry was often laughable. But it also did exactly what it needed to do. If a daily-wage laborer comes home after an exhausting day and derives genuine entertainment from watching Salunkhe announce that someone has been poisoned because a solution has dramatically turned pink, does it really matter that what he has essentially demonstrated is phenolphthalein encountering an alkali? Scientific accuracy matters in a chemistry textbook. In CID, the pink liquid needs to tell the audience, quickly and unmistakably, that something suspicious has happened. The device serves the story.
Different cultural products serve different audiences, and accuracy cannot be judged entirely separately from that purpose. CTRL does not fail because my grandmother would hate it. CID did not fail because fifteen-year-old me knew enough chemistry to laugh at Dr Salunkhe. And Anupamaa does not fail because Ria Chopra finds its understanding of algorithms embarrassing. Once you accept that, the same question inevitably turns back towards Never Logged Out itself.
Before posting reviews, I usually read other Goodreads reviews to see whether other people noticed the same things I did or whether I have, as occasionally happens, completely lost the plot. What struck me here was how many reviewers mentioned that they ordinarily do not read nonfiction but enjoyed this. That makes complete sense. The author has a knack for taking ideas that could easily become dry cultural criticism and packaging them in a form that feels familiar to people accustomed to consuming information through the internet. She understands hooks. She understands references. She understands when to insert herself into the narrative. She understands how to make sociology feel like someone explaining something interesting to you over coffee rather than assigning you forty pages of literary criticism.
Anything that gets someone who does not normally read nonfiction to voluntarily pick up a nonfiction book is, in my opinion, doing something worthwhile. But it also helped me finally understand whom I think this book works best for - someone broadly within the urban, English-speaking Indian Gen Z experience; someone who has spent a considerable part of their life online; someone familiar with the cultural vocabulary of Instagram, Tumblr, Ask.fm, influencers, aesthetics, virality and doomscrolling; and, particularly, someone looking for an accessible first step into cultural nonfiction rather than an especially rigorous or revelatory work of it.
For that reader, I can see Never Logged Out being delightful, and kudos to the author for doing that. For me, it was engagingly written, occasionally insightful, frequently overextended and ultimately fairly mediocre.
Maybe that is the most appropriate possible reaction to a book about algorithmic bubbles. The internet may eventually have reached all of us, but it did not reach us at the same time, cost us the same amount, show us the same things, or give us the same childhoods.
We may all be Never Logged Out now.
We were never logged into the same world.