‘Addictive as gambling’: How dating apps ruined a generation’s love lives
Andy can pinpoint the exact moment he realised he was addicted to dating apps; it was during a break-up in 2016.
“Midway through the fight, she went to the bathroom,” Andy, now 33, recalls. “And immediately, I went straight on Tinder, looking to get matches.
“I’d not used the apps while in the relationship, but I’d never deleted them off my phone either. I thought, Oh my God, I’m on Tinder in the middle of being broken up with…this is not great.’”
Andy, who has asked to only be referred to by his first name, is a self-confessed dating app addict, obsessively switching between Tinder, Bumble and Hinge in a bid to rack up matches.
It’s an addiction that has plagued Andy for over a decade; he was one of the early adopters of dating apps, joining Tinder in 2013 when he was in university.
“Before dating apps, all we could do was go to the bar and try and chat up girls, which sucked,” he explains. “Being rejected in real life is unpleasant. On apps, if a girl stops replying, it’s no big deal – there are plenty more to scroll through.”
It wasn’t just safety from rejection; Andy adds he initially became hooked on the “thrill” of getting matches: “I got an instant rush knowing someone found me attractive.”
It’s unsurprising that this rush is addictive; psychologist and addiction expert Dr Ree Langham explains these apps capitalise on the dopamine neurotransmitter: effectively, the reward regulation in our brain.
“The reward system is designed to encourage behaviours critical for survival by providing feelings of pleasure, which can be exploited by dating apps,” Dr Langham explains. “This can lead from dopamine surges of excitement at new matches or interactions.
“Over time, the brain associates these surges with the app, creating an increased usage and tolerance where more frequent or intense use is needed to achieve the same levels of satisfaction.”
Dr Langham adds that in this respect, dating apps “can be as addictive as gambling”.
“The unpredictability of matches and messages creates excitement and paired with the endless swiping and infinite possibilities of finding a match, exploits the user’s curiosity and hope for potential connections.”
It’s little wonder, then, that Tinder, Hinge and other Match dating apps are facing a class-action lawsuit in California by six users, for designing its dating platforms with game-like features that “lock users into a perpetual pay-to-play loop”.
“Match’s business model depends on generating returns through the monopolisation of users’ attention, and Match has guaranteed its market success by fomenting dating app addiction that drives expensive subscriptions and perpetual use,” the lawsuit says. (A Match spokesperson, meanwhile, claims that “Our business model is not based on advertising or engagement metrics. We actively strive to get people on dates every day and off our apps.”)
But Andy certainly treats the apps like a game, describing Tinder and others like ‘an online multiplayer’ – constantly testing which pictures and prompt responses elicit the most matches.
“My friends and I used to have contests about who could get the most dates – I’d line up three women over the weekend, sometimes dating one girl in the afternoon and one at night,” he explains.
After scoring so many dates, Andy kept track of the women he was speaking to and seeing in an extensive spreadsheet, from the S tier (women he considers the best looking) to D tier (the least attractive). Andy sheepishly revealed if a woman’s name is in bold, it means they had sex (the spreadsheet has plenty of bold).
“I grew up in a generation where we all had Gameboys in our pocket,” he explains. “We could play Pokémon wherever we wanted. I view Tinder the same way – when I’m bored, I’d swipe through matches.”
It wasn’t just his spare time being eaten away. Andy found his wallet thoroughly pumped too, after spending around ￡30 a month on subscriptions such as Tinder and Hinge, which gives perks such as unlimited likes and for the algorithm to give your profile more prominence compared to free users. He even shelled out on a ￡200 lifetime subscription to Bumble.
“The apps give the impression you’re in control,” he says. “Almost as if the more effort and money you put in, the more success you’ll have.”
It’s something writer Genevieve Wheeler, 29, agrees with. She joined dating apps when she was 21, having moved from the United States to London to study. At one point, she found herself scrolling through various apps for five hours a day, checking in on her matches first thing in the morning, last thing at night and numerous times throughout the day.
While Genevieve matched with ‘hundreds’ of men, she only really had a few dates, and only had one successful relationship in response (they broke up after a year together).
“It felt like men were collecting matches like it was Super Mario,” she explains. “It was addictive as different people had different end goals – but you keep hoping you would meet someone aligned to you.”
Genevieve adds that, while she didn’t enjoy being on the apps, she felt like it was the only way to meet new people. It’s a fair assumption: 74% of Gen Z and Millennials use dating apps. However, it’s not to say people enjoy using them. According to research by platform Tylt, 84% of millennials would rather find love ‘in real life’ than online.
“We’re all miserable on them,” Andy laughs. “Every prompt talks about how much we hate dating apps. We’re trapped in this banal dystopia where this is what we must do to find love.”
Relationship therapist Dr Emily May agrees apps gamify the dating experience: “Users seek the thrill of the game over meaningful connection. The endless options result in people being less likely to form meaningful relationships. They’re always thinking there might be something better. It can also lead to over-comparing each partner to others you could be swiping on, leading to feelings of discontent.”
Andy decided to confront his addiction to dating apps in 2020. Throughout the pandemic, he found himself compulsively reaching for his phone just to swipe. “I just thought, ‘this sucks,’” he explained.
“Therapy did help me cut back, but it’s mindfulness that has really helped. When I do a yoga session, I don’t even think about swiping.
“But during the pandemic, dating apps were one of the few ways you could keep connected with people. Living on my own, it was a real lifeline.”
The pandemic saw people flock to Tinder with swipes and matches growing by 11% and 42% respectively, with a poll of 5,000 Tinder users revealing that 60% turned to the online dating platform because they felt lonely.
And it cannot be denied that dating apps have helped some people find love: a study by Currys in 2023 found Tinder had a 16.5% success rate when it came to finding a partner. Elsewhere, Bumble boasted a 5.75% match rate, with Hinge behind on 4.08%.
While her first real dating app relationship came to nothing, Genevieve found her Mr Right after a break from apps. After matching on an app during the pandemic, she spoke to her partner for several months before meeting him in person. Nearly four years on, they’re now engaged.
“Apps aren’t inherently bad,” she explains. “At their core, they do help you meet more people than you would otherwise, which means that you’re more likely to meet the right person. You can end up treating the apps like a numbers game: you think the more I do this, the more likely I am to find that person. But that’s not how love works – ultimately, it’s just random.”
Andy is also looking to settle down. But while he’s previously gone cold turkey from the apps (lasting 11 days), he still believes they’re his best hope of finding a partner.
“I’ve already lined up a date for Sunday from Tinder,” he said. “Unfortunately, dating apps are what we have to ensure in order to find a long-term relationship. It’s a treadmill we can’t get off.”