Benjamin Franklin would have loved dating apps.
Not because he was a hopeless romantic.
Not because he was particularly sentimental.
And certainly not because he needed help meeting people.
Benjamin Franklin spent much of his adult life becoming one of the most famous men on earth. He was a printer, inventor, scientist, diplomat, author, entrepreneur, and occasional international celebrity. By the time he arrived in Paris during the American Revolution, French society treated him less like a diplomat and more like a rock star.
Portraits were sold.
Busts were commissioned.
Women wore Franklin-themed jewelry.
The man essentially became the eighteenth-century version of a viral internet personality.
If anyone did not need a dating app, it was Benjamin Franklin.
Which is precisely why he would find them so fascinating.
Franklin loved systems.
He loved efficiency.
He loved solving problems.
Show him a lightning storm and he invents a lightning rod.
Show him a city fire and he organizes a volunteer fire company.
Show him a society with no public library and he starts one.
Show him millions of single people carrying portable matchmaking devices in their pockets and he immediately begins asking questions.
Lots of questions.
Some enthusiastic.
Some increasingly uncomfortable.
The first thing Franklin would notice is that modern Americans have no idea how easy they have it.
Courtship in the eighteenth century was a logistical nightmare.
Letters took days or weeks.
Travel was slow.
Opportunities for meeting strangers were limited.
Parents often involved themselves in the process.
Entire romantic relationships depended upon geography, weather, and whether somebody's horse remained functional.
A single misunderstanding could derail months of correspondence.
An awkward encounter at church might haunt a person for an entire season.
Today you can meet a stranger three miles away in approximately seven seconds.
Franklin would find this miraculous.
And, being Franklin, he would immediately wonder why everyone seems so unhappy about it.
Imagine explaining Tinder to him.
"Mr. Franklin, this device contains photographs and biographies of thousands of potential romantic partners."
Wonderful.
"They are organized by distance."
Excellent.
"You can communicate instantly."
Remarkable.
"You simply swipe."
Efficient.
"You may also be ignored by someone you have never met."
Confusing.
"You may spend six months exchanging messages before meeting."
Concerning.
"You may become emotionally invested in a profile consisting primarily of pictures taken at wineries."
Alarming.
At this point Franklin would begin taking notes.
One of Franklin's greatest strengths was understanding incentives.
Modern Americans often believe dating apps are matchmaking businesses.
Franklin would quickly identify them as attention businesses.
This distinction matters.
A matchmaker succeeds when two people find one another.
An app succeeds when two people continue using the app.
Those are not always the same thing.
Franklin spent decades running businesses. He understood customers. He understood revenue. He understood that organizations generally behave exactly as their incentives encourage them to behave.
This realization would make him deeply suspicious.
The technology is brilliant.
The business model requires further discussion.
Naturally, Franklin would become convinced he could improve the process.
Franklin was convinced he could improve nearly everything.
His dating profile might read:
ABOUT ME
Printer. Inventor. Diplomat.
Founded a library, a university, and a country.
Enjoy conversation, self-improvement, scientific inquiry, and occasionally flying kites during thunderstorms.
Seeking a partner who values curiosity, good humor, and fiscal responsibility.
Swipe right if you appreciate honesty and compound interest.
The profile would be devastatingly effective.
Jefferson would resent it.
Hamilton would attempt to optimize it.
Adams would write a twelve-page letter explaining why it was inappropriate.
Nothing would puzzle Franklin more than ghosting.
The eighteenth century had many defects.
Disappearing completely from a conversation was generally not one of them.
People wrote letters.
People answered letters.
Sometimes they wrote far too many letters.
John Adams and Abigail Adams exchanged over a thousand.
Jefferson wrote enough correspondence to keep archivists employed indefinitely.
Hamilton practically communicated in pamphlets.
Modern technology has somehow made communication instantaneous while simultaneously making it optional.
This would strike Franklin as one of humanity's more remarkable achievements.
We have conquered distance and then reinvented silence.
Franklin famously attempted to perfect himself.
He created a chart tracking thirteen virtues.
Temperance.
Industry.
Frugality.
Humility.
Order.
And several others that modern Americans tend to abandon around lunchtime.
Every day he marked his failures.
Every week he tried to improve.
Franklin never actually achieved perfection.
But that was not the point.
The point was growth.
Modern dating culture has taken this impulse and transformed it into a competitive sport.
People optimize photographs.
Optimize bios.
Optimize messages.
Optimize first dates.
Optimize text response times.
Optimize facial expressions.
Optimize hobbies.
At some point one begins to suspect nobody is actually dating anymore.
Everyone is simply managing a brand.
There is another reason Franklin would have strong opinions here.
Unlike many founders, Franklin genuinely enjoyed people.
He liked conversation.
He liked parties.
He liked salons.
He liked social life.
During his years in Paris, Franklin became famous not because he was America's representative, but because he was charming.
He understood something modern technology occasionally forgets.
The point of meeting people is not efficiency.
The point is people.
No algorithm has yet improved upon sitting across from another human being and discovering whether you enjoy their company.
Franklin would likely regard this as one of civilization's most underrated technologies.
One of Franklin's most famous observations remains painfully relevant:
"Content makes poor men rich; discontent makes rich men poor."
Modern Americans possess more romantic opportunities than any generation in history.
Yet they often behave as though happiness remains hidden just beyond the next swipe.
The next profile.
The next match.
The next conversation.
The next possibility.
Franklin understood something that dating apps struggle to monetize.
Sometimes enough is enough.
In the end, Franklin would probably arrive at a surprisingly balanced conclusion.
The technology is extraordinary.
The opportunities are extraordinary.
The convenience is extraordinary.
The users, however, appear exhausted.
His recommendation would likely be simple.
Use the apps.
Meet people.
Go outside.
Have conversations.
Accept imperfection.
Delete the app eventually.
The purpose of a bridge is not to live on it.
The purpose of a bridge is to cross the river.
The Last Word
Benjamin Franklin spent his life building institutions that helped people connect with one another.
Libraries.
Universities.
Scientific societies.
Volunteer associations.
Political coalitions.
He believed human beings became happier when they participated in communities larger than themselves.
Dating apps would impress him.
The endless swiping would not.
Somewhere Franklin is examining modern courtship with equal parts curiosity and concern.
He is delighted by the technology.
Suspicious of the incentives.
And increasingly convinced that half of America's dating problems could be solved if everyone simply put down their phones and talked to one another.
Then again, Benjamin Franklin never had access to unlimited photographs of attractive strangers.
So perhaps we should not judge him too harshly.
— John Handcock