It begins with a familiar gesture: a tired millennial, phone in hand, thumb hovering above the screen before they finally toss it on to the bed with a sigh. Another night, another carousel of profiles offering little more than travel pics, taco preferences and the inevitable mention of The Office. The promise of endless romantic possibilities now feels more like an exhausting, algorithmic loop. If modern dating apps were designed to foster love, why does so much of it feel like work?
In the past decade, swipe-based apps such as Tinder and Bumble transformed dating into a game of instant gratification. But many users now report growing disenchantment.
“We’re at a pivotal point for dating apps,” says Dr Liesel Sharabi, a professor at Arizona State University and director of the Relationships and Technology Lab. “There hasn’t been meaningful innovation in this space for over a decade, and now people are burnt out.”
There’s a growing appetite for alternatives. Once people spoke about Tinder or Hinge with excitement and hope; now users are cynical and exhausted.
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“People talk about a nostalgia for meeting face-to-face and wanting to be liberated from the technology,” says Sharabi. “There’s this pervasive sense that the apps are no longer helping us find love, but keeping us in a loop of false starts and halfhearted conversations.”
While dating apps once promised convenience and scale, they now face criticism for delivering too little depth and too much noise. For many users, fatigue has set in not just from bad dates but from the very mechanics of how we search for love online.
Much of this fatigue stems from the way apps are built. Profiles are swiped through in seconds.
“Dating apps expand the pool of options,” says Sharabi. “But not necessarily the quality.” With sheer volume comes emotional burnout, a condition increasingly recognised as “swipe fatigue”.
Behind the scenes, most apps use collaborative filtering algorithms – similar to Netflix or Spotify – to serve matches. “You swipe right on someone, and the app starts showing you people that others who liked that profile also liked. It’s not necessarily about what you say you want. It’s about what people like you tend to go for,” says Sharabi.
This creates a feedback loop that may reinforce superficial preferences. “If everyone includes height in their profile, you might start thinking height matters more than it actually does,” she says. “The app teaches you what to value, even when those traits don’t predict long-term compatibility.”
That insight is particularly troubling when applied to young users, who are still developing their understanding of relationships and compatibility. “We see people learning to look for what’s visible and quantifiable – height, job, hobbies – not the interpersonal qualities that make someone a good partner.”
For Irish users, dating culture is still a relatively new phenomenon compared with the United States. The vulnerability and effort required in admitting we are looking for love often makes us squirm. Empty profiles and bland openers are common, because actually trying feels too uncomfortable. But the mismatch between what we actually want from dating apps and how we use them extends to users all over the globe.
Dr Jess Carbino, a sociologist who worked for both Tinder and Bumble, agrees that user behaviour is often misaligned with what they actually want. “People say they want a long-term relationship, but they’re not always behaving in a way that reflects that,” she says. Carbino observed distinct gendered patterns too. “Men often said they were open to a long-term relationship, but they approached dating more as exploration. Women, once serious about commitment, often rejected mismatches faster.”
She also cautions against the current hand-wringing over Gen Z abandoning dating apps. “There’s always a narrative that the next generation is going to upend everything. It’s often overstated,” says Carbino. “The truth is, people still want connection – they’re just experimenting with new forms of it.”
However, there is a growing suspicion towards tech companies and app designers in general, as users become more aware of how tech platforms aim to monopolise attention and manipulate self-esteem. Netflix founder Reed Hastings once famously claimed that Netflix’s biggest competitor was sleep, showing how ruthless the company was in trying to hijack users’ constant attention. In her recent memoir, Careless People, Sarah Wynn-Williams, Facebook’s policy director from 2011 to 2017, revealed that the company deliberately exploited adolescent insecurity via emotional profiling and online behaviour monitoring. According to Wynn-Williams, Facebook identified when adolescent girls deleted selfies from their profile and, interpreting this as a potential sign of low self-esteem, would then immediately target these users with beauty and weight-loss advertising.
People think there’s always someone better out there, which undermines the mindset needed to build real relationships
— Dr Liesel Sharabi
In the world of dating tech specifically, Match Group has a near monopoly hold of the world of dating, as it owns Tinder, Hinge, Match, OKCupid, Plenty of Fish and more dating apps and sites. Descending from one of the world’s first dating websites, Match.com, which was launched 30 years ago this year, the group is now worth more than $8.5 billion. Critics say the corporation operates under a “perverse incentive” to not help its users find love, as it claims, but to keep them swiping indefinitely.
On Valentine’s Day last year, six dating app users in the US filed a federal class-action lawsuit against Match Group. The underpinning legal argument was that the corporation falsely advertises that it helps users find love, but it instead uses an addictive gaming process to keep people lonely, depressed and addicted to the apps. (Match said the lawsuit was ‘ridiculous’.)
Carbino worked as a sociologist for Tinder, which is a Match Group company; Bumble, which is not; and now works for neither. She resists the notion that apps are designed to keep users single. “That’s a conspiracy theory,” she says. “The reality is that apps rely on word of mouth. If people don’t meet anyone, they won’t recommend it to their friends. The goal is to match people and let them leave the app.”
At Tinder, she says, her research was directly incorporated into product features designed to enhance real connection, such as Passport (which allows users to travel virtually to meet people in another location) and Super Like.
Still, the limitations of these platforms are increasingly visible. Profiles reward brevity over nuance, and the abundance of choice can create the illusion that a better match is always just one swipe away. “The shopping mentality is a big issue,” says Sharabi. “People think there’s always someone better out there, which undermines the mindset needed to build real relationships.”
So, does the problem lie with the technology itself, or the way we use it? “A lot of people are just bad at knowing what they want,” she says. “And the apps aren’t helping. They’re optimising for time-on-platform, not emotional insight.”
[ Online dating fatigue: ‘Irish people are terrible on the apps’Opens in new window ]
For example, one of Sharabi’s recent studies found that relationships that began on dating apps scored slightly lower in long-term satisfaction compared with those that started in person. “It wasn’t a massive drop, but it was statistically significant. And we have to ask why,” she says. Her theory: the mindset cultivated by apps may carry into the relationship. “If you’re used to thinking there’s always someone else around the corner, you’re less likely to invest deeply.”
This mindset, Sharabi argues, is shaped not just by algorithms but also by cultural expectations of tech. “Apps promise customisation and instant delivery. You expect the app to deliver your soul mate the way Amazon delivers a package.” That commodification of romantic connection may be part of what dulls its impact. “You don’t build a relationship the way you build a playlist,” she says.
Carbino agrees that confusion over what people truly want creates friction. “Self-reflection is rare, and even rarer when it comes to matters of the heart,” she says. “People aren’t always able to articulate what they’re looking for, and even when they can, their behaviours don’t always align.”
This fatigue and scepticism around endless swipe-based dating apps has given rise to new models, including Breeze, a Dutch dating app designed to disrupt swipe culture entirely. Co-founder Marco van der Woode says the app eliminates chatting before dates, focusing instead on getting people to meet in real life. “The endless swiping and chatting doesn’t actually help people connect,” he says. “We wanted to design something that gets people face to face quicker.”
Breeze allows users to fill out long profiles and answer question prompts, then allows users to only see a few curated matches each day. If both parties say yes, a date is automatically scheduled at a vetted public venue – no endless swiping, no abandoned conversations, but an immediate date where you can converse in person. The model is built for intentionality – and safety. “There’s no pressure to impress via message, and venues know a date is happening. Our users know if you match, you’re meeting,” says Van der Woode.
Cancel too many dates, and we lock your profile temporarily. It’s about reintroducing accountability
— Marco van der Woode, co-founder of Breeze
The goal, he adds, is to remove the ambiguity that fuels so much online dating anxiety. “People cancel dates, ghost each other, get overwhelmed. We built in consequences for that. Cancel too many dates, and we lock your profile temporarily. It’s about reintroducing accountability.”
Breeze’s business model also reflects a commitment to real outcomes over endless engagement. “We only succeed if people go on dates. Our growth comes from people telling their friends, not keeping them on the app for hours,” says Van der Woode.
Safety is also central to Breeze’s pitch. All dates occur in public venues partnered with the app, with staff aware that a blind date is taking place. Users can report feedback on the match and venue, and profiles are verified to prevent catfishing.
“We’re trying to build a culture where accountability is embedded in every step,” says Van der Woode. The app is testing features that allow users to rate venues and receive safety follow-ups after each date – a kind of postdate check-in system designed to foster a deeper sense of care in the community.
Another unusual feature: if a user cancels or behaves inconsistently, their account may be temporarily blocked – not as punishment, but as a pause. “It’s about making sure people are truly ready to date,” says Van der Woode. “If someone’s flaking repeatedly, maybe they’re overwhelmed or unsure about what they want. We give them space to reflect rather than just removing them. We want people to treat dating with intention.”
Breeze is not yet available in Ireland, but the company is looking at Dublin as one of its next territories.
While Breeze brings users back into the real world, Sharabi is also closely studying the opposite trend: virtual dating. Through her work at Arizona State University, she has explored how immersive tech such as virtual reality (VR) can enable connection in surprising ways.
“VR lets people interact in ways that mimic face to face without the real-life risk or investment,” she says. “You can meet someone in a virtual coffee shop and get a feel for their personality before ever meeting in real life.”
[ What have your online dating experiences been like? Share your storiesOpens in new window ]
Sharabi has tested VR for dating coaching, working with start-up Foretell Reality to provide virtual guidance to users. “We could coach people in real time while they were on a virtual date. In VR the coach can whisper tips in your ear, unseen by your date – and you can replay moments afterwards to reflect on the interaction,” she says. The results were promising: participants reported feeling more confident and prepared. “It can be a powerful training tool, especially for those with social anxiety or who are neurodivergent.”
She sees this type of training as a confidence-building tool to prepare people for dating in the real world, not an end goal in and of itself.
Some users, especially those with social anxiety or neurodivergence, report feeling more comfortable behind an avatar, which opens up further questions around self-image and dating. In 2017 writer Leslie Jamison published an essay, The Digital Ruins of a Forgotten Future, in which she interviewed adults who loved Second Life, a virtual world launched in 2003. One interviewee was a woman with multiple sclerosis who was housebound and spent her time on Second Life doing things her physical body could not. Virtual reality can allow users to experience the world in a different body – but while that can be empowering for some, it comes with complications. Many users designed their avatar to be conventionally attractive according to gender norms, with women picking slim but curvy frames, while male users added muscle.
Sharabi points to the Proteus Effect, a phenomenon whereby users change behaviour based on their avatar’s appearance. “Someone using a more attractive avatar might act more confidently. It affects how we see ourselves and how we engage with others,” she says. This may be beneficial in a virtual reality world, but begs questions of how it’s teaching us to value our normal bodies offline.
“One thing VR does is allow for more anonymity, and that can also be kind of a mixed bag, because on the one hand, vanity could be freeing to people and it could make it easier for them to disclose, to share things, to maybe start building a strong foundation for a relationship,” says Sharabi. But for other people “anonymity does not always bring out the best”.
Indeed, virtual reality and anonymity has already resulted in serious incidents. In several well-documented accounts, female users in Mark Zuckerberg’s Metaverse reported sexual harassment and boundary violations. Unlike traditional platforms, the immersive quality of VR can make these experiences feel uncomfortably real. “When someone invades your personal space in a virtual world, your body still reacts as if it were real,” says Sharabi. “The trauma response is real.”
Many of these platforms are owned and primarily designed by men and male-led teams, who have been criticised for not heeding the safety concerns of female users.
To me, dating an AI partner isn’t practise - it’s retreat. It may be marketed as confidence-building, but what it really builds is disconnection
— Dr Liesel Sharabi
New AI dating apps such as Replika and Eva offer users the chance to tailor-make their own AI girlfriend. Experts warn that when users grow accustomed to virtual partners – who are always responsive and flattering, and never disagreeable – it can warp expectations of real human interaction. Critics argue that feminised AI bots and idealised avatars risk reinforcing regressive gender norms by training users to anticipate emotional labour and constant availability from women in particular.
Sharabi is excited about the possibility of VR coaching to help build up people’s confidence to date, but she firmly draws the line at the increasing number of apps that offer users the chance to design their ideal partner and “date” it, with no incentive to get off the app or try to build connections in real life.
“There’s a fine line between empowerment and dependency, and to me, dating an AI partner isn’t practise – it’s retreat. It may be marketed as confidence-building, but what it really builds is disconnection. The goal should be to help people feel more confident connecting in real life – not to replace human connection.”
The apps are already using AI in an attempt to hone their algorithms and improve user experiences. Tinder has AI-assisted matches in some markets, where it uses information from your Tinder profile, answers to questions, and – if you decide to give it permission – what it can learn from your camera roll photos to come up with some personalised matches. Match Group apps including Tinder, Hinge and others started rolling out AI features earlier this year, which will pick the photos it thinks will get most responses, and recommend what you should put in your bio too.
Pay attention to the qualities that matter in a long-term partner. Kindness. Consistency. Emotional intelligence. Let someone surprise you. Get off the app and go on a date
— — Dr Liesel Sharabi
Grindr is testing a feature called Wingman, an AI sidekick that will trawl the site for potential matches and help you get a conversation started. It is also rolling out AI features for paid users such as A List, which rekindles previous connections. Bumble’s “For You” feature uses advanced AI to compile a daily list of profiles based on a user’s past matches, while its Deception Detector uses AI to identify spam and scams.
But AI may not be to everyone’s taste. While some people are embracing the new tools, saying they make them more confident, a recent survey from Bloomberg found they may be falling flat with some users. Younger Gen Z users in particular said they were uncomfortable with using AI for profile creation and crafting responses to messages.
What emerges across all these conversations is a paradox: the more tech we introduce to fix dating, the more we seem to circle back to the desire for something less technological, more human. “I actually think all these innovations are bringing us back to our roots,” says Sharabi. “People want to meet quickly, in real life, and skip the noise.”
Carbino agrees. “People aren’t tired of apps. They’re tired of being alone,” she says. “Technology has changed, but the need to connect hasn’t.”
[ Ireland’s new dating scene: Finding love the old-fashioned wayOpens in new window ]
That said, even the pioneers of this space are feeling the tremors. Bumble, the dating app where women make the first move, has lost nearly 90 per cent of its market value since going public in 2021, and recently announced it was laying off 30 per cent of its workforce. Carbino, who worked with Bumble during its high-growth phase, says the gender dynamics the platform sought to challenge are persistent. “Even with women making the first move, the broader cultural scripts around who initiates, who follows up and who commits still sneak in,” she says.
Sharabi offers a final piece of advice for weary daters: “Pay attention to the qualities that matter in a long-term partner. Kindness. Consistency. Emotional intelligence. Let someone surprise you. Get off the app and go on a date.”
In Ireland, that back-to-basics trend is gaining momentum. Speed-dating events, singles’ hiking groups and running clubs, and events such as Pitch a Friend have seen a notable rise in attendance, offering not just a break from swiping but the chance to meet face to face, in motion and without algorithmic interference. From outdoor yoga socials to sober mixers, there is growing appetite for connection that unfolds in real time and physical space.
These emerging communities suggest that even as the tech reshapes dating culture, the desire for presence, playfulness and shared vulnerability remains unchanged.
People aren’t giving up on love. They’re just finding new ways to show up for it.
