What does digital patina look like?

This is Yet Another Maekan Briefing Intro (Thursdays’ Briefings are for subscribers).

There's something magical about a well-worn object. The wear marks tell a story about its life; where it has been and what it has done. Patina — to me — is a visible indicator of love. The more worn, the more appreciated.

If you pick up your favorite book, the pages it naturally opens to are probably the ones that have been read the most. The spine and creases acknowledging the importance over time. But what does that look like in a digital world? We don’t see the wear in files the way we do in books.

Perhaps that's okay, because the file is as good now as it was when it was created. But are "favorites" or "date last modified" really helpful proxies for how much something is loved or referenced? What's the digital equivalent of a torn page?

In some ways, I wish my files wore down, reminding me of their age and their use — letting me know that they've been seen and appreciated. I know this is a silly thought, because it's the physical hard drive, not the file, that actually wears down and in many ways our files outlast our devices.

I wonder how this disconnect between the physical things we use and the digital objects that we rely on impacts our psyche when it comes to our perspectives on what we own, collect, and discard. Given that it's nearly impossible to modify an iPhone to survive multiple (software) generations, have we been conditioned to treat our digital access points as temporary goods but the digital goods themselves as eternal? Have we all become digital hoarders? Looking at the stack of hard drives next to my desk, I know my answer is yes.