The Erosion of Ownership

I’ve always believed that ownership is a cornerstone of personal freedom and economic security. When we own something—be it a book, a tool, or a piece of land—we gain a degree of control over our lives. But in today’s digital age, that control is slipping away. The rise of digital content and subscription-based models is stripping us of ownership rights, turning us into perpetual renters in a system designed to keep us tethered to corporate interests. This shift, which I’ve been reflecting on deeply, threatens the working class most acutely, as we’re often the ones least equipped to navigate or resist it. Let’s unpack this issue step by step, exploring how it affects us, what the future might hold.

My first encounter with the fragility of digital ownership came when I heard about a situation in 2023 where Sony announced it would remove purchased content from customers’ libraries due to a licensing dispute with Discovery. Imagine paying for a movie or TV show, only to have it yanked away because of a corporate disagreement. The backlash was swift, and Sony backtracked, but the incident exposed a harsh truth: when you buy digital content, you don’t own it. You’re merely licensing it, and that license can be revoked at any moment. This isn’t just a Sony problem. Amazon, Apple, Steam—virtually every major digital platform operates the same way. Whether it’s movies, eBooks, or video games, your purchase is at the mercy of the platform’s terms of service.

This reality hit me hard. As someone who’s scraped by to afford small luxuries like a Kindle book or a digital game, the idea that my money doesn’t guarantee ownership feels like a betrayal. For the working class, every dollar spent is a sacrifice—hours of labor traded for something we expect to keep. Yet, these corporations can erase our purchases with a flick of a switch, leaving us with nothing to show for our hard-earned cash. It’s a stark reminder that in a capitalist system, the working class is always at the bottom of the power structure, vulnerable to the whims of those who control the means of distribution.

The erosion of ownership extends beyond the threat of content removal. I was stunned to learn about the legal barriers preventing us from reselling digital goods. A decade ago, a company called ReDigi tried to create a marketplace for reselling legally purchased digital media, ensuring sellers couldn’t retain copies. It seemed like a fair solution, mimicking the rights we have with physical goods. But the music industry, led by Capitol Records, sued ReDigi, and the courts ruled against them. The legal principle at play, the first sale doctrine, which allows us to resell physical items like books or CDs, doesn’t apply to digital purchases. ReDigi was shut down, and similar efforts by Amazon and Apple fizzled out.

This ruling feels like a gut punch to the commoners. When I buy a physical book, I can lend it to a friend, sell it at a used bookstore, or pass it down to my kids. These acts of sharing and repurposing are small but meaningful ways we stretch our resources. But with digital content, we’re locked in. I can’t sell my old eBooks to recoup some cash or share a digital game with a sibling. This restriction forces us to keep buying, turning us into perpetual customers. For workers already stretched thin, this inability to leverage our purchases compounds financial strain, reinforcing our dependence on corporate ecosystems.

The move away from ownership isn’t limited to one-time purchases. Subscriptions are becoming the dominant model, and I find this trend particularly insidious. Companies like Adobe have abandoned selling software outright, instead requiring monthly payments for tools like Photoshop or Premiere. The cost of Adobe’s Creative Cloud can run close to $700 a year—a steep price for workers in creative fields, many of whom are freelancers or gig workers with unstable incomes. Contrast this with DaVinci Resolve, which offers a one-time purchase model with free updates, proving that subscriptions aren’t the only way.

But it’s not just software. Printer manufacturers like HP and Brother are pushing subscription models, where even the toner you’ve paid for stops working if you cancel. Automakers like BMW and Mercedes are taking it further, charging monthly fees for features like heated seats or faster acceleration—features already built into the car you bought. This is capitalism at its most absurd: selling you a product, then nickel-and-diming you to use it. For the working class, who often rely on tools, vehicles, and technology to earn a living, these subscriptions are a relentless drain on our wallets, locking us into a cycle of payments just to maintain access to what we’ve already purchased.

As someone who’s always found solace in hobbies, I was disheartened to see even these spaces infected by the ownership crisis. Take Dungeons & Dragons and Magic: The Gathering, both owned by Hasbro through Wizards of the Coast. These games, once tactile experiences shared around a table, have moved heavily into the digital realm with platforms like D&D Beyond and Magic: The Gathering Arena. On D&D Beyond, you can buy digital rulebooks, but like all digital content, you’re only licensing them. If Hasbro shuts down the platform, your purchases vanish. Magic: The Gathering Arena, while free to play, incentivizes spending on digital cards, which can cost as much as physical ones but can’t be resold or shared.

What’s worse, D&D Beyond ties features like content sharing to subscriptions. Want to let a friend use your digital rulebook? You’ll need to pay a monthly fee. Stop paying, and that right disappears. This model turns hobbies—once a refuge for working-class folks seeking affordable joy—into another avenue for corporate profit. I’ve spent countless hours playing tabletop games with friends, bonding over shared stories and strategies. The idea that these experiences are being digitized and monetized, with no guarantee of permanence, feels like a theft of our cultural spaces.

The phrase “you will own nothing and be happy” has become a chilling shorthand for this trend. Coined in a World Economic Forum article, it envisioned a future where abundant resources eliminate the need for ownership, with everything available for rent. It's painted as utopian, but in practice, it’s dystopian. We’re not renting because of abundance; we’re renting because corporations have engineered a system where ownership is impossible. From books to cars to software, we’re increasingly dependent on licenses and subscriptions, with no control over the terms.

This shift disproportionately harms the working class. Wealthy individuals can afford to absorb the costs of subscriptions or pivot to physical alternatives. But for us—workers living paycheck to paycheck—these models are a trap. We’re forced to keep paying to access tools, entertainment, or even basic functions of our possessions, with no way to build equity or security. It’s a form of economic servitude, where corporations extract rent from every aspect of our lives, echoing the feudal systems of old.

Looking ahead, I fear we’re barreling toward what economist Yanis Varoufakis calls “technofeudalism.” In his book Technofeudalism, he argues that we’ve moved beyond traditional capitalism into a system where corporations extract rent by controlling digital infrastructures—cloud services, platforms, and smart devices. Imagine a world where your toaster, microwave, or oven requires a subscription to function, or where Amazon charges a monthly fee to access your Kindle library. These scenarios aren’t far-fetched. If carmakers can charge for heated seats, what’s stopping appliance makers from following suit?

For the working class, this future is bleak. Subscriptions and licenses erode our financial stability, making it harder to save or invest in our futures. The loss of ownership also undermines our autonomy, as we’re subject to corporate decisions about what we can access or use. Small businesses, often run by working-class entrepreneurs, face similar threats, as subscription-based software and equipment increase operating costs. Without intervention, we risk becoming perpetual tenants in a digital fiefdom, with corporations as our overlords.

I believe the solution lies in dismantling the capitalist structures that enable this erosion of ownership. The root problem is the prioritization of profit over people, where corporations wield unchecked power to dictate terms. To combat this, we must pursue collective ownership and control of the means of production, distribution, and digital infrastructure. The working class must unite to resist these trends. This means educating our communities about the dangers of subscriptions and licenses, boycotting exploitative companies, and supporting businesses that respect ownership. Collective action—through unions, cooperatives, or grassroots campaigns—can pressure corporations and policymakers to prioritize our interests.

The aim is to shift power from corporations to the working class, ensuring that ownership is a right, not a privilege. By collectivizing resources and dismantling profit-driven models, we can create a system where technology serves the many, not the few.

So What Will We Choose?

The erosion of ownership is a direct assault on the working class, stripping us of control over our possessions and chaining us to corporate interests. From digital content to software to everyday appliances, the trend toward licenses and subscriptions threatens our economic security and autonomy. I see a path forward through collective ownership, legal reform, and class solidarity, but it requires us to act decisively.

Will we accept a future where we own nothing, renting our lives from corporate overlords? Or will we rise together, reclaiming ownership as a fundamental right and building a world where the working class holds the reins? The choice is ours—but what will we choose?