Artificial Intimacy

Some phrases are just weird juxtapositions; Jumbo shrimp. Pretty ugly. Artificial intimacy.

Intimacy, by definition, is supposed to be messy and real (we all know it). It is the unfiltered conversation, that awkward silence, the look across the table when words are not enough. It is built on vulnerability and trust, not on polish or pretense. Which is why the very idea of “artificial intimacy” feels like a contradiction in terms. Can you script closeness? Can you code affection? Can you design something that passes for genuine connection when the essence of intimacy is that it cannot be faked?

And yet, everywhere we look, intimacy is being staged.

Brands write emails as if they are your best friend. Streaming platforms recommend movies as if they know your soul. Influencers talk into their cameras like they are talking directly to you (deep breaths), when in reality they are talking to millions. Even AI is being trained to mirror empathy, offering words of comfort when no human is around to give them.

It is intimacy by design. But if it is manufactured, is it still intimacy?

The uncomfortable truth is that “artificial intimacy” works because it scratches at a very real need. People are lonely, which we also alluded to in a Ding article (the loneliest generation). They want to feel seen. They want to feel understood. And even if the relationship is staged or simulated, the feeling is real in the moment. The brain does not always distinguish between a friend who knows you and a feed that knows your habits.

This does not mean the intimacy is authentic, only that it is effective.

Some organizations and creators lean into artificial intimacy in ways that feel thoughtful rather than manipulative. Spotify Wrapped is a great example. Each year, Spotify hands you a neat little package that reflects your listening habits. It feels personal because it is personal, and people share it widely not because they are fooled into thinking Spotify loves them, but because Spotify helps them feel seen.

Duolingo has done something similar with its green owl. The tone is cheeky and exaggerated, but people engage with it because it feels like a relationship, even if it is an absurd one. The owl nags you, cheers you on, and somehow makes a language-learning app feel like a friend. Even the rise of parasocial relationships with podcasters shows the same principle. Listeners often describe their favorite hosts as “friends in their head.”

The connection may be one-sided, but the intimacy feels real enough to drive loyalty.

Then there are the moments when artificial intimacy overreaches and collapses. Think of a brand email that starts with “Hey bestie” when you have only bought a toothbrush from them once. It feels off, even insulting. Instead of warmth, it creates a sense of distance. Or worse, when algorithms pretend to “care” and end up striking the wrong chord. A few years ago, Target’s predictive analytics sent maternity coupons to a teenager before she had even told her family she was pregnant. What was framed as personalization felt invasive and creepy.

And of course, there are countless examples of chatbots stumbling into uncanny territory, offering “empathy” that feels hollow, or worse, manipulative. When intimacy is forced, it reveals itself as artificial instantly. For creatives, this tension is unavoidable. We are asked to make products feel personal, to craft experiences that mimic closeness at scale. A campaign that speaks “just to you.” A design system that feels alive. A voice that seems human, even when it is not.

Is intimacy something we should design for?

The question worth asking: is intimacy something we should design for, or is it something we should protect? When does making people feel “close” become a connection, and when does it become a trick?

Artificial intimacy is a paradox, and maybe that is the point. It reminds us that closeness cannot be mass-produced. You can design warmth, but not trust. You can design familiarity, but not friendship. You can design recognition, but not love.

The very act of trying to force intimacy makes it fragile. It is only when we let go of control, when we risk honesty, imperfection, and even rejection, that true intimacy appears.

Artificial intimacy may surround us, but it is not genuine. And maybe the best work we can do, as creatives and as humans, is to resist the urge to fake closeness and instead design spaces where the real version can emerge.

Because intimacy, the real kind, is never artificial.

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