The first time I encountered 4chan, I was up late one night, entering its URL into my browser and immersing myself in a thread filled with fresh LOLcat memes. At that time, a Photoshop of a cat exclaiming “I can has cheezburger” or an owl questioning “ORLY?” seemed to be the pinnacle of humor for my 14-year-old self, prompting such uncontrollable laughter that I woke my father to confess I was scrolling through pictures of cats at 2 a.m. Eventually, I would come to understand the darker aspects of the site.
Reflecting on the recent disappearance of 4chan from the Internet, allegedly erased by hackers from a competing message board, it’s notable to consider the website’s extensive history over more than two decades. What began as a forum for Internet culture and an anonymous refuge for free expression gradually transformed into a troubling platform associated with mass shootings, the infamous central hub of the Gamergate controversy, and a breeding ground for far-right ideologies. This evolution has had a pervasive impact on many aspects of our lives, influencing even our colloquial language and political choices. Yet, remarkably, the site had stagnated since the George W. Bush administration.
The uniqueness of 4chan may never be replicated, which many might view as a positive development. Nevertheless, it has effectively fulfilled its original mission: reshaping the world in its image. The present-day iterations of social media platforms like X, Facebook, and YouTube bear a striking resemblance to 4chan, raising questions about the need for its continued existence.
Ben Collins, the Onion CEO and former reporter on extremism, shared insights with WIRED about this phenomenon: “The novelty of a website devoted to shock and gore, and the rebelliousness inherent in it, dies when your opinions become the official policy of the world’s richest individuals and the U.S. government,” he noted. “A subculture that thrives on nihilism inevitably loses its edge once it becomes mainstream.”
My first encounter with the more sinister elements of 4chan took place several years after my initial LOLcat discovery. While attending college and heavily invested in Tumblr—a platform beloved by my friends—I felt as though our online space mirrored the warmth of our house parties. However, that comforting atmosphere shattered when I experienced online harassment during the summer before my senior year. My private information was exposed on a “hate blog,” including my phone number, which was shared on 4chan.
Perpetrators initiated a prank that was trending on the site at the time, claiming my phone number belonged to a GameStop with an ultra-rare copy of Battletoads available. Over the following 48 hours, I received at least 250 calls inquiring about the game.
Among those who called me, many left voice messages. As I listened to the recordings, a troubling pattern emerged: young men, clearly apprehensive yet eager to harass a stranger, trying to connect with me, seemingly for no reason other than sheer amusement. Those messages have lingered in my memory throughout the 15 years I’ve spent reporting on 4chan.
I witnessed firsthand the transformation of these timid individuals into the toxic underbelly of the Internet, fueled by a torrent of reactionary hatred directed at everything and everyone, as their resentment became their primary form of communication. Throughout the 2010s, I explored 4chan’s global impact on democracy during trips to France, Germany, Japan, and Brazil. Many users seemed convinced they could reshape the world through racially charged memes, far-right populism, and cyberbullying. In a sense, they did succeed; however, this pervasive influence resulted in a bittersweet victory for the site.
Collins also closely monitored 4chan’s evolution into a significant force during the Trump administration. He expressed that the acquisition of Twitter by Elon Musk in 2022 effectively rendered 4chan obsolete. “Why remain anonymous on such a platform when a billionaire allows you to share extremist views under your real name—and even compensates you for it?” he questioned.
According to Collins, “4chan’s user base simply migrated to a larger platform, quickly making impactful contributions to American life and policy. Twitter absorbed 4chan’s essence, creating a hybrid that ultimately reached into the U.S. government. Its role as a repository of ideas in today’s culture war faded as the sentiments expressed there became common discourse on Twitter, and eventually echoed by officials in the White House.”
To comprehend how 4chan transitioned from a space for cat memes to a figure of fear on the Internet, one must grasp its underlying mechanics. Although much attention has been paid to its political ramifications, the site’s functionality played an equally crucial role.
Founded by Christopher “Moot” Poole at the age of 15, 4chan emerged as a spinoff of the comedy site Something Awful, inspired by Japanese message board 2chan. Poole poorly translated the original site’s code and pitched 4chan to the Something Awful anime community, incorporating core features from both platforms.
4chan’s architecture encouraged anonymity, ephemeral threads that would disappear after a set period of inactivity, and a plethora of sub-boards for diverse topics. This unique blend created a chaotic online culture that thrived on shock value and anonymity, distinguishing it from other corners of the web. On 4chan, users were faceless, and their actions only mattered if they were extreme enough to be saved from disappearing into the digital void.
Cates Holderness, former head of editorial at Tumblr, commented on the iconic memes born from 4chan’s environment. “The creations that emerged from 4chan were the result of users taking the initiative to preserve them. The unpredictability of what would be archived adds to the site’s intrigue,” she explained.
Nevertheless, 4chan was more intricate than its exterior suggested. The platform divided into various boards covering topics from comic books to cooking to video games, alongside a significant amount of adult content. Holderness shared that she discovered recipes through the cooking board during the pandemic, tracing her own introduction to 4chan back to 2012.
She remarked, “When I switched to sourdough, I received expert guidance from the community.” Holderness characterizes 4chan as the Internet’s “Wild West,” and its recent closure feels fitting, considering the prevailing influence of corporate entities and their algorithms in shaping online experiences today.
Unlike the chaotic pursuit of content in 4chan’s heyday, current platforms provide users with tailored feeds, minimizing the need to refresh pages in search of new memes or manifests. The genuine human experience defined by 4chan’s era is likely lost for good. The ultimate verdict on whether this is a positive or negative outcome remains to be seen.
This story originally appeared on wired.com.
