Words: Nina Atkinson (she/her)
When an object was simply an object, there was less risk of losing good memories to the swirling digital cloud. Perhaps this isn’t nostalgia, but a reaction – a desire for tangible proof that something really happened.
Scroll through social media and you’ll struggle to avoid videos about going “analogue”, and the resurgence of physical media. CDs are being bought by people without CD players. Film cameras are pulled out at house parties like novelties. In a world facing increasing political and social instability, it’s no surprise that many are yearning for something more stable. When an object was simply an object, there was less risk of losing good memories to the swirling digital cloud. Perhaps this isn’t nostalgia, but a reaction – a desire for tangible proof that something really happened.
Somewhere along the way, the ticket disappeared.
Once, a ticket was not just permission to enter but the beginning of an experience. Carefully designed and often beautiful, it carried the identity of the event long before the doors officially opened. It lived in pockets, on bedroom walls, or in shoeboxes under beds. Small, tangible markers of nights that mattered – signs of a life lived and remembered. That object has now largely been replaced by a QR code, quietly sitting in an email inbox, indistinguishable from the mess of modern life.
The digitisation of ticketing was, in many ways, inevitable. Digital tickets are undeniably convenient. Your phone is always with you, and there’s no fear of losing it like a slip of paper. They have also improved accessibility by removing the need for printers, box offices, or long journeys just to collect entry. For large events, digital systems allow for faster entry, improved security, and protections against counterfeit tickets. It would be dishonest to pretend paper tickets were flawless.
So why, then, are we clinging to objects in an era that promised freedom from them?
Convenience, it turns out, is not always the same as satisfaction. Research into digital ticketing suggests that many consumers felt compelled to use these systems rather than actively enjoying them. Unfamiliar interfaces, platform-hopping, and opaque purchasing processes can generate psychological discomfort. In other words, people comply, but they don’t always feel good about it. This discomfort isn’t just technical; it’s emotional. Digital tickets remove an entire ritual and artistic process from events. The anticipation of holding something physical, keeping it safe, and deciding whether to treasure it or discard it helped to mark an event as distinct from everyday life. Without a physical souvenir, memories can feel more fragile. An endless camera roll and email inbox lacks the magical feeling of a slightly fuller wallet after a special occasion. A ticket stub, by contrast, stubbornly demands to be remembered.
The loss of ritual becomes more troubling when paired with the economic realities of modern ticketing. Digital platforms have transformed tickets from objects into assets, enabling practices like dynamic pricing. Companies such as Ticketmaster don’t simply sell access – they engineer demand through countdown timers, claims of limited availability, and price anchoring that nudges buyers into impulsive decisions. Behavioural economics plays out in real time, amplified by social media hype and a familiar fear of missing out.
The backlash surrounding highly anticipated tours, such as Oasis, reveals a growing frustration with a system that feels increasingly distant from the people it serves. When prices fluctuate and fees multiply, the ticket becomes less of a gateway to joy and more a source of stress. For some, the friction has grown so severe that the solution is simply to stay home.
None of this to say that the answer lies in a full return to paper. Physical tickets come with environmental costs, the risk of loss, and accessibility barriers of their own. Digitisation isn’t wholly hollow. The problem is not that tickets have become digital – it’s that they’ve become purely functional.
There are glimpses of alternative futures. Some artists have rejected dynamic pricing altogether, choosing fairness over maximum profit. Olivia Dean, for example, has been praised for transparent pricing decisions that prioritise fans over algorithms. But, such gestures rely on individual goodwill rather than systemic change. More imaginatively, digital tickets could be treated as extensions of the artistic project rather than bureaucratic hurdles. Designed animations, commissioned digital artwork, or tickets that unlock content after an event could restore a sense of anticipation and memory.
The question, then, is not whether technological progress is good or bad: it is whether progress that prioritises efficiency above all else quietly strips experiences of their context. Just as letters faded into read receipts, tickets have slipped from keepsakes to screenshots. In gaining frictionless access, we may have lost something harder to quantify – the feeling that an event began before we arrived, and lingered after we left.
Perhaps the return to physical media is not about rejecting technology at all. Perhaps it is simply a desire for a reminder of meaning, and proof that the moments worth remembering don’t disappear the moment a battery dies.
