10 “Modern” Problems with Surprising Historical Analogs

Many of the challenges we face today feel entirely unprecedented, driven by digital technology and a hyper-connected world. However, human nature remains remarkably consistent across the centuries, and our ancestors often grappled with nearly identical anxieties. From the spread of misinformation to the crushing weight of social comparison, the “new” problems of the 21st century are frequently just old struggles in high definition. By looking at the archaeological layers of history, we can find striking parallels to our most modern frustrations.

These historical echoes remind us that while our tools change, our collective psyche stays the same. Understanding these analogies helps strip away the panic of the present and provides a grounded perspective on the human condition.

Related: 10 Historical Events That Shaped the English Language

10 The Pamphlet Wars (Social Media Polarization)

In the 17th century, the sudden explosion of cheap print culture functioned in a way that closely resembles the advent of social media. While the printing press itself had existed since the 15th century, the English Civil War of the 1640s unleashed a tidal wave of inexpensive pamphlets that could be produced and distributed with unprecedented speed. Before this surge, most information flowed through relatively narrow elite channels. Suddenly, anyone with modest resources could circulate opinions in the streets of London.

This led to what historians describe as “pamphlet wars,” in which Royalists, Parliamentarians, and radical groups such as the Levellers weaponized print to attack their enemies, circulate conspiracy theories, and harden ideological lines. The tone of many pamphlets was notoriously combative, filled with character assassinations and exaggerated claims designed to inflame readers. People increasingly sought out writers who already confirmed their beliefs, creating early forms of ideological echo chambers.

Authorities were alarmed by the loss of narrative control. Parliament passed measures such as the Licensing Order of 1643 in an attempt to suppress “scandalous” and unlicensed printing, prompting John Milton’s famous defense of free expression in Areopagitica. The more officials attempted to clamp down, the more print culture adapted and spread. The episode suggests that whenever the cost of publishing drops dramatically, societies often experience a turbulent adjustment period marked by polarization and moral panic over speech.^[1]

9 Wedgwood’s “Queen’s Ware” (Influencer Marketing)

Modern “influencer” culture, in which celebrities and public figures endorse products to signal status, is often framed as a uniquely 21st-century phenomenon. Yet more than 250 years ago, Josiah Wedgwood perfected the strategy with remarkable precision. The 18th-century master potter understood that Britain’s rising middle class did not simply want durable tableware; they wanted access to elite taste and refinement.

In 1765, Wedgwood secured permission to supply cream-colored earthenware to Queen Charlotte. He immediately rebranded the product as “Queen’s Ware,” broadcasting the royal endorsement to the public. The implication was clear: if it was good enough for the Queen, it was good enough for ambitious households across the country. Social proof did the rest.

Wedgwood also opened a London showroom that functioned like a carefully curated lifestyle gallery. His ceramics were displayed in staged domestic settings that mimicked aristocratic dining rooms, allowing customers to imagine themselves inhabiting that world. He cultivated high-profile patrons, including Catherine the Great of Russia, whose elaborate dinner service further elevated the brand’s prestige. Wedgwood grasped a timeless marketing truth: aspiration sells. The influencer business model did not begin with social media; it merely changed platforms.^[2]

8 Tulip Mania (The Crypto and NFT Bubble)

The speculative frenzy surrounding cryptocurrencies and NFTs is frequently compared to the Dutch tulip craze of the 1630s, and the analogy is not accidental. During Tulip Mania, certain rare bulbs—especially vividly patterned varieties—became status symbols in the Dutch Republic. As enthusiasm mounted, traders began buying and selling contracts for future delivery of bulbs that had not yet bloomed.

At the height of the bubble, some contracts reportedly reached prices comparable to the cost of a well-appointed Amsterdam house. Participants ranged from merchants to skilled artisans, many drawn in by stories of rapid profits. The bulbs themselves had limited practical utility; their value derived largely from the belief that someone else would pay more tomorrow.

In February 1637, an auction in Haarlem failed to attract buyers at the expected prices. Confidence evaporated quickly, and prices fell sharply in the following weeks. Although historians debate the extent of the broader economic damage, the cultural shock was lasting. Tulip Mania became a cautionary tale about speculation detached from underlying value. Whether the asset is a striped tulip bulb or a line of digital code attached to a pixelated image, the mechanics of speculative bubbles—optimism, imitation, and abrupt reversal—remain remarkably consistent.^[3]

7 Ostracism (Cancel Culture)

“Cancel culture” is often described as a phenomenon born of social media outrage, but Ancient Athens institutionalized a comparable practice more than two millennia ago. Known as ostracism, it allowed citizens to vote once a year to exile a fellow Athenian for ten years if he was perceived as a threat to the stability of the polis. The measure was preventive rather than punitive; no formal criminal charge or trial was required.

Citizens inscribed the name of the individual they wished to remove onto a shard of pottery called an ostracon. If at least 6,000 votes were cast, the person had ten days to leave Athens. Prominent figures such as Aristides and Themistocles were subjected to this process. Importantly, those ostracized did not lose their property and could return after their exile.

Though embedded within a democratic framework, ostracism often reflected factional rivalries and shifting public sentiment. It provided a structured outlet for collective anxiety about power and influence. The impulse to remove polarizing or disruptive figures from public life, whether through ballots scratched on pottery or hashtags typed on a screen, has deep historical roots.^[4]

6 The Great Moon Hoax (Fake News and Clickbait)

In August 1835, the New York Sun ran a sensational series claiming that the astronomer Sir John Herschel had discovered life on the moon. The articles described lush lunar forests inhabited by bat-winged humanoids, bipedal beavers, and other fantastical creatures. The reports were entirely fabricated by journalist Richard Adams Locke, who cloaked his invention in scientific jargon and references to respected institutions to enhance credibility.

The hoax dramatically boosted the newspaper’s circulation, reportedly increasing daily sales from roughly 8,000 to nearly 19,000 copies. Readers were captivated by the blend of cutting-edge astronomy and vivid storytelling. Herschel, who was conducting legitimate astronomical observations in South Africa at the time, had no connection to the claims attributed to him.

Even after the deception became widely known, the paper suffered little lasting reputational damage. The episode reveals that sensationalism tied to commercial incentives long predates the internet. When revenue depends on capturing attention, spectacle can overshadow accuracy. The “Great Moon Hoax” demonstrates that the basic dynamics of fake news and click-driven media were already firmly in place nearly two centuries before the first viral post.^[5]

5 The “Cabinet Noir” (Data Privacy and Surveillance)

Concerns about governments reading private emails or harvesting digital data can feel like a uniquely modern dystopia. Yet 18th-century France operated a remarkably similar system using paper and wax seals instead of servers and fiber-optic cables. Known as the “Cabinet Noir,” or Black Room, it was a secret state-run operation dedicated to intercepting and reading selected private correspondence.

Under Louis XV, the practice became especially systematized. Suspect letters were quietly diverted, opened with steam, read or copied by trained agents, and then resealed with forged wax stamps so precisely that recipients rarely noticed tampering. The goal was intelligence gathering: agents searched for references to sedition, treason, foreign alliances, or even unflattering gossip about the monarchy. Detailed files were compiled on individuals, allowing the state to anticipate dissent before it materialized.

France was not alone in this practice; similar “black chambers” operated across Europe. When the existence of these operations became more widely known during the French Revolution, they sparked outrage about the sanctity of private communication. The technology has evolved from intercepted letters to metadata and encrypted chats, but the underlying tension between privacy and state surveillance has deep historical roots.^[6]

4 The Luddites (AI and Automation Anxiety)

The fear that artificial intelligence will render human workers obsolete closely mirrors the Luddite movement of early 19th-century England. Active primarily between 1811 and 1816, the Luddites were textile workers who destroyed mechanized knitting frames and looms that threatened their livelihoods. Popular memory often paints them as irrationally anti-technology, but the historical reality is more nuanced.

Many Luddites were skilled artisans whose trades had supported relatively stable wages and social standing. The introduction of new machinery allowed factory owners to hire cheaper, less-skilled labor, undercutting traditional crafts and depressing incomes. The protest was not simply against machines; it was against a business model that prioritized efficiency over worker security.

The British government responded harshly. The Frame Breaking Act of 1812 made machine destruction a capital offense, and several participants were executed, while others were transported. The episode illustrates a recurring pattern in industrial history: technological innovation often outpaces social protections. The Luddite riots serve as a powerful historical analogy for modern anxieties that AI may commodify expertise and destabilize established professions.^[7]

3 “Murder Sheets” (TikTok and Doomscrolling)

The modern habit of “doomscrolling”—endlessly consuming alarming or sensational content—has a surprisingly direct ancestor in early modern Europe. From the 17th through the 19th centuries, broadside ballads and so-called “murder sheets” circulated accounts of gruesome crimes, public executions, plagues, and disasters. Printed cheaply on single sheets of paper, they were sold on street corners and sometimes read or sung aloud in crowded public spaces.

These publications were designed to provoke strong emotional reactions. Graphic details of violence and divine judgment tapped into fear, curiosity, and moral anxiety. Printers understood that shocking stories sold better than reassuring ones, so they emphasized the most dramatic and apocalyptic elements available. Readers could immerse themselves in a steady stream of catastrophe, much like scrolling through a modern feed.

Contemporary critics warned that constant exposure to lurid material unsettled the mind and distracted citizens from productive life. The complaint sounds familiar. Although the medium has shifted from ink and paper to glowing screens, the psychological draw of sensational negativity—and the commercial incentives that sustain it—remain strikingly similar.^[8]

2 The 19th-Century Coffee House (The Algorithm and Echo Chambers)

Long before digital platforms sorted users into ideological niches, London’s coffee houses performed a comparable social function. In the late 17th and 18th centuries, specific establishments became associated with particular political parties, professions, or intellectual circles. A Whig might frequent one house, a Tory another. Merchants, writers, and financiers clustered in spaces aligned with their interests.

Inside, patrons read newspapers, exchanged gossip, and debated current events—often with people who largely shared their assumptions. While coffee houses could foster lively public discourse, regular attendance at a single venue reinforced communal identities. One could spend years immersed in conversations that echoed familiar viewpoints.

In this sense, the coffee house acted as a kind of manual algorithm. Social preference, geography, and habit filtered the information people encountered. Today’s digital systems automate that sorting process at a massive scale, but the instinct to gather with like-minded individuals and reinforce shared narratives predates the internet by centuries.^[9]

1 Malthusian Anxiety (Climate Doomsday and Overpopulation)

Modern anxieties about environmental collapse and population pressures echo a powerful historical precedent. In 1798, Thomas Malthus published An Essay on the Principle of Population, arguing that human populations grow geometrically while food production increases only arithmetically. According to his model, unchecked growth would inevitably outstrip resources, leading to famine, disease, and social instability.

Malthus’s ideas sparked intense debate and influenced public policy for decades, particularly regarding poverty and famine relief. Many officials interpreted his theory to mean that hardship was an unavoidable natural corrective. Yet Malthus did not foresee the dramatic agricultural innovations and industrial advances that would significantly expand food production in the 19th and 20th centuries.

Every era seems to generate its own version of a looming “point of no return.” While modern environmental challenges are supported by extensive scientific research and demand serious engagement, the psychological pattern of projecting current trends into catastrophic inevitability has deep roots. Malthusian anxiety reminds us that doomsday narratives have long accompanied periods of rapid change, blending legitimate concern with predictions that history sometimes complicates.^[10]