Remember when seeing someone online felt almost unbelievable? Maybe some of you don’t remember a time before being connected to someone electronically. There was something surreal about it—just knowing someone else was out there, dialed in, probably sitting in a dimly lit room like you, listening to the hum of their computer fan and the screech of the modem. Back then, the internet wasn’t something you carried in your pocket. It lived in a room. It had a location. You had to physically go there.
And when you were done, you left. You logged off. You stepped away from it. The internet didn’t follow you around all day, poking at your attention span and draining your time. You actually looked forward to getting back online. It felt like something special. Something new. Sites had a beginning and an end. There was no infinite scroll, no algorithm feeding you content you didn’t ask for. You visited a site, read what was there, maybe clicked a few links, and that was it. It was quieter. And it was better.
I can’t be the only one who feels this way. Right?
Recently, I came across Cameron’s World, and man… it hit me hard. It’s this beautifully weird and nostalgic collage built from old Geocities websites. You click through it and suddenly you’re back in the late ’90s. Dancing GIFs, rainbow fonts, awkward layouts that make no sense—but somehow they feel more alive than anything online today. They weren’t polished or professional. They weren’t trying to optimize traffic or build a brand. They just existed because someone wanted them to exist.
Each page feels like a ghost. Not in a creepy way, but in the kind of way that stirs something deep in your chest. Dead email addresses. Broken guestbooks. Passion projects frozen in time. It’s like wandering through an abandoned digital neighborhood, one where every house had its own weird personality. These sites weren’t part of some bigger platform. They were little islands built by regular people who were just excited to share something.
Everything now feels sterile. Cold. Like it was designed by a committee instead of someone with a real voice.
Lately, I’ve been trying to break away from that always-on rhythm. I’ve made a conscious effort to stop grabbing for my phone to explore the web or communicate. Instead, I open my laptop. It sounds simple, but it really makes a difference. Typing with ten fingers instead of two thumbs slows everything down in a good way. It feels more intentional. More like the old days, where you sat down at a computer to use the internet, not just kill time with it.
I think about Ultima Online a lot when I’m in that headspace, just because how legendary it felt at the time (and still does to some extent when it comes to what you can achieve in a game). Logging in back then didn’t feel like booting up a game. It felt like dialing into another reality. And the moment you saw another player walk across the screen? Unreal. Just knowing that somewhere, someone else was sitting at their computer, living their own little life inside the same world as you—it honestly felt like science fiction. You weren’t just playing. You were connected.
Today, we take that for granted. We expect it. Every app or online game we open has thousands or millions of people on it, all the time. There’s no wonder in it anymore. But back then, that connection felt rare. Special. It was like discovering a secret tunnel and realizing someone else had found it too. It didn’t just make the world feel big—it made it feel alive.
Back to UO: Seeing a stranger ride by on a horse, or walk out of the Minoc mines, or wander into the same tavern you were in? It fired up your imagination instantly. Were they a blacksmith heading home for the night? A thief stalking you through the trees? A friend you hadn’t met yet? Or were they just about to kill you and loot everything you owned? You never knew—and that unpredictability is exactly what made it magic.
It felt like being part of a niche little universe, filled with people who got it. People who were just as obsessed with this weird online world as you were. It wasn’t just something to do. It wasn’t a time killer. It was a commitment. You planned your evening around it. You logged on with purpose. And every interaction felt like a story waiting to happen.
These days, most online spaces feel like bus stations. People just passing through, eyes down (quite literally now with phones), killing time. But back then? It was a village. A messy, dangerous, strangely beautiful village full of people you’d never meet in real life—but somehow still knew.
That sense of wonder is hard to come by now. We’ve become so numb to it.
Back to the old web: Back then, someone might’ve made a whole site about their favorite band, or their cat, or some bizarre theory they believed in. It didn’t matter how strange or personal it was. The point was that it felt human. The web felt unpredictable, messy, and fun. You never knew what you’d stumble across, and that was the best part.
Now it’s all about metrics. Follower counts. Brand deals. Engagement. Everything looks the same, sounds the same, and scrolls the same.
I miss when the web was weird.
Sites like Cameron’s World are a reminder of what we’ve left behind. A version of the internet that was handcrafted. Built with care, even if it was clunky and chaotic. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real.
So yeah, this blog entry is basically a love letter. To that old internet. The one that lived in a room. The one you could walk away from. The one that made you feel like you were discovering something, not being spoon-fed everything.
The internet that so many of us fell in love with back in the 90’s.
_brandon