The Strange Allure of Fake Shopping Sites

As a millennial, I grew up in the heyday of dopamine shopping. We retreated to the mall on foot and spent our hard-earned babysitting money on Bonne Bell before revelling in the rush of a Suzy Shier clearance sale. The internet was contained to one room! We didn’t drink water! We used landlines to have important conversations about Leonardo DiCaprio’s new haircut! I once paid for pizza delivery using rolled coins! We conquered stress the way we were taught: to buy little treats to make us forget; to not acknowledge it at all, or at least until your mid-to-late twenties.

And if we couldn’t physically journey to the mall, we found solace in its virtual equivalent. I may have been too young for Tron, but I was old enough to experience the splendour of games like Sim City, Roller Coaster Tycoon and The Sims that let us build fantasy worlds. The Sims, in particular, in its original form, was a balm on par with snagging a new Wet-n-Wild nail polish. On top of creating our own characters, building our own families and erecting our own dream homes, we forced our Sims to forge friendships with neighbours, ignore irritating NPCs and—gasp!—even kiss.

After school, bored and with rare access to the home computer, my fellow millennials and I quenched our consumerist thirst by building homes, furnishing them and then furnishing them some more. Armed with the cheat code ROSEBUD (for an endless cash flow), we spent hours buying our Sims fancy floor tiles, original works of art and heart-shaped beds without the fear of having to explain to our parents where our savings went. We could shop without consequence and learn firsthand that material goods did not guarantee happiness (case in point: my Sims regularly and inexplicably caught fire), and that many impromptu purchases were largely useless. 

As a result of having been raised at the mall, by the mall and within the mall, my preferred method of stress release is still to peruse. Regardless of life event or emotion, I find solace in walking around a store and just looking at things. And if it’s rainy or snowy or I’m too lazy to move my physical body to a secondary location, I will do the next best thing by scrolling through various retail apps on my phone, filling up carts, and then (usually) exiting before I drain my bank account. 

I am never more powerful than when I close a website with a full shopping cart. In that moment, I am master of my own destiny; a responsible grown-up who makes big financial decisions that testify to an ever-increasing maturity. Frankly, I tell myself, I have never deserved some little treats more.

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Of course, this specific rush isn’t unique to me. Psychologists have long drawn links between getting something we want and the release of dopamine, our brain’s feel-good chemicals. In 1954, McGill scientists found that rats repeatedly triggered dopamine-related brain stimulation, even at the expense of food and sleep. But the advent of online shopping has created a new avenue for getting that high even faster.

According to a 2015 study by neuroscientist Robert Sapolsky, it’s the anticipation of snagging our little treats that make digital consumption so irresistible. Pressing “purchase” is only the first step: the dopamine keeps flowing as we check our mailboxes every day for the order. We’re obviously thrilled when our purchase arrives, but it’s the lead-up to that arrival that makes online shopping so appealing.

Unfortunately, most of us can’t afford to scroll, click and order something every time we need a little pick-me-up, so web developers have built dopamine sites that offer a new way of scratching the consumerist itch without any material consequences. It’s a version of “playing store” with equally low stakes.

Created to appease the oh-so-human need to emotionally shop, South Korean websites like dopahaul offer the simulation of loading up on clothes, housewares and whatever-it-is-your-heart-desires and “paying” for all of it without the regret of an impulse buy. They help with late-night doomscrolling, too: South Korean developer Malhee created an app called Food Only Won’t Arrive, which lets users peruse menus in the same vein as Skip or UberEats and create customized orders without any order actually being placed.

Malhee said the app was a solution to his habit of constantly opening and closing food ordering apps despite not wanting to order anything. Obviously, he wasn’t alone. Another app, FoodNeverComes, says it has already “served” one million customers. Most interesting is how this approach has already begun to decrease symptoms of stress among young people in South Korea: by allowing users to zone out in the way most of us need to, dopamine sites purport to offer a necessary and harmless mental break.

In North America, there’s Dopamine Shop in the U.S., which offers users a chance to “buy” everything from a 99-cent Pet Rock to a literal moon, while in Canada, Imaginair lists a whole catalog of apparel that’s currently “on sale.” (Half-off zero! Can you believe it? Look at all the money you saved!)

Ultimately, we exist within a consumerist culture, and we’ve woven our emotions into what we can acquire, whether immediately or sometime in the future. In an attempt to gain a better sense of self, belonging or control over anything, we use the promise of New Things™ to make us feel better. Or, in the case of dopamine sites, the illusion of new things. Is that so bad?

Considering that Canadians spend more than six hours each day on the internet, going on these sites is better than what we’ve been doing so far. Overconsumption is at the root of the continuing climate catastrophe. Additionally, our next-day delivery demands and daily food orders have only added to the carbon emissions that we know are slowly poisoning us, while digitally born micro trends are produced and shipped at the hands of abused and underpaid factory workers. We can joke about digital dependency and the need for dopamine sites all we want, but in the end, these outlets and apps are offering an actual solution to a much more destructive habit. What’s better: scrolling purposelessly and feeling something (anything) or purchasing that discounted top you already have in three colours?

Obviously, it’s disappointing that pretending to order food is something we’re reaching for instead of books, community or even access to a lawn. Yet the fact that we’ve pivoted back to pretending to shop means that not all is lost. Odds are, if you’re choosing a simulator app over the real deal, you’ve already pinpointed a consumption problem that you hope to curb. I took Imaginair for a spin, and it was fun for a few solid minutes. But more than anything, it alerted me to the fact that I’m relying on browsing shopping apps as an emotional crutch and I’m wasting my time. At least if I’m roaming Winners in person, I’ve gotten out of the house.

I know that shopping simulation will not save us. But considering we exist in a culture tethered to the digital space, dopamine sites offer a fast, brief and blessed reprieve from consuming the worst news imaginable—or buying products that inevitably end up in landfills or worse. Plus, they carry on a harmless tradition that earlier generations helped spearhead: virtual reality. Ultimately, the only difference between fake-shopping on The Sims and fake-shopping on dopamine sites is that unlike the computer game, we don’t have to figure out what to do with a gold replica of Michelangelo’s David. (Also: no spontaneous combustion.) 

I’m glad web developers are figuring out a way to wean us off the urge to perpetually click-to-purchase. Is it solving the problem of consumerism? Of loneliness? Of the ease in which we can whittle away hours from our one and only life? Obviously not. But if it can curtail at least a few unnecessary buys, that’s still a step in the right direction. Plus, with all the money you’ve saved not buying things, you can treat yourself to a real, live pizza.

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