Denmark’s a prison,” says Hamlet, trapped in a world of spying courtiers and hidden betrayals. His lament, written more than four centuries ago, feels unsettlingly familiar in an age where our confinement is measured not by stone walls but by the glowing rectangles in our hands. Surveillance no longer comes from shadowy figures behind palace doors; it comes from algorithms that record, predict, and manipulate our every move. Just as Hamlet felt cornered by forces larger than himself, we too are caught in a web — scrolling endlessly, performing for invisible audiences, and mistaking curated connection for true belonging. This captivity is subtle but insidious. The promise of technology was freedom — to communicate instantly, to share ideas across borders, to learn endlessly. Yet the result is often the opposite. Algorithms thrive on keeping us hooked, recycling content we already “like,” and narrowing the horizon of what we see and know. In this process, our preferences are turned into products, our conversations into commodities, and our attention into profit. The supposed gift of personalisation creates a trap of repetition, shrinking rather than expanding our sense of the world. At the same time, loneliness has only deepened, particularly among young people who spend hours online yet struggle to find authentic connections offline. The paradox of constant connectivity and growing isolation defines our times.
Worse still, this digital conditioning breeds tribalism. Online, we gather in ideological camps where sameness feels safe, but difference feels threatening. Political researchers warn that this herding undermines democracy’s most vital practice: genuine conversation across divides. A democracy depends on friction, debate, compromise, and the ability to listen to others without reducing them to enemies. But the architecture of our digital spaces rewards outrage and discourages nuance. The more heated the division, the higher the engagement. It is no accident that political discourse online often resembles shouting in an echo chamber rather than conversation in a public square. What began as a tool of convenience has mutated into a force that reshapes societies, corrodes trust, and weakens our democratic foundations. Where, then, lies the antidote? Surprisingly, it may be found in one of humanity’s oldest institutions of collective storytelling: theatre. Unlike the algorithmic feeds that isolate us, theatre gathers us. It demands presence, patience, and attention — qualities our devices erode. In a playhouse, community hall, or classroom, audiences sit together, watch human stories unfold, and encounter perspectives far removed from their own. They are not passive; they laugh, cry, debate, and leave with questions that linger. Unlike the scroll, theatre does not reduce us to consumers. It restores us as participants in a shared conversation.
Modern research confirms this old wisdom. Studies show that watching plays encourages empathy and pro-social behaviour. People exposed to stories of poverty, injustice, or grief on stage often respond with tangible acts of compassion — donations, volunteering, or even a change in outlook. By witnessing vulnerability in others, audiences rediscover their own humanity. Importantly, this effect is not confined to grand auditoriums or professional productions. Theatre’s liberating power exists wherever stories are told aloud: in community centres, schoolrooms, prisons, and even living rooms. When people read a play together, improvise scenes from their own lives, or collaborate to create a performance, they reclaim a sense of connection that no algorithm can predict or replicate. The value of such gatherings becomes clear when set against the emptiness of digital consumption. A social media feed may deliver entertainment, but it rarely delivers community. A play, however, reminds us that we are not alone in our struggles, fears, or dreams. By inhabiting characters different from ourselves, we expand our moral imagination. By building a story collectively, we strengthen the bonds of solidarity that democracy requires. This is not about nostalgia for the past but about rediscovering a practice that offers what the present lacks: depth, empathy, and belonging. The challenge before us is to choose deliberately. We can continue to surrender to the scroll, trapped in cycles of distraction and outrage, or we can step into spaces where genuine conversation and connection are possible. Hamlet’s despair was that he felt unable to speak his truth in a corrupt court. Our despair today is that we are speaking constantly but rarely being heard. The theatre — whether on a stage or in a circle of chairs — gives us the courage to reclaim our voices and listen to those of others. Each time we turn off our phones, gather with people, and tell stories together, we resist the prison of algorithms. In doing so, we recover what democracy desperately needs: the ability to see, hear, and understand each other as human beings.