From feed to front window (how the internet has colonised the corner store)

The line between online culture and physical commerce has officially dissolved.

Have you ever had the eerie feeling that you just accidentally stepped inside the algorithm like some kind of sci-fi teen drama?

I have. Let me explain.

My usual route to the gym is a colourful one. Mostly because it takes me down Karangahape Road, notoriously Auckland’s “red light” and LGBTQI+ district. There are the usual characters, some a little scary, most of them vibrant and fun.

There's always some sort of a spectacle, and I admit I rather enjoy the experience.

It’s been my route for many years, and I’ve grown to love the zany characters and independent retailers scattered along it.

Recently, I’ve noticed a new addition. The line of usual convenience stores whose windows all of a sudden look like ad pop-ups. Not literal ones, but signs shouting “We sell the viral chocolate from Dubai!” and “Try the TikTok peach ice cream!”

You know, the one that looks like a peach, tastes like a peach and is aggressively photogenic. Even the fried chicken ice cream was there, which kind of felt like a bit someone forgot to end, if I’m fair.

I kind of stopped and stared for a second. Because I realised something in that moment.

The real world is giving For You Page. The internet is leaking.

Once upon a time, stores sold products because there was a demand. People wanted them. This is beginning to change, and stores have begun selling products because people saw them. The demand comes not from need, but from recognition: “oh that’s that thing from TikTok.”

The convenience store has almost become a content farm, curating viral novelties with the same logic as an algorithm: high turnover, visual chaos, emotional bait. It’s the physicalisation of virality.

This inversion, where online hype creates real-world value, marks a strange cultural shift. The product no longer leads the conversation; it is the conversation. Retailers aren’t responding to consumer demand. They’re responding to the internet’s demand: what’s hot this week, what’s screenshot-worthy, what might get someone to stop scrolling long enough to buy something in person.

What makes this moment so uncanny is that physical spaces have adopted the internet’s aesthetic code.

Everywhere you go, you can feel the algorithm at work: stacked cans in pastel gradients, chaotic fonts, sugary packaging designed to look good on camera. Even the lighting feels like ring-light warm. It’s overstimulating, kitschy and performative - deliberately so.

The shop isn’t trying to look like a shop anymore. It’s trying to look like content.

It’s the same reason restaurants add “TikTok-famous” to menus, or makeup brands have “As seen on YouTube” displays. They’re not selling food or cosmetics, but entry into the culture of recognition. The new form of aspiration isn’t ownership—it’s participation.

The idea of “online vs offline” used to make sense. Now, it’s laughably outdated.

Turning off your phone isn’t enough when the algorithm literally follows you into the street.

It’s not even dystopian anymore; it’s banal. We expect the internet to shape what’s on the shelves, what’s in the window, what’s on our plate. The feedback loop between digital and physical has become so tight, it’s impossible to tell which side starts first. Did the trend come from the brand, or from a creator who reverse-engineered the brand’s aesthetic? Does it even matter?

In a sense, culture has flattened into one continuous scroll—an omnichannel attention economy where “the feed” isn’t confined to your device—it is the world around you.

Anyone else feel a little hot under the collar all of a sudden? Like the walls are closing in? Just me? Okay coolcoolcool.

There’s something funny and also deeply eerie about buying “viral” things in real life. Maybe it’s due to the fact that you’re participating in a shared performance of recognition. You’re buying the thing everyone else already saw, just to see it yourself.

It’s retail as replication.

And that replication is precisely what the internet rewards: sameness, speed, visibility. The more we mirror what’s trending, the more legible we become to each other and to the algorithm. That’s how you go viral. That’s how you fit in.

It’s also why walking down K Road can feel like walking through a browser tab. The internet has colonised the physical world’s sensory space, and we’ve all quietly accepted that this is what culture looks like now.

If you’re in marketing, this should set off both alarm bells and light bulbs.

The success of viral retail shows that digital culture has become the main pipeline of cultural meaning. But the question isn’t whether the internet drives purchase behaviour, it’s how to use that dynamic responsibly.

The opportunity lies in creating feedback loops between online and offline that feel intentional, not opportunistic:

• Make virality tactile. If your product goes viral, find ways for it to exist physically: through events, pop-ups, or packaging that rewards participation.

• Don’t chase trend velocity. Just because something’s “viral” doesn’t mean it’s sustainable. Build for rewatchability, not fleeting novelty.

• Anchor hype in habit. The best brands turn moments into rituals. Give people a reason to come back once the novelty fades. I can promise you no one is making that fried chicken ice cream a part of their regular diet.

The trick isn’t to escape the algorithm. It’s to humanise your place inside it.

I try not to get existential about such things. I also try to accept the concept of dystopia as a part of our current timeline. And maybe the real dystopia isn’t actually that the internet has spilled into the real world, but more so that the real world has started trying to look like it belongs online.

And maybe that’s the next frontier of branding—not how to stand out in the feed, but how to make real life feel worth looking at again.

Food for thought x

-Sophie Randell, Writer