The enshittification of sports, and what fans can do about it

In October 2025, Cory Doctorow published a gripping book – Enshittification: Why Everything Suddenly Got Worse and What to Do About It – that captured the zeitgeist. A seasoned digital liberties campaigner, Doctorow crystallised the vague, dull, amorphous dissatisfaction that gnaws at contemporary society into a pithy aphorism. That several entities named it their ‘word of the year’ spoke to its cathartic virality, and the concept enjoyed a moment. (1)

Classic examples of enshittification include algorithmic social media feeds usurping the chronological posts of your friends; car companies putting heated seats behind paywalls; search engines boosting paid-for results; websites prioritising ads over usability; pension providers obfuscating consolidation processes; news devolving into partisan commentary; Microsoft Office leaping from one-off disc to monthly subscription; printer ink requiring a premium membership; smartphones pushing planned obsolescence; supermarkets using digital price tags that rise with footfall; and everything requiring a QR code.

Long the preserve of technological, corporate and consumer spheres, where profit trumps customer concern, enshittification is now encroaching on other domains. Once a quaint pastime, and gradually an opportunistic business, sports have fallen into the enshittifying buzzsaw – morphing daily into a vacuous shell whose glitzy sheen belies its numbing genericism.

The root cause, intrinsic to enshittification, is money. As fans, our voracious interest in sports makes us ripe for exploitation. The more we care, the more we watch. The more we watch, the more team owners profit. And the more team owners profit, the more billionaires covet these money-printing machines, inflating franchise values beyond the kin of mere mortals. The days of one entrepreneur buying a major professional sports team alone, or as a family investment, are all but gone – local mom and pop upstarts crushed by cold, faceless private equity consortia.

Last year, for example, when Mark Walter bought the Los Angeles Lakers at a $10 billion valuation, he did so after TWG Global, his holding company, received the same amount from Mubadala Capital, an Abu Dhabi-based sovereign wealth fund. (2) Gone are the days of Jerry Buss dropping $67 million on the table in a smoky backroom. The financialisation of sports is complete, and fans are mere digits on a balance sheet.

While fresh capital improves facilities and broadens media access, the tangled web of private equity in sports also undermines diversity and dilutes competition. Take Arctos Partners, for instance. The private investment firm has stakes in six MLB teams (Red Sox, Cubs, Astros, Dodgers, Padres, Giants), five NHL teams (Wild, Devils, Penguins, Mammoth, Capitals), four NBA teams (Warriors, Kings, Jazz, Wizards), and two NFL teams (Bills and Chargers). Arctos also invests in Fenway Sports Group (FSG), which owns the Red Sox, Penguins, Liverpool FC and NESN – a regional sports network joint venture with Delaware North, proprietors of the rival NHL Bruins. (3)

Meanwhile, RedBird Capital, another investment firm, holds 11% of FSG and 13% of the YES Network, a media conglomerate principally owned by the New York Yankees, tethering it – unashamedly – to both sides of baseball’s greatest rivalry. (4) (5) 

Similarly, Sixth Street Partners, another investment firm, owns 51% of Legends Hospitality, a stadium food, beverage and merchandise merchant cofounded by the Yankees and Dallas Cowboys. (6) Sixth Street has other links to the NFL, too, in the form of a 3% investment in the New England Patriots. It also has stakes in the Boston Celtics, San Antonio Spurs, San Francisco Giants, Real Madrid and Barcelona. (7)

Even if corporate compartmentalisation minimises true conflicts of interest in these cases, the optics are terrible. Who does Arctos want to win? How do Sixth Street executives approach El Clásico? When the Bruins and Penguins play, do FSG functionaries root for an entertaining television product rather than a boring Pittsburgh victory? Nobody really knows; such is the cloak of secrecy. Perhaps we should cut to the chase and have the brokers scrimmage in a Wall Street parking lot for all the major trophies in one afternoon.

Such investments are not a zero-sum game, the private equity mavens argue, but to fans, the overwhelming inference is clear: sports teams are now portfolio items, not civic institutions, and sentiment is suppressed to maximise the bottom line.

Increasingly, advanced analytics are used to automate this soul-sucking, return-boosting process. That, in turn, has led to a great algorithmic flattening to the mean, where, just as large language models predict the next most likely sequence of words by averaging those it has ingested, private equity honchos sanction just enough spending to make their teams mildly competitive without going all-in. 

Seemingly, most baseball franchises now aim to win 85 games and secure a wildcard berth into the (enshittified) expanded playoffs, encouraging mediocrity rather than parity and producing a situation where just four American League teams currently have a winning record. Formulae deem unsustainable or risky any other approach.

Set in neutered ownership suites, such programmatic mandates have encouraged the homogenisation of player procurement, roster-building and in-game strategy. Hence the sacrifice of classic batter archetypes – the leadoff hitter, the contact hitter, the bunter – at the altar of launch angle and exit velocity. Hence NBA games devolving into three-point contests. Hence soccer defenders rolling the ball to each other, anaesthetising possession to lessen the odds of defeat. The most mathematically prudent route to satiating relevance becomes rote, while unorthodox paths to excellence – often the most vibrant, entertaining and memorable – are discouraged.

The canary in the analytical coalmine, baseball is especially plagued by such data-driven homogeneity. Stylistically, MLB teams are now largely indistinguishable. They all genuflect before the same statistical models, which spit out the same probability-governed playbooks, which eschew individual flair and diversity of thought in favour of long-term predictability and mathematical logic. Rather than augmenting or supporting human decision-making, data has become the decision-maker, outsourcing wisdom from tobacco-chewing lifers to data-crunching analysts.

Nowadays, every potentiality is mapped for a big league manager before the first pitch of a game. The optimal lineup, determined by algorithms, is dictated from on high. Certain relievers are declared unavailable due to fanciful equations that have a terrible track record of actually predicting injuries. And traditional tools – the sacrifice bunt, the hit-and-run, the double steal – are removed from the manager’s holster due to spreadsheet permutations.

Such datapoints have inarguable value, and vouching for crusty baseball traditionalists has an unmistakable ‘man yelling at clouds’ patina. Generally, more information is better than less. However, when the gameplan deemed most efficient by data is expected to be implemented, verbatim, rather than supporting the diverse decision-making of specialists, the game’s texture becomes stale, samey and safe. When World Series champion managers like Joe Maddon and Mike Scioscia are out of work because they refuse to defer their decades of insight to Ivy League brainiacs, something is amiss. They are martyrs of bygone heterogenous baseball, and the game is poorer for their absence.

Overall, the result of these converging trends – the commodification, the standardisation, the instrumentalisation, the mathematisation – is a tamed, diluted product that demands more of fans while giving them less. As milking every last cent of shareholder value replaces winning championships or making memories as the overarching objective of teams, the enjoyment of fans becomes secondary to monetising their engagement.

That’s why we need six different subscriptions to watch our favourite teams.

That’s why gambling ads bombard every broadcast, even as star players are arrested in game-rigging probes.

That’s why there are more games, more tournaments and more participants – from a 48-team FIFA World Cup and a 36-team UEFA Champions League to an in-season NBA Cup nobody wants.

That’s why Donald Trump and Gianni Infantino declared Chelsea world champions despite them being the ninth-best team in their own country this year.

That’s why teams have four or five jerseys, including needless throwbacks and tedious City Connect combinations.

That’s why an insurance company logo besmirches the hallowed Yankee pinstripes, and a bank emblem sullies La Sainte-Flanelle in Montreal. 

That’s why hot take culture killed considered journalism, 30-second ragebait clips of Steven A. Smith spiking dopamine while 10,000-word Peter King columns are an overlooked relic.

That’s why every new stadium looks the same, as if conceived by ChatGPT to wring every dollar from the blue collar citizens whose taxes subsidise their construction.

That’s why diehard fans pay quadruple figures for ‘personal seat licenses,’ which afford them the opportunity – not the guarantee – to buy even costlier season tickets.

That’s why it costs $50 to park at the stadium; $10 to buy a beer; $7 to enjoy a hot dog; and $300 to buy an authentic replica jersey.

That’s why soothing ballpark ambiance is drowned out by thumping, incessant techno music.

That’s why sparkly gimmicks are embraced to manufacture drama and provide grist for the TikTok-brained masses – from VAR and ghost runners to byzantine handball laws and ambiguous pass interference thresholds. 

That’s why fans are fed up, ultimately. The things they love are slipping away, and they feel powerless to halt the runaway train.

Fandom itself is changing, too. The persistent, low-level dissatisfaction often spills into odious toxicity – from delusional sports talk radio hosts playing pop psychologists to armchair GMs lashing out when their idealistic fantasies are not enacted. The spectre of legalised app-based gambling – and the fragmentation of micro-bets, which allow wagers on every down, pitch, pass and possession – looms large, with tribal bile infecting the sporting lexicon.

Generally, a sense of weight saddles modern sports fandom. For a while, it has been fuzzy background noise – nebulous, nameless and difficult to encapsulate. That persistent static can be succinctly defined, however, as the enshittification of sports. They’re all turning to piles of shit, all at once, to paraphrase Doctorow. And the devolution feels inexorable.

There are ways for contemporary sports fans to treat enshittification, though, even if finding a cure remains highly unlikely. By taking a step back, making different choices, and lowering the stakes, sports fans can reclaim the agency they lost in the polarising morass. By seeing the bigger picture and removing vitriol from the discourse, sports fans can rediscover why they loved these games in the first place. And by taking a stand, sports fans can instigate change.

If sports team owners treat you as a generic consumer – of streams and beers, posts and jerseys, content and chicken wings – act like one. Be discerning in where you choose to spend your time, energy and money. Be unbothered by selecting other forms of entertainment – even from other teams – if they bring you more enjoyment. Be bold in your wielding of consumer power, realising the true value of your eyes, heart and wallet.

This, broadly, is an articulation of fluid fandom, which I have practiced for several years. Whereas traditional sports fandom was binary, grounded in geography and family tradition, rampant globalisation makes all teams accessible to modern rooters. Ambitious global juggernauts now vie for the attention once monopolised by complacent local minnows, and modern fans can enjoy multiple teams sporadically, freely and unashamedly.

As such, fluid fandom is a useful antidote to the merciless march of private equity in sports – and its attendant enshittification. Finance bros only understand one language – that of assets and portfolios and returns on investment – so build your own bank of resources. Build your own portfolio of teams you enjoy watching or appreciate culturally. Refuse to be identified by support of one specific club and pivot to others in your arsenal. The cognitive dissonance of rooting for a domestic abuser, lauding a steroids cheat, or enriching a tax avoider is negated in such a model, freeing fans to keep sports light, fun and aligned to their values.

Steeped in tribal, cult-like indoctrination, hardline obsessives decry such fluid fandom as taboo, treason and treachery. Liking more than one team is chastised as sacrilege; those who do so accused of front-running, glory-hunting or bandwagon-jumping. Ultimately, however, people should be free to enjoy sports however they want – without ridicule, shame and unsolicited toxicity. We are not all the same, and difference is the lifeblood of intrigue.

Moreover, sports fandom does not have to be an existential, life-or-death odyssey. Indeed, for some people, sports are still an occasional form of escapism, and just because they dip in and out from a more casual, elongated viewpoint, without getting caught in the weeds, does not mean they are any less passionate. Nor does it undermine their significance.

In fact, knowing every statistic, backstory and player tendency can rob fans of joy, as the giddy innocence of surprise is a far less frequent visitor. Maybe some folks want to admire a dazzling play by a shortstop without thinking, ‘Oh, but he has a -5 DRS.’ Likewise, others may wish to admire a Joel Embiid screen or a Giancarlo Stanton moonshot without lamenting their injury-prone histories. A singular moment can inspire awe, and no dossier-wielding super-fan should gate-keep those occurrences.

There is more to sports fandom than winning, you see, and that is the chief defence against bandwagon accusations. Personally, I’m often drawn to clubs whose colossus historic mythology is obscured by present-day struggles. Clubs like Benfica, the monolith which gave us Eusébio but is without a European trophy in 64 years. Clubs like Lazio, the juggernaut of Rome last crowned Italian champions in 2000. Clubs like Galatasaray and Boca Juniors, Ajax and the Toronto Maple Leafs – luminary institutions, all, despite recent profligacy by their own baroque standards.

From a contemporary viewpoint, an unseen ether enswathes these sleeping giants, which are under-appreciated by a pervasive pop culture that lionises the trendy, the expedient and the ephemeral. At times, I may struggle to name more than a handful of players on these sequestered teams, but I hold them in reverence, nevertheless. I may only catch an occasional highlight or listen to an infrequent podcast about their exploits, but I feel an affinity with their aura, and that outweighs more capricious whims.

Broadly, ‘aesthetics’ works as a label for this basket of motivating intangibles, encompassing uniforms and ballparks, players and broadcasters, logos and almanacs, vibes and memories, culture and philosophies. Those are the things that hook us, and keep us interested, and make us care. Those are the things we should seek, and nurture, and embrace – regardless of whether we have a documented heritage with the teams who embody them. Follow your curiosity. Reward the teams that do try to be different. Support the people who share your principles.

Of course, it is fine – and perhaps even natural – to have primary teams, a bedrock tier, or clubs considered first among equals. For me, Tranmere Rovers occupy a sacred place in my heart that nothing else can touch, and that is an undeniable lifelong love. Still, when Rovers (routinely) cause me more stress than happiness, there is no harm diverting my attention to other sports for momentary relief. It can even be freeing to appreciate other football teams – for an iconic kit, perhaps, or because they have a sacrosanct lineage of incredible players – without forfeiting or diminishing your first and everlasting love.

Likewise, I’m a Yankees fan. I dragged my poor wife to six consecutive games during our honeymoon, and my dog is literally named Derek. Yet I also have a complicated history with the Boston Red Sox and harbour fond memories of what that team once was. I also respect the Dodgers’ miasma; have a keen sense of Tigers and White Sox history; and find the Phillies captivating. The Mets are quirky; the Pirates, absorbing; the Giants, of impeccable heritage. I even find compelling the Padres and Diamondbacks, the Rockies and Nationals. Indeed, most every sports team has redeeming features to counterbalance agitating factors. I’m just unafraid to express them.

Recently, for example, I have rediscovered the timeless pleasure of Cubs baseball. Wrigley is heaven on earth. The bleachers are a frat party in the sun. Boog Sciambi and Jim Deshaies are a charming throwback. Pat Hughes is a soothing soundtrack to summer. And contrary to the identikit trends, you know what a Cub looks and plays like: Nico Hoerner, basically. That is something to cling to, something to admire, and something to believe in. Few teams have such a recognisable essence.

There is also a unique pragmatism to Cubs fandom that – generally, Steve Bartman aside – worships baseball in its correct context, without considering it of murderous importance. Ernie Banks epitomised that ethos, which still permeates today. There is a sense of perspective to the Cubs’ travails, an inflection of the famed Midwestern sensibility, that contradicts the seething coasts. If the Cubs lose, there is always a beer in Murphy’s Bleachers and a chance to get ‘em tomorrow. If the Yankees or Red Sox lose, by contrast, Armageddon is unleashed on the airwaves, and every last employee should be fired. 

Perhaps there is room for both approaches, and a mix may be ideal, but viewing sports in relation to the wider tapestry of life is undoubtedly better for one’s blood pressure. Indeed, such a worldview, concisely packaged as compassionate fandom, is another tenet of the enshittification resistance. It calls for a friendlier, more forgiving mode of support – without the booing, screaming, shouting and abuse. Have preferred outcomes, sure, but don’t let contrarian results disrupt your psychological wellbeing – and that of others.

Remember that athletes have mental health, too, and that they are trying their best. Remember the professional players you lambaste probably have more talent than you can ever muster – The Joey Gallo Doctrine. And remember sports are supposed to be fun, not torture. Take a deep breath and reorient your emotion.

Such reticence comes easier with maturity, of course. I’m 31 and have known true adversity in life. Real-world events often humble us and sand the edges of our exuberant younger selves, so perhaps those experiences are essential in reshaping our outlook and – by extension – our fandom. Maybe we need to contextualise our sporting passion so it does not consume us.

Taken together, indeed, fluid, aesthetic, compassionate fandom can be an antidote to the enshittification of sports. If you do not like an owner, coach, stadium, player, broadcaster, uniform or logo, look elsewhere – momentarily, or for the longer term. You have the right to control what you like and where you spend your resources. Do what makes you happy, and never apologise for that. Life is too short to be apoplectic about sports, so take the lighter path. It may just be cathartic.

Sources

1. Doctorow, Cory. Enshittification: Why Everything Suddenly Got Worse and What To Do About It. 2025.

2. Acedera, Shane Garry. Yahoo! Sports. [Online] January 23, 2026. https://sports.yahoo.com/articles/were-bought-middle-east-money-015000589.html.

3. Arctospartners.com. [Online] https://www.arctospartners.com/.

4. Private Equity Insights. [Online] https://pe-insights.com/fsg-and-liverpool-partners-redbird-are-about-to-make-major-600m-move/.

5. Dixon, Ed. Sports Pro. [Online] https://www.sportspro.com/features/finance-investment/redbird-capital-partners-investor-profile-investment-thesis-gerry-cardinale/.

6. Novy-Williams, Eben, Coffey, Brendan and Soshnick, Scott. Sportico. [Online] January 11, 2021. https://www.sportico.com/business/finance/2021/legends-sixth-street-investment-1234620111/.

7. Smith, Chris. Sports Business Journal. [Online] November 17, 2025. https://www.sportsbusinessjournal.com/Articles/2025/11/17/sixth-streets-sports-playbook/.