We instinctively tie weight to value.
Gold is solid. Wood is dense. And back when we still printed things on paper, a heavy stapler was a luxury.
If something is heavy, we assume it matters. And often, it does. Weight signals quality, durability, presence, permanence.
Even the objects we choose reflect this. At first, we buy cheap, lightweight furniture—easy to build, easy to trash. But eventually, we want weight. A solid oak table. A leather armchair. Something built to last. Heavy things comfort us—a weighted blanket stills the body, a heavy door makes a home feel secure.
Winners of major awards almost always say the same thing as they lift the trophy: ‘Wow! It’s so heavy.’ As though the weight itself validates the achievement. Simple logic: Light achievements beget light awards. Heavy achievements beget heavy awards.
We accept this in the physical world.
But online, we forget.
Many light things don’t add up to one heavy thing.
No matter how many you stack, Tweets and TikToks don’t add up to something heavy. They don’t solidify. At best, they’re a pile of snowflakes, intricate yet ephemeral. Beautiful while they’re here, gone before they hit the ground.
Substack, with its many virtues, finds itself at a crossroads — I’d put it in the midweight creation zone (if used well). Writers stack posts, building up a library of words that starts to feel substantial. It’s good that long-form posts can go viral faster and stick around longer. But it’s still not quite as heavy as writers’ loftiest dreams, at least not yet. Even the most successful Substackers, those who’ve turned newsletters into brands and businesses, start pondering their endgame.
It’s not that most people can’t make heavy things. It’s that they don’t notice they aren’t. Lightness has its virtues—it pulls us in, subtly, innocently, whispering, 'Just do things.' The machine rewards movement, so we keep going, collecting badges. One day, we look up and realize we’ve been running in place.