art vs algorithm (letter from within #1)

Every creator's secret battle with the machine.

Dear seeker,

I'm sitting in a café in Mexico right now, staring at my screen like it's going to give me the answers. It won't, of course. But maybe writing this will help me figure out what the hell I'm doing.

You know that feeling when you have something real to say—something you feel actually matters—but then this little voice starts calculating? Maybe you can optimize the hook. Should this be a shorter post? What's the optimal posting time?

I’m certainly tired of that voice.

But I also can't ignore it completely, because let's be honest—if we want our work to reach people, we have to play the game.

At least a little bit.

The Split Screen Life

I've been doing this online thing for three years now, and I feel like I'm living in two realities.

In one reality, I'm a writer. I think about ideas that keep me up at night. I want to explore what it means to live consciously in an unconscious world. I want to dig into the messy, complicated stuff that doesn't fit into neat little boxes.

In the other reality, I'm a content creator. I need to post consistently. I need to study analytics. I need to understand why my vulnerability post about leaving finance got 47 likes while my random thought about morning routines got 2,000.

Some days I feel like I'm going crazy trying to be both.

What the Algorithm Actually Wants

Here's what I've figured out: the algorithm doesn't hate good content. It just doesn't know necessarily what good content is.

This isn't the first time creators have faced this tension. When the printing press was invented, poets worried that mass-produced books would kill the intimacy of handwritten verses.

Monks feared that anyone could now copy scripture without years of devoted practice.

Same anxiety, different technology (and era).

The tools change, but the fear of losing something sacred to efficiency remains.

It's like trying to explain a sunset to someone who's only ever seen Excel spreadsheets. The algorithm sees engagement rates and time spent scrolling. It doesn't see the moment when someone reads your words and thinks, "holy shit, I'm not alone in feeling this way."

The algorithm rewards:

• Quick hits of dopamine

• Familiar patterns it's seen work before

• Content that makes people react fast (doesn't matter if it's love or hate)

• Stuff that fits into its pre-existing categories

Art, on the other hand, wants to:

• Sit with you for a while

• Show you something you've never seen before

• Make you feel things you can't immediately name

• Break categories rather than fit into them

No wonder we're all losing our minds.

My Messy Relationship with the Game

I'll be honest—I've tried to crack the code. I've analyzed my best-performing posts. I've studied what works for other creators. I've written captions I didn't really mean because I thought they'd "perform better."

And sometimes it worked. But every time I did it, I felt a little bit hollow afterward.

Like, great, I got more likes. But did I say anything that mattered? Did I actually serve the people who took time out of their day to read my stuff?

The worst part is when you start censoring yourself before you even begin. When you have an idea and immediately think, "nah, that's too weird" or "people won't get that" or "that's not what my audience expects."

That's when you know the algorithm has gotten into your head.

The Thing Nobody Talks About

Here's what none of the "how to grow your audience" courses mention: the algorithm changes people. Not just what they create, but how they think.

I've watched brilliant artists start second-guessing their instincts. I've seen thoughtful writers reduce complex ideas to bite-sized "value bombs." I've watched myself do it too.

When you're constantly optimizing for engagement, you start to see the world through engagement-colored glasses. You stop having pure thoughts. Everything becomes content, even your own life.

It's like meditation apps optimized to be addictive—teaching presence through notifications and streak counters.

Or breathwork influencers stressed about posting daily content, teaching people to slow down while they're speeding up their own nervous systems to keep up with the content hamster wheel.

Last month I was walking through this beautiful market in Mexico, and my first thought wasn't about the colors or the smells or the humanity of it all. It was: 'this would make a great Instagram story.'

I realized I'd become a spiritual tourist in my own life—experiencing everything through the lens of how it might serve my brand rather than how it might serve my soul.

That's when I knew I needed to step back and remember why I started writing in the first place.

What I'm Learning to Do Instead

I'm still figuring this out, but here's what's working for me lately:

I write for one person first. Usually it's past-me—the guy sitting in that Bloomberg bathroom having a panic attack, wondering if there's another way to live. What would I want to read in that moment? I start there.

Buddha didn't have buyer personas or ideal client avatars. He just spoke to suffering wherever he found it. Sometimes I think we overcomplicate this—the right people find authentic work the way water finds its level.

I let myself be weird. The stuff that feels most "me" usually doesn't fit into any obvious category. That's exactly why it might matter. The world has enough generic content. It doesn't have enough of whatever weird thing you're bringing to it.

I stop checking numbers for the first few hours. This one's huge. When I publish something, I close my laptop and go for a walk or read a book or have an actual conversation with a human. The work is done. The numbers are just noise.

I remember that slow burns beat quick hits. My most important piece—the one that actually changed people's lives—took six months to find its audience. But when it did, those people didn't just like it and scroll on. They shared it with friends. They referenced it months later. They built on the ideas.

I create sacred spaces. Not everything needs to be optimized for the algorithm. This letter is one of those spaces. Places where I can just think out loud without worrying about whether it's "engaging" enough.

The Uncomfortable Truth

Here's what I'm starting to accept: we can't completely escape the algorithm game. It's the water we swim in now. But we can choose how to swim.

The uncomfortable truth is that good art has always needed good distribution. Shakespeare had to worry about butts in seats. Van Gogh... well, maybe he's not the best example. But you get the point. Actually, he was an art dealer before he became an artist, so let’s explore this for a second.

Van Gogh sold exactly one painting in his lifetime, but his letters to his brother Theo have been read by millions. He created from necessity —painting sunflowers because they moved him, not because florals were trending. Sometimes the algorithm is just really, really slow. The work that matters most often takes decades to find its true audience.

The algorithm is just the latest version of figuring out how to get your work in front of people who might care about it.

The mistake is thinking we have to choose between art and audience. Or that playing the game at all means selling out completely.

What I'm Trying Now

Instead of fighting the algorithm or ignoring it completely, I'm trying to work with it without letting it work me.

I write what I actually want to write. But then I think about how to present it in a way that gives it the best chance of finding the right people.

I study what works, but I don't copy it. I try to understand the underlying patterns—why do certain things resonate?—and apply those insights to my own weird stuff.

I experiment with format and timing and headlines, but I don't let those experiments change the core of what I'm saying.

I think of the algorithm as a really bad translator. It's trying to help, but it doesn't speak the language fluently. So I've learned to speak algorithm just enough to get my real message through.

The Longer Game

Maybe this is just me trying to make myself feel better, but I think we're in a transition period. The algorithms are getting smarter. People are getting tired of obviously engineered content. There's a hunger for something real.

I keep meeting people who tell me they're exhausted by the internet. They want depth. They want nuance. They want to feel like they're connecting with an actual human, not an AI generated content machine.

That gives me hope.

Because here's what I really believe: the best way to beat the algorithm is to be so genuinely yourself that no one else can replicate what you do.

I know, so cliche. But there’s no such thing as “yourself” because we are constantly changing.

Here’s a better way of looking at it — write about whatever feels the most alive for you in this current moment. This is why this publication is called letters from within ☉. I simply write where my own curiosity is leading me in this very instant. Today, it’s the art vs algorithm dilemma.

The algorithm rewards patterns, but it can't predict authentic weirdness. It can optimize for engagement, but it can't manufacture genuine connection.

The Choice We Make Every Day

Every time we sit down to create something, we make a choice.

Do we start with the algorithm or with the art? Do we ask "what will perform well?" or "what wants to be said?"

I'm not saying one is always right and the other is always wrong. But I am saying the order matters.

Start with what's true. With what's yours. With what’s here right now. Start with what you'd want to see in the world.

Then figure out how to give it the best chance of finding its people.

The algorithm will change. Platforms will rise and fall. But the need for authentic human expression—for real thoughts and honest emotions and creative risks—that's not going anywhere.

The cursor blinks. The café gets louder. At least I’ve written some words here. I still don't have all the answers.

But I know this: I'd rather create something that matters to a few people than something that's optimized for everyone and meaningful to no one.

The algorithm can help me find my people. But it can't tell me what to say to them once I do.

That part is still up to me.

Love,

Nik Huno

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P.S. This is the stuff I think about way too much. What about you? How do you balance creating what you want with what "works"? Hit Comment and let me know—I read every response.