Lately, I’ve come to realize that while Chinese people often claim to be pragmatic and obsessed with “usefulness,” deep down, that’s not entirely true. If humans truly only cared about utility, they would do nothing beyond eating, sleeping, and making money. Yet in reality, the moment many people encounter something novel, they immediately set aside their “serious business,” daydreaming about it, obsessing over it, as if stumbling into a whole new world—one they feel compelled to pour their heart and soul into, just for the sheer satisfaction of it. Take the recent OpenClaw craze, for example. Some install it, connect it to messages, configure skills, tweak prompts, all under the guise of “just trying it out.” But once they do, it’s like a scholar of old wandering into a brothel—they won’t leave until the rooster crows. If you look closely at these people and then recall those who first ventured onto the internet around 1998, staying up all night dialing into forums, utterly spellbound, you’ll realize: it’s the same crowd. The hats have changed, but the obsessions remain untouched.

Around 1998, the internet was like a half-open door for many. Those outside could hear the commotion within but didn’t understand the rules or the benefits. Yet once they stepped through, leaving became difficult. Back then, going online meant listening to the dial-up tone. The moment the phone line connected, the machine would screech as if summoning ghosts rather than establishing a connection. The speeds were painfully slow—even loading an image took patience—but people’s hearts raced with impatience: eager to check the boards, to see if there were new posts, to find out whether yesterday’s heated debate had gotten a reply. A username, a forum section, a few clumsy words—these were enough to captivate someone. By day, they might blend into the crowd unnoticed, but at night, in front of the screen, they suddenly came alive in another world. This was the joy—and the affliction—of that generation.

Now, in this era of “everything can be smart,” everything seems more advanced: forums are gone, or at least not what they used to be; the dial-up sound is a relic of the past; people have new names, new interfaces, new jargon. Yet that old addiction hasn’t died—it’s quietly reincarnated. Some now tinker with OpenClaw, cloaking it in noble justifications: boosting efficiency, automating tasks, letting agents handle their work. That’s not untrue, but if efficiency were truly the goal, why stay up past midnight staring at logs? Why tweak a skill endlessly when it already works? Why, after a task runs smoothly, keep wondering if it can connect to new channels, learn new tricks, or become smarter, more lifelike? Clearly, “efficiency” is mostly a facade. What’s really driving them is the same old urge to tinker, obsess, and carve out a home in a new world.

That’s why I say it’s the same crowd. They don’t love forums, nor do they love OpenClaw itself—they love the feeling of “entering a new world.” In the forum era, that world was an electronic marketplace built on posts, signatures, moderators, spam, and lurking. You’d say something, and someone far away would reply; you’d pick a username, and it felt like claiming a seat in the void; linger in a section long enough, and you’d develop acquaintances, grudges, even a sense of belonging to a digital community. Today’s OpenClaw enthusiasts are no different. They’re not just using a tool—they’re building their own microcosm: connecting it to QQ, adding skills, writing prompts, setting up automated tasks. Watching a cold, lifeless program actually move, respond, and execute commands gives them a peculiar satisfaction, as if they’re not just operating a machine but nurturing an electronic being that grows more capable by the day.

The reason people get addicted to this, I think, isn’t complicated. The real world is vast, and the individual is small. In the daylight order of things, a person is often just a tiny cog—their words may go unheard, their ideas ignored, their time and energy sliced into fragments to feed work and life. Over time, the spirit withers. But things like forums and OpenClaw create a small world where one can tinker and witness changes firsthand. On a forum, you post, and there’s a response; with OpenClaw, you tweak, and it reacts. You exert a bit of will, and the world shifts slightly. This feedback loop is intoxicating—because in the grand scheme of reality, people often feel powerless, making the godlike control over a tiny system all the more precious.

There’s another striking similarity between these two obsessions: neither is a one-time affair—they thrive on “constant refreshing.” The soul of a forum lies in refreshing; the soul of OpenClaw does too. Forum addicts knew full well that new content might not appear for hours, yet they’d compulsively check, as if missing out on some monumental secret. Today’s agent tinkerers, too, know tasks won’t finish instantly or skills activate immediately, yet they can’t resist glancing again and again, like watching a pot that refuses to boil. The thrill isn’t just in the result—it’s in the waiting itself. Addiction isn’t always about gaining something; sometimes, it’s about the tantalizing hope of what’s just out of reach.

Of course, there will always be naysayers—those who preach that forums are a waste of time, that OpenClaw is a distraction, that these are just new-age toys sapping one’s ambition. They’re not entirely wrong. If someone neglects sleep, meals, real people, or real responsibilities for these pursuits, it’s pitiable. Yet I suspect many seemingly “useless” obsessions quietly preserve a spark of vitality in people. If someone has nothing—beyond KPIs, replies, and spreadsheets—that makes their eyes light up, that’s the real tragedy. Forums or OpenClaw, at least they prove a person is still willing to take interest in a new world, to delight in small changes, to resist being ground into a smooth, lifeless stone by reality.

So yes, those addicted to raising OpenClaw are indeed the same as those who first ventured online in 1998, obsessed with forums. They love new frontiers, testing boundaries, finding a sense of existence in virtual spaces. They’re easily hooked by “responses,” tamed by “refreshing,” and absorbed by small worlds where order gradually takes shape. On the surface, times have changed: from phone lines, BBS, and forums to agents, skills, and automation. But the underlying drive hasn’t shifted in decades. The Chinese haven’t grown more rational—they’ve just transferred the energy once spent staring at posts and waiting for replies to staring at tasks, tweaking prompts, and waiting for logs. The objects and names have changed, but that late-night refusal to sleep, that flicker of excitement, remains the same.

In the end, a life without any obsessions might not be a better one. The only question is whether you’re mastering the toy—or if the toy is gently, tenderly mastering you.