Revive the House Party, Retire the Dating App

Today, finding a romantic partner often begins by opening an app, scrolling through a catalogue of strangers, and making morally exhausting snap judgments. The paradox of choice sets in—the more options we have, the more doubtful and dissatisfied we become. Still, we persist—unaware that the entire process is flawed from the start, as research showswe’re reliably bad at identifying what actually matters in a partner. We prioritize looks, common interests, charisma, clever answers to prompts—when in reality, we might be better matched with someone who’s curious, shorter than we imagined, who harbors ambitions they’re not yet ready to advertise, and turns off the lights when they leave a room.

And if you do manage to match and set up a date, the experience feels strangely artificial. It’s not like dating someone you’ve met in real life, where attraction is builds from small interactions—how they held the door for a stranger, the refreshingly easy eye-contact you share, the way their face lit up when you told a corny joke. That kind of mutual, in-person spark matters. It offers just enough reassurance to calm the nerves and create space for desire to take root. [1]

With app dating, you’re just two people answering an ad. There’s no shared context, no mutual friends—just many degrees of separation. Before leaving, you psych yourself up: “Be optimistic! Maybe it’ll be good!”— a pep talk better suited for walking into HR than a first date. By the time you sit across from each other, you both know you’re on—and hosting—an audition. The energy is cautious, unfamiliar, and deeply unsexy.[2]

Still, we convince ourselves it’s worth it—that the more dates we go on, the closer we are to something real. That if we just keep trying, serendipity will eventually show up. But this is gambler’s logic: the belief that a string of bad outcomes makes a good one more likely. In reality, effort doesn’t improve the odds. But when we cling to this kind of thinking and treat dating apps as our only hope, it’s no wonder we’re in the midst of what The Atlantic calls a sex recession.

Younger generations are stuck in a standstill—craving something genuine and meaningful, yet drowning in performative sexual content online. In real-life, they’re starved for examples of true intimacy among their peers. They’ve witnessed sexual taboos crumble, only to see a resurgence of “trad” relationship ideals. Their feeds are awash in self-help platitudes blaming the relationship drought on screen-time—and offering solutions rooted in technologies that only deepen the superficiality they long to escape.

But before dating apps, there was another interface: the house party.

Remember house parties? Gatherings at someone’s home, music streaming, strangers and friends circulating—where every corner held the possibility of a chance encounter. You’d bump into someone at the cooler. Chat. Find out they know Sam. You’d run up to Sam and learn cooler-cutie is single. Then you’d strategically re-bump into them later, exchange numbers, and soon you’d be texting. You’d set up a date with confidence—with pheromones smelled, vibes felt, and a mutual social circle in place—ghosting or orbiting becomes unlikely.

Some might argue that young adults today are too introverted for house parties; they prefer small gatherings. To that, I quote Jordan Baker from The Great Gatsby:

"I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy."

Connection can be found in every corner of a house party: in a pack of gals sneaking off to the bathroom, in unexpected run-ins by the fridge, or on the front stoop away from it all. House parties are both common ground and testing ground: places to discover and build rapport without pretense or pressure. They invite missions and mischief—the kind of adventure that bonds people and fills the air with buzzing possibility. They’re ripe for meet-cutes and first-memories.

So, what’s stopping us from reviving the house party?

First: no one wants to host. Hosting is seen as high-effort and high-stakes in a time when responsibility is something we avoid. No one wants to be accountable for the planning, the turnout, or the vibe. But great parties are always a sharedresponsibility. They don’t require a perfectly curated guest list or an elaborate theme—they require unleashing your friends. Let them bring their own party supplies, and, most importantly, their own friends. Not to throw a rager, but to spark the kind of cross-circle mingling we’ve largely lost since the pandemic.[3]

But our would-be hosts are reluctant for good reason, which brings us to the second barrier: people are flaky. The pandemic made us more aware of our “social batteries”. Many still cling to the permission it gave them to say “maybe” to invitations, and “no” at the last minute. COVID legitimized social hedging—an allegiance to our more finicky natures.

Yet this discovery of our limited social energy and newfound reluctance isn’t just about how much socializing we do—it’s about how much inauthentic socializing we endure, which truly drains us. [4]

That’s why we must reassure our flaky friends that house parties are low-stakes and low-pressure. They’re where you can kick back, frolic, cozy up in a corner with someone, and follow your whims. There’s nothing a quick “I’m gonna grab another drink” can’t get you out of. Tell them to bring an emotional support six-pack of Spindrift and a friend. Assure them they’ll be okay—and maybe even leave with someone new sliding into their DMs.

We turn to dating apps because we no longer meet each other in person—but we could. We hope the apps will do the work for us: smarter prompts, better matches, more optimized connection. But the answer isn’t a better algorithm. It’s creating the kind of space where people can show up as themselves and discover each other naturally. House parties offer what no platform can replicate: shared context, spontaneity, and the relaxed environment that makes connection possible.

Let’s break out the speakers and the coolers. Let’s delete the apps and bring people back together—literally. Because getting together takes a good get-together.

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[1] Dating app defenders might argue that this kind of discovery can happen on a first date—but for many, the odds don’t justify the effort. Some suggest a “zero date”: a brief, low-pressure meetup to quickly gauge compatibility before committing to a full evening. But this kind of regimented interaction feels transactional and runs counter to the very chemistry you’re hoping to find—the kind that makes time stretch and disappear all at once, that carries the night away.

[2] Not surprising—attraction isn’t born from efficient modeling. It’s discovered in small moments and gestures, made meaningful through our personal interpretations. Here, desire, care, and reverence billow and swirl in the special alchemy that emerges from being together.

[3] At a house party, facilitating socializing across groups isn’t the host’s job the way it might be at a dinner party. The fun doesn’t have to be orchestrated. Provide the basics, support the free-flow of people’s autonomy, and people will be more relaxed and at ease.

[4] We scoff at the dreaded small talk, yet it’s not small talk itself that drains us—the weather, vacation plans, the news make perfectly fine conversation starters. What truly depletes us is abandoning our own curiosity for polite niceties. We often fail to deepen conversations by asking questions that genuinely interest us, and instead, we languish on the surface. Our culture has come a long way in prioritizing acceptance and authenticity; yet we often remain oblivious to the option of extending that to ourselves.