The Illusion of Ownership: The Hidden Flaw in Digital Media

I’ve had a few experiences with digital purchases where I later couldn’t use what I’d bought. For instance, I once purchased a Pac-Man game on iTunes, only to find out later that it wasn’t transferable to my new iPad. I was surprised to discover that this is a common problem for many people. If you’ve built up a large collection of e-books, music, video games, software, or movies as digital downloads, you might assume you own them in the same way you would a physical book or DVD. But remember those terms and conditions you agreed to when you clicked “purchase”? In most cases, those terms granted you a license, not ownership. A license sets the rules for how you can use the content—similar to a rental agreement for an apartment.

That agreement—which the digital landlord (copyright owner) knows you didn’t read— means you can’t trade your stuff in, give it away, or sell it. It also means it can disappear at any time. 

Companies use all sorts of methods to make sure that you can’t give away or resell your download, like embedding it with Digital Rights Management (DRM) software that stops you from duplicating it. That same software also makes it harder for people who need to modify their devices or content to make it more accessible—like someone who is colorblind being unable to use a third-party app to automatically replace the colors they can’t see with the colors they can. (source)

Digital media is like a Houdini act—here one moment and gone the next. This fleeting nature is the real danger of a fully digital world: the impermanence of its content. While physical media has its drawbacks, it offers a sense of reliability. Treat a magazine, book, or newspaper with care, and it can last indefinitely. In contrast, digital media can vanish in an instant, leaving nothing behind. That’s a sobering thought for anyone who values long-term access to their content.

What makes this even more alarming is the inherent vulnerability of digital spaces. Servers can shut down, files can be deleted or corrupted, and platforms can pull content with no warning. Think of the issue with digital games I mentioned earlier, and now apply it to other media formats that have gone fully digital—magazines, news articles, films, music, even academic resources. Any of this content can be removed or altered at the discretion of the platform or publisher, and once it’s gone, it’s often impossible to retrieve unless you’ve proactively saved a copy somewhere.

This raises serious concerns about preservation and access. Without physical backups, we’re left at the mercy of digital gatekeepers, who may prioritize profit, licensing agreements, or other interests over the consumer’s right to retain access to what they’ve paid for. In an increasingly digital world, the question isn’t just about convenience but about permanence, trust, and control over our own media.

The Vinyl Revival is turning the tide for the music industry, bringing ownership back to physical media in a big way. Vinyl records, despite being relatively expensive, are flying off the shelves, with fans eagerly shelling out money for the experience they offer. This resurgence isn’t just about music—it’s about something deeper, a cultural shift that ties physicality to value.

While this entire discussion emphasizes the importance of holding onto physical media—especially for the things you listen to, read, and watch most—the vinyl comeback is something unique. For many, the draw of vinyl isn’t purely about practicality or even sound quality. Though some audiophiles passionately defend the analog format for its warm, rich tones, the vinyl revival, in my opinion, is primarily about the joy of collecting.

Vinyl records represent more than just a way to listen to music; they’re artifacts of culture and history. Each album feels like a personal treasure, with its large, artful covers, tangible grooves, and nostalgic essence. Owning vinyl provides a sensory experience that digital formats simply can’t replicate. It’s not just about hearing the music; it’s about holding it, seeing it, and displaying it—a kind of ownership that feels truly personal and enduring.

This revival isn’t merely a nod to the past; it’s a response to the transient nature of digital media. With vinyl, you’re not just buying music—you’re investing in a piece of art, a tangible connection to an artist’s vision, and a way of anchoring yourself in an increasingly ephemeral world. It’s proof that in an age of fleeting digital consumption, there’s still a strong desire for something you can hold, keep, and cherish.

As someone who prefers the tangible, I find this shift toward digital ownership unsettling. To me, owning something means being able to hold it, see it, and interact with it. There’s truth to the old saying, “Out of sight, out of mind.” It’s easy to forget about digital purchases, and the process of transferring them between devices can be tedious and frustrating. For all the convenience of digital content, it doesn’t quite measure up to the sense of permanence and accessibility that comes with physical items.