Chase the Light, Not the Likes and Follows: Why Our Astrophotography Hobby Deserves Better than an Algorithm!

There’s a strange contradiction at the heart of social media these days. Let me explain.

We’ve never had more freedom to share our astro creativity, and yet we’ve never felt more trapped by how it’s treating us.

As an astrophotographer who loves sharing his journey to the cosmos and beyond, I feel it’s almost impossible to escape the ‘gravitational pull’ of likes, followers, and social media engagement. Those tiny, subtle animations of a thumbs-up or a heart popping once felt like encouragement, but have quietly become the gatekeepers of our creative self-worth, and I feel really sad about that. Somewhere between uploading your first astro photo and checking your analytics on your latest post, we forgot why we started sharing astronomy images in the first place, and it’s costing us far more than you think. It’s a race, and not a very good one, because there will only ever be one winner.

Look—we all crave connection. I get it. It’s totally human. My name is ‘insert name here’ and I am addicted to likes and shares and follows. We’re now programmed to feel that this has more value than it ever used to. But, this validation seems to have turned into modern-day social currency. These connections have been engineered by huge social media companies to become transactional. Social media is filled with millions of bots and spam and fake accounts, and each post can feel like it has become a pitch for approval.  Every content interaction feels like proof that we’re seen, heard, and valued. I get it: I’ve fallen into the same trap from time-to-time. You share an image and you crave the validation. It’s OK to admit it. Oh, and for what it’s worth, Meta will introduce millions of AI generated fake profiles for user engagement over the next five years. Strap in folks: we’re in for bumpy ride.

We all know that neuroscientists have proven social media likes activate the same reward centres in our brains as gambling. Dopamine is released, giving us a fleeting hit of pleasure, and like any addictive cycle, we chase it again and again. We crave it every single time. But, the high never, ever lasts. It’s another fact that the more we depend on external approval, the less we trust our internal compass. What the Hell has happened to us? We used to share our journeys to the cosmos because we wanted to, and if a few people liked our images, that would feel amazing. But now, because of how these large companies want us to act, we have turned into a performing monkeys to help them create content. This means they can make money from advertisers and people buying our data, and even worse, steal our space images to train their algorithms! Grrrr.

We’ve stopped asking ‘does this feel true to me?” and started asking “will they like it?” I’ll be honest here: I used to feel the same way. I constantly see ‘thanks so much for 1 million views’ or ‘thanks so much for 56,000 followers’. These platforms have reconditioned our brains, but what does this actually mean? What is the aftermath of this? It’s like the algorithm knows how to play you. We fall for it hook, line, and ‘stinker’. Sometimes this is the only way for people in the hobby to make money, because they can sell prints, calendars, and merch etc, so I get it. But, we have been tricked because of how they want us to feel.

For us amateur astronomers and astrophotographers, this shift can be subtle but damaging. You might start planning your next target not because you’re curious about its structure or history, but because you know it’ll perform better on social media. You see that fake aurora image racking up millions of views more than a faint Sharpless or LBN object—but which one teaches you more? Which one challenges you as a creator? The only beneficiary is the social media company, not us. In the age of algorithms, creativity seems to have been reverse-engineered. We no longer make to express how we feel or what we love—we make to be seen. To be liked. To get followed. When I was younger and I being followed, I’d call the local fuzz.

Every platform has its secret sauce: post at this time, use these hashtags, keep it under 15 seconds, keep it over 15 seconds, make it bright, make it loud, make it slick, make it professional, don’t make it slick, don’t make it professional, don’t make it this! The algorithm built by these companies exploits our want for approval and decides what’s worthy of attention, and we end up bending our art to fit it. It’s so sad to see. The algorithm doesn’t understand your passion, the hours you spent stacking exposures, or the excitement of capturing faint Oiii detail in an SN remnant. It only knows engagement metrics: how long someone paused on your image, how quickly they scrolled, whether they double-tapped, and if they liked it or not. So, you adapt. You brighten the image. You crop it differently. You make it longer. You start following trends. You call it “optimisation”, but it’s really just compromise dressed-up in data analytics and being controlled by the BIG Machine. Before you know it, the algorithm becomes your creative dictator. You are being forced down into this deep pit of ‘let’s keep you on our platforms, so we can steal even more of your data,’ and ‘let’s see how your post performed this last week, and here’s some things you can do to make it better.’ Subtle, right?

One of the saddest side effects of chasing likes and follows is how it changes the way we connect with others. Social media was supposed to build communities—but it often just builds comparisons. Instead of sharing to learn, we now share to compete. We don’t do it with curiosity, but with quiet self-judgment. Did that get as many likes as it should have? Why don’t people like my images anymore? Let’s be honest: it has nothing to do with your images, and everything to do with how the BIG machine works. People will tell you that your content doesn’t get seen anymore because your images and content are not good. I call BS. Your images don’t get seen anymore because these platforms are so vast, filled with fake this and spam that and platforms pushing their own agendas. When it doesn’t perform, we feel crappy. Something has gone wrong along the way. The irony is that we end up surrounded by people who share our passions, which is brilliant—yet we feel more isolated than ever. The sense of belonging becomes conditional. ‘I’ll like yours if you like mine.’ ‘I’ll comment if you comment.’ Engagement masquerades as friendship, but the emotional foundation is thin. True community requires vulnerability, and vulnerability doesn’t thrive in a system that rewards perfection.

Astrophotography, by its nature, is a slow art. It rewards patience, persistence, and technical mastery. It teaches you to wait for clear skies, to experiment, to fail, to recalibrate, and to try again. It’s a craft built on quiet focus: the kind of deep work that social media actively undermines. Each notification, each new like, is a tiny interruption. It pulls you out of the creative flow and back into the performance. You’re not thinking about the data you’re collecting or the processing techniques you’re learning: you’re wondering how your last post is doing. The tragedy is that this shallow feedback loop can make even passionate creators feel hollow. You start to equate silence with failure. You forget that some of the best art takes time to find its audience. Likes are instant: impact isn’t. Rome was absolutely not built in a day.

When every image you share feels like a slant on your worth, burnout isn’t far behind. You start to feel pressure to keep up: to post regularly, to stay visible, to maintain momentum. The joy of creation turns into a performance schedule. The more you feed the machine, the more it demands. And, because algorithms reward consistency, the moment you pause to rest, your reach drops. You’re punished for taking a break. This cycle doesn’t just exhaust your creativity; it erodes your relationship with it. You begin to resent the very thing that once gave you meaning. The telescope gathers dust. The hard drives fill with unshared data. The spark fades.

There’s a modern myth that visibility equals value. If you have followers, you’ve “made it.” But, influence built on metrics is fragile. It’s volatile. It’s not the same as trust, respect, or expertise. I once read a quote from someone on social media who was sad because they only got 100 likes on a post, but if one hundred people walked into your physical store and praised you for your art, you’d be overwhelmed. What has changed? I see social media accounts with millions of followers but with low engagement rates. That isn’t anything to do with their content. Take the freekin’ NASA social media page for example. It has 96.6m followers on Instagram and the average post gets an engagement of less than 350k. OK, on the surface that feels like a lot of engagement, but feels counter to creating a community. I searched on their page, and around 30% of each post is space hoaxers, flat earthers, moon landing deniers, or religious zealots claiming that the images were created by God.

My own opinion is that I don’t think astrophotography should about being an influencer: it should be about being an observer. It’s about cultivating a sense of wonder, precision, and curiosity about the universe. Those qualities can’t be quantified in engagement charts. And yet, many creators feel pressure to “build their brand”: to perform expertise instead of practising it. The result? Voices blur, authenticity fades, and genuine insight is drowned out by vanity metrics and selling products. Don’t get me wrong: I’m the first person to try to spread the amazing word about our wonderful hobby, but I would rather share it with people who have a genuine interest in the subject matter and not share to fake accounts, bots, and spam.

I have a combined number of 20.5k people who ‘follow’ my social media journey in this wonderful hobby, but I am pretty positive that 50% of that number is spam-fakery and bot-like nonsense. You don’t need a viral post to matter. You just need integrity: the quiet confidence that what you’re creating aligns with who you are. If people like that, then the right people will let you know. Chasing likes, in many ways, is a form of emotional outsourcing. We have handed our self-esteem to strangers in hopes they’ll handle it gently. When they don’t—when a post underperforms or goes unnoticed—we feel rejected, even though nothing fundamental about our work has changed. It’s the same image, and the same equipment. The same sky. The same effort. The only difference is the response. That’s not a sustainable emotional economy anymore. Something needs to change. Studies have linked heavy social media use with increased anxiety, depression, and feelings of inadequacy—particularly among creative people. Constant comparison breeds discontent. Our nervous systems were never designed to process this much feedback from this many people, this often. Particularity if it feels negative and unwanted. You can’t nurture your creative soul if you’re constantly feeding your social ego. I’m not saying we need to abandon social media: we just need to recalibrate it a little. Well, the social media companies do.

That’s why I started Picastro and why it exists: to democratise social media and create a place for genuine curiosity, thoughtful connection, and the craft of astrophotography: not the performance of it. One thing I was very conscious of when building this platform is that the emphasis isn’t on followers or popularity, but on participation. It’s about building a shared archive of cosmic exploration, not an endless competition for attention. There are no algorithms to manipulate, no bots inflating numbers, no adverts shouting for your focus. Just real people, real images, and real conversation. The difference may sound subtle, but psychologically, it’s huge. When you remove the performance pressure, you rediscover your intrinsic motivation that started this journey: awe, wonder, experimentation, and community. You stop chasing visibility and start chasing your mastery.

So, let’s imagine this. Posting an image not to see how it performs, but to start a conversation. Imagine your worth not tied to reach, but to resonance. Imagine feedback that helps you grow, not statistics that keep you scrolling. That’s what sharing should feel like. It’s certainly why Picastro exists. Every image you take—every star, every nebula, every faint mote of dust—is a small act of wonder. It’s a record of where you were, what you saw, and how you connected to the cosmos. That deserves more than a number. When you reclaim the joy of sharing for its own sake, your work changes. You experiment more. You take creative risks. You collaborate. You fall forward. You learn. And, most importantly, you remember: you’re not in competition with anyone but yourself again. It worked for me, that’s for sure.

The true cost of chasing likes isn’t just time, energy, or self-esteem: it’s the slow erosion of meaning. The good news? You can reclaim it any time you want. Start by asking yourself simple questions before posting: Why am I sharing this? What do I hope someone feels when they see it? Would I still post this if no one could like or comment on it? If your answer still feels authentic and true, then that’s the kind of people and images the world needs more of. Because you shouldn’t measure your worth in metrics. You should measure it in moments of wonder, in acts of patience, in the quiet nights you spend under the stars. So next time you feel the itch to refresh your feed, look up instead. There’s a galaxy waiting to remind you what real connection feels like. Your photons don’t need to be validated. It just needs to be seen by you and the real people who really want to see it for what it is. That’s real social media progress.

If you actually read this far, brilliant.