Let’s get one thing straight: I am not a Windows user.
My daily driver is a sane, rational operating system that treats me like a competent adult. I use it for work, for creativity, for everything. But once in a blue moon, the stars align in a way that requires me to boot into Windows. Maybe it’s a specific piece of hardware, a game with a draconian anti-cheat, or helping a less-technical family member.
It’s always a reluctant visit. A digital trip to a noisy, crowded mall after years of tranquility. And every single time, without fail, Microsoft finds a new, more aggressive way to make me regret my decision.
My latest foray into the world of the Blue Screen of Life™ was no different. I was greeted not by a welcome screen, but by a full-court press of psychological manipulation.
First, it’s the begging for a Microsoft account. The “Sign In” screen is giant and in-your-face, while the “Offline Account” or “Domain Join” option is now a ghost—a tiny, greyed-out link you have to scour the screen for. I’ve heard on Windows 11 Home, they’ve even removed the ethernet trick. You literally have to pretend you have no internet to access the basic human right of a local account.
Let that sink in. To exercise a fundamental choice over your own machine—the choice to keep your data local and your identity separate from a corporate cloud—you have to trick the operating system. Since when is my computer my adversary?
But it doesn’t stop there. Oh no. Once you’ve navigated the labyrinth and carved out your pathetic little local account, the onslaught begins.
“Get OneDrive!” “Back up to the cloud!” “Your files aren’t safe here!” “Don’t you want to be connected?”
It’s a constant, dripping faucet of anxiety-driven marketing. It’s in the setup. It’s in the file explorer. It’s a notification, a pop-up, a brightly colored button where the “Save” button should be. It’s the digital equivalent of a street vendor following you down the block, screaming in your ear about a timeshare.
Why is this so messed up?
Because it’s a blatant, cynical power grab. Microsoft isn’t just selling you an operating system anymore; they’re selling you a subscription to an ecosystem. Your data, your identity, your habits—that’s the product. A local account is a leak in their revenue stream. A user who isn’t tethered to their cloud is a user they can’t monetize as effectively.
They are systematically removing user agency and calling it a “feature.” They are framing the desire for privacy and local control as an archaic, difficult-to-access “legacy option,” like changing the BIOS or editing the registry.
This isn’t progress. This is enclosure. They are fencing off the digital commons of personal computing and telling us we have to pay a toll—in data, in dependency, in our very user identity—to simply use the machine we own.
I don’t want my operating system to be a service. I don’t want my files automatically synced to a server I don’t control. I just want to install a program, save a file to the hard drive I paid for, and be left the hell alone.
Every time I use Windows, this is what I’m reminded of. It’s not an operating system; it’s an advertisement with delusions of grandeur, desperate to handcuff you to its ecosystem before you can even get anything done.
So, congratulations, Microsoft. You’ve succeeded. You’ve made your platform so hostile to casual, privacy-minded users that my next blue-moon visit will be even more reluctant. And my main operating system? It looks better every single day.