For years, the startup world has treated attention like a renewable resource: capture it, monetize it, optimize it, repeat. But lately, a different kind of product thinking has been gaining momentum—one that assumes attention is not infinite, and that the most valuable thing you can build might be an intentional interruption of the scroll.
That shift shows up in two places that look unrelated at first glance. On one side are companies betting on in-person connection through games and social experiences. On the other are “cyberdeck” creators—DIY computer builders who are turning hardware tinkering into a kind of anti-passivity ritual. Together, they point to a broader theme: founders are designing for embodied life, not just digital engagement. And importantly, this isn’t being framed as a moral crusade against technology. It’s being framed as a response to how people actually behave when screens become default and novelty becomes expensive.
The clearest signal comes from Board, a startup founded by Brynn Putnam, known for her work at Mirror. Board has just raised money, and its pitch is straightforward: bring people together through in-person games and social experiences. The company’s focus isn’t on replacing online communities with offline ones in a purely nostalgic way. It’s on building structured moments where social interaction is the product, not a side effect.
In practice, that means designing experiences that reduce the friction of meeting strangers and make participation feel natural. Games are doing a lot of heavy lifting here. They create shared rules, shared goals, and a reason to talk that doesn’t require awkward small talk. They also create a rhythm—something that’s hard to replicate in open-ended social spaces. If you’ve ever walked into a party where everyone seems to already know each other, you understand why structure matters. Board’s bet is that the right kind of structure can turn “I should go out” into “I’m having fun right now,” which is the difference between a plan and a memory.
What makes this particularly interesting is the timing. The AI fundraising machine keeps hitting record highs, and yet the consumer tech conversation is increasingly split between two instincts: build more intelligence into interfaces, or build interfaces that get out of the way. Board sits firmly in the second camp, but it’s not simply “offline as backlash.” It’s offline as utility.
Because the truth is that many people don’t want less technology—they want technology that respects their attention and their energy. In-person experiences can be exhausting when they’re unstructured. They can also be inaccessible when they require social confidence, time, or physical proximity that people don’t always have. A startup that can package offline life into something repeatable, welcoming, and easy to join is effectively solving a logistics problem. It’s not just selling fun; it’s selling a path into fun.
That’s where the Mirror connection matters. Mirror wasn’t only about fitness hardware; it was about making a routine feel personal and motivating. It turned exercise into a guided experience with feedback loops. Board appears to be applying a similar philosophy to social life: take something that can feel vague and intimidating, then wrap it in a system that makes participation feel safe and rewarding.
The other thread—the cyberdeck DIY movement—looks almost like the opposite of Board. One is about gathering people; the other is about building machines alone. But both share a common design principle: they treat hands-on engagement as a feature, not a bug.
Cyberdecks are whimsical DIY computers, often built from off-the-shelf components and custom enclosures, sometimes inspired by retro-futurist aesthetics. They’re not mainstream consumer devices. They’re closer to maker culture, but with a specific emotional tone: curiosity, play, and tactile experimentation. The viral part isn’t just that people are building computers—it’s that the act of building and using them encourages people to touch things, learn by doing, and spend time in the physical world rather than passively consuming content.
When people say these devices “encourage users to touch grass,” they’re using slang for something real: a shift from screen-first behavior to body-first behavior. Even if you’re still using a computer, the experience is different. You’re not just interacting with an interface; you’re shaping the interface. You’re assembling it, troubleshooting it, customizing it, and learning what it can do. That process changes your relationship to technology. It turns technology from a black box you operate into a system you understand.
There’s also a social dimension hiding in plain sight. Maker projects often start solo, but they rarely stay solo. Communities form around shared builds, shared parts lists, shared hacks, and shared stories of what broke and how it was fixed. Cyberdeck culture can therefore function as a gateway to community even when the initial activity is solitary. The “touch grass” framing may be playful, but it points to a serious outcome: people are spending time in workshops, garages, and living rooms with tools and materials. They’re learning skills that don’t require constant attention to a feed.
This is where the unique take emerges. These startups aren’t necessarily competing with AI. They’re competing with the attention economy’s default settings. AI can make interfaces more compelling, but it can also intensify the sense that everything should be optimized for engagement. When you add personalization and conversational immediacy, you can end up with a device that feels like it’s always ready to entertain you. That’s convenient, but it can also deepen the feeling that your time is being harvested.
Board and cyberdeck creators are responding to a different question: what if the product is not the next interaction, but the next experience? What if the goal is not to keep you online, but to help you return to yourself—your body, your friends, your environment?
It’s tempting to describe this as a simple “AI vs. everything else” narrative, but the more accurate framing is that founders are reacting to a scarcity problem. Attention is scarce. Novelty is scarce. Even when people love technology, they eventually hit saturation. The market is full of tools that promise to improve your life, but many of them deliver the same underlying loop: open app, consume content, feel a brief reward, repeat. When that loop becomes the default, the user’s desire shifts. They start looking for experiences that feel distinct from the scroll.
That’s why “slow tech” and “together tech” show up as categories in conversations like this. Slow tech isn’t anti-innovation; it’s pro-intentionality. It values durability, learning curves, and experiences that unfold over time rather than in micro-moments. Together tech isn’t anti-digital; it’s pro-social presence. It treats human connection as something that needs design, not something that happens automatically when you “go online.”
Board’s approach fits together tech because it makes social interaction the core mechanic. Cyberdecks fit slow tech because they make learning and building part of the value. Both are, in their own ways, trying to restore agency. Users aren’t just consuming; they’re participating.
There’s also a subtle but important economic angle. Offline experiences are harder to scale than software. They require physical spaces, scheduling, staffing, and logistics. That makes them riskier for investors who prefer predictable margins. So when a startup like Board raises money, it signals that investors believe there’s a viable business model in experiences—either through partnerships, ticketing, memberships, or a platform approach that can standardize quality across locations.
The investor thesis likely isn’t “people will go outside again.” It’s “people will pay for curated, low-friction social experiences that feel worth their time.” In other words, the product isn’t the outdoors; it’s the reduction of uncertainty. People don’t want to gamble on whether an event will be awkward or boring. They want a guarantee of vibe, pacing, and inclusion.
Games are a powerful tool for that guarantee. A game has a beginning, middle, and end. It has roles. It has a structure that can be repeated and improved. It also creates a shared narrative: you remember what happened because you were part of it. That memory is the opposite of the ephemeral nature of much online content. It’s durable, and it’s social.
Cyberdecks, meanwhile, offer a different kind of durability: skill durability. When you build something, you gain knowledge that persists beyond the moment. You can reuse it, modify it, and teach it. That’s a form of value that doesn’t evaporate after the session ends. It also creates a sense of identity. People who build cyberdecks often see themselves as makers, tinkerers, and explorers. That identity can be more motivating than any single app feature.
If you zoom out, both trends reflect a broader cultural shift. The last decade trained people to expect instant gratification and frictionless access. But the last few years also trained people to notice the costs: burnout, loneliness, attention fatigue, and the feeling that time disappears. When those costs become visible, products that offer relief become attractive.
Relief doesn’t have to mean “no technology.” It can mean technology that changes the shape of your day. Board changes the shape of your social calendar. Cyberdecks change the shape of your relationship to computing. Both encourage a slower tempo and a more embodied mode of living.
There’s another layer: these products are also creating new forms of status. In the attention economy, status often comes from visibility—likes, followers, and public performance. In offline games, status can come from competence, creativity, or teamwork. In cyberdeck culture, status can come from craftsmanship, originality, and technical ingenuity. That’s a different kind of social currency, and it may be part of why these communities feel compelling. They offer recognition that isn’t dependent on algorithmic reach.
Of course, there are challenges. Offline experiences can struggle with consistency. What works in one city might not translate to another. Cultural differences affect how people respond to games and social prompts. Safety and inclusivity also matter; a social product has to be designed to prevent exclusion, harassment