My story begins with another app, now defunct, called Tapstack.
Opening the app, you saw a live feed from your phone’s camera. Below, a grid of faces, some of them representing individuals, others representing groups. My grid had four cells: my mom, my dad, my sister, and a group collecting all three. Just like Snapchat or Instagram, you tapped to capture a photo, pressed to record a video. As soon as you lifted your finger, your message zipped away, with no editing, no reviewing. A “stack” of messages awaited you in the corner, and, after you tapped through them, they were discarded.
It was all so simple that it was barely there. Tapstack more closely approximated a clear pane of glass than any app I’ve ever used.
For several years, Tapstack was the main channel for my family’s communication. The app didn’t lend itself to practical correspondence or logistical coordination; its strength was ambient presence. I met one of Tapstack’s designers once, and they told me it seemed especially popular with far-flung families: a diaspora app. Because there was no threading and no history, messages didn’t carry the burden of an expected reply. Really, they were just a carrier wave for another sentiment, and that sentiment was always the same: I’m thinking of you.
A selfie with coffee, a picture of an ice-covered pond, a video of my nephews acting silly: I’m thinking of you, I’m thinking of you, I’m thinking of you.
It never seemed to me that Tapstack attracted a huge number of users. I don’t think the company ever made a cent. There was no advertising in the app, and they never asked their users to pay.
Why didn’t they ask us to pay?
In 2019, I felt a rising dread as the months ticked by and the app didn’t receive a single update. Sure enough, in the fall, Tapstack announced that it was shutting down. It offered its users a way to export their data. It went gracefully.
It was, I have to say, a really great app.