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We like to believe that math is objective. We’ve been conditioned to think that if an answer comes from a computer—whether it’s a search result, a “suggested friend,” or a credit score—it must be the cold, hard truth. We treat the algorithm like a transparent window into reality. But as danah boyd argues in The Structuring Work of Algorithms, that window is actually a mirror. It doesn’t just show us the world; it reflects the biases, values, and messy human decisions of the people who programmed it in the first place.

There is a “ghost” in the machine, but it’s not the spooky one that haunts cemeteries or abandoned psych wards. It’s us—you and me.

In the world of digital rhetoric, we often talk about the “rhetor”—the person making the argument. Traditionally, we look for a speaker at a podium or a writer with a pen. But boyd pushes us to see the algorithm itself as a rhetorical agent. When an algorithm decides what is “relevant” enough to appear at the top of your feed, it is making a value judgment. It is persuading you that certain information matters more than others. This isn’t just a technical calculation; it’s a rhetorical act of gatekeeping. By choosing what to show and what to hide, the algorithm structures our reality before we even have a chance to engage with it.

The danger, boyd points out, lies in the “black box.” Because we can’t see the code, we assume it’s “magical” or impartial—made specifically for us.

But code is just a set of instructions written by humans who live in a biased world. When we automate a process—like hiring, policing, or content moderation—we aren’t removing bias; we are scaling it. We are taking a single human’s “shorthand” for what a “good” candidate or a “safe” neighborhood looks like and turning it into an invisible, unquestionable rule. This is what boyd refers to as “techno-legal solutionism”: the idea that we can fix deep-seated social problems with a few lines of code and a new regulation. It sounds efficient, but it often ends up being a sophisticated way of ignoring the problem altogether.

So, how do we fight a ghost we can’t see?

boyd’s answer is algorithmic accountability. We have to stop treating technology like a miracle and start treating it like a sociotechnical system. This means demanding to know who built the system, what their goals were, and who gets hurt when the system “works” exactly as intended. It requires a new kind of literacy—one that looks past the sleek interface and asks: What is this code trying to make me believe?

As a student of literature, I’ve spent years deconstructing the “unreliable narrator.” In the digital age, I’ve realized that the most unreliable narrator of all might be the algorithm. It tells us a story about our world every time we unlock our phones, and it does so with a confidence that masks its own flaws. Standing in the “shrine” of danah boyd’s work, the message is clear: the machine may be powerful, but the ghost—the human responsibility behind the code—is what actually matters. We cannot let the “magic” of technology excuse us from the hard work of being critical, rhetorical, and deeply, intuitively, perfectly human.

In my many years as a student, I have often felt the strange, invisible tension of “Context Collapse”—a term coined by danah boyd to describe the collision of multiple audiences into a single social context. Traditionally, we have all had distinct “selves”: the version of who we are that presents a professionally-written thesis in a seminar is not the same version that celebrates a sibling’s wedding or plans a best friend’s bachelorette party. However, as boyd argues in It’s Complicated, digital platforms flatten these boundaries. On social media, my professor, my future employer, and my childhood best friend all occupy the same “networked public,” watching the same post simultaneously.

This “collapse” creates a unique rhetorical challenge for the modern student. We, as a society, are forced to engage in what boyd calls “social steganography”—the intentional act of hiding messages in plain sight using subtext and cultural references that only certain parts of our audience will understand. For me, this has meant carefully curating a digital identity that feels authentic enough for my peers but “safe” enough for the academic and professional eyes that might be monitoring my feed. It is a constant, exhausting performance of identity where the stakes feel nearly as high as a final grade or a job offer.

I felt this most acutely during the gradual pivot to remote learning and the increasing “professionalization” of student social media. When our private bedrooms became our classrooms via Zoom, the physical walls that separated our “student” and “private” lives literally disappeared. boyd’s theory perfectly explains the discomfort many of us felt; it wasn’t just about the technology being new, it was about the loss of control over our social contexts. We were no longer performing for a specific group of peers in a specific room; we were performing for an infinite, digital audience that we couldn’t see or fully manage.

As I prepare for graduation, the reality of context collapse feels more pressing than ever. boyd’s work has taught me that the digital world doesn’t just “store” our data; it reshapes our social architecture. By understanding the rhetoric of these networked publics, I’ve learned that my “strength” isn’t just in writing essays or building websites—it’s in the ability to navigate these collapsed contexts with intentionality. It is about recognizing that every digital act is a speech act, and every speech act now has an audience that never truly goes away.

Ultimately, boyd’s research reminds us that we aren’t just “users” of platforms; we are residents of them. As I move into the professional world, I carry with me the awareness that my digital rhetoric must be as adaptable as the technology itself. Context may collapse, but our ability to analyze and navigate that collapse remains our most vital skill.