DATING apps have fallen out of favour - with lovers and investors. The former are sick of swiping and the latter wish they were still hooked, with major dating app companies struggling as younger users ditch the algorithms in search of "authenticity". And while this may be very well for Gen Z's mental health, Tinder's top brass are sweating.

Indeed, Bumble, whose share price has lost 85 per cent of its value over the last three years, laid off almost a third of its staff last week after a disappointing update, while Tinder and Hinge owner Match Group has taken a similar beating since its 2020 listing. For both, the number of paying customers has declined as people become increasingly disillusioned with their offerings.

A lawsuit filed against Match Group last month doubled down on this, with a group of disenchanted users proposing a class action lawsuit against the dating giant on the grounds its apps use "dopamine-manipulating product features" to gamify dating and fuel compulsive use, essentially turning lonely hearts into gambling addicts.

Match appears unfazed by the lawsuit, which is unlikely to do any material damage to the company. And yet the case's argument does resonate, as it comes down on the central contradiction of dating sites: they have no incentive to find you love.

Naturally, dating apps deny this, and their arguments can appear reasonable. After all, unlike other social media, they rely on subscription fees, not advertising or clicks, to make money, meaning there is no direct correlation between swiping time and revenues. Moreover, as those with a stake in the industry are keen to emphasise, there is no better marketing tool for them than success stories.

But, let's be honest, you only need a few success stories to feed the hopes of desperate romantics and, as much as Hinge's tagline ("designed to be deleted") may protest it, it cannot be denied that dating apps have more of an interest in keeping you on their apps than in finding you your lifelong partner. Even Tinder's founder admitted he based the app's swiping mechanism on psychologist B F Skinner's pigeon experiment, in which he showed that pigeons could be conditioned to continually peck as long as they believed they would keep receiving food.

But, while this may not be all that surprising, it is a fundamental change in the economics of matchmaking.

Back in the good old days, the 1600s, if a young woman was in want of a boyfriend, she knew where to go: church. Not only might there be a dashing, Godfearing man in the congregation, but she could also enlist with one of the local matchmaking agencies, run by the parish vicars. Crucially, these vicars were there to make sure old maids (over- 21s) were quickly married off to classcompatible men, thus ensuring social cohesion. In Ireland, motivation for parochial matchmakers was even more abundant, with these Celtic Cupids in for a cut of the dowry for any matches that progressed to marriage. In other words, there was a clear motive for forging long-lasting relationships.

Fast forward to today, incentives for our modern matchmaking algorithms are far less clearly aligned with their users' goals, though we mustn't forget that the churn rate for dating has also been turned on its head: while a 17th century match was likely to take those candidates off a matchmaker's clientele roster for good, shorter relationships give modern matchmakers the advantage of repeat service. Hinge may therefore genuinely be designed to be deleted, but it's also designed to quickly be reinstalled a few months later.

The specific problem for dating apps is that, while plenty of other companies are vying for our time with similar tactics, it hurts more when it comes to love, so they are particular targets for vitriol. Dating apps are far from angelic, but they didn't create the demand that fuels them, or the caddish boys that plague them. Might as well face it, you're addicted to love.

Anna Moloney is deputy comment and features editor at City A.M

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