Are We All Reading the Same Books?

Are we all reading the same things? How is the BookTok/Bookstagram community different from a book club? Why are we so easily influenced by the algorithm?

These are the questions that run through my mind whenever I scroll through the reels section of my somewhat “dead” Bookstagram page. Don’t get me wrong—I’m a reader. I always have been, and I always will be. Deep down, I believe I have my own taste. But sometimes, I can’t help but wonder: have my so-called original thoughts been hijacked by the sheer amount of information I consume? Who knew that 30-second videos could have the power to rewire my brain chemistry? And yet—here we are.

Some books by bookstagram favourite authors

I do like the book, but I'd have never picked it up if it wasn't for bookstagram.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve found myself gravitating more and more toward popular fiction—Yellowface, Icebreaker, Fourth Wing, and the like. I slipped into the “buying books and reading books are two different hobbies” mindset all too easily. I still struggle to walk into a bookstore and not leave with something in hand. The truth is, I can’t afford to buy books at the pace I want to. I’m a broke college student studying abroad, chasing cheap thrills for quick serotonin boosts.

I scroll for thirty minutes, my Goodreads “to-read” list explodes—and yet, my “currently reading” or “finished” lists barely move. Have I lost the ability to choose books I know I’ll love? Has FOMO infiltrated my mind so deeply that I feel excluded if I don’t read what everyone else is reading? Is groupthink so comforting that we’re okay sacrificing our individual taste for the illusion of belonging?

This feels like the slow death of critical thinking. As a business major hoping to land a marketing job after graduation, it’s disheartening to see how originality seems to be fading into the background. Algorithms have replaced curiosity. We’ve made “copying influencer taste” a whole personality trait—whether it’s in fashion, reading, productivity, or lifestyle. Micro-trends have eroded any sense of personal taste. A select few decide the cultural status quo, and the rest of us fall in line. I mean, how else do you explain Colleen Hoover receiving both critical and audience acclaim? “We both laugh at our son’s big balls”—really? That’s where we are now as a reading community?

I’m not trying to shame anyone for their reading choices. I’m just wondering: when do we draw the line between genuine recommendations and algorithm-driven hype?

And no—I’m not saying that only reading Shakespeare, decoding Andrew Marvell, or analyzing Moby Dick counts as taste. Even I can’t get through Shakespeare without a dictionary nearby, and I have a Master’s in English Literature. This isn’t a conversation about what counts as “real” literature.

What I’m trying to explore is something deeper: why are we all reading the same books, across different cultures and geographies, and still not adding anything new to the discourse? Reading is personal, yes—but it’s also inherently social. Just like you can’t separate politics from literature, you can’t separate reading from community. But when everyone is thinking the same, reading the same, and echoing the same takes, where does that leave us?

If we all move in sync with the algorithm, are we really autonomous beings? Or just another cog in the content machine?

Maybe it’s time to step back and ask ourselves what kind of readers we want to be. Curators or consumers? Explorers or followers? The algorithm might be loud, but our own voices are still there—if we’re willing to listen.