A new game lets you romance your refrigerator.
Not exactly a sentence you’d expect to write in 2025. Then again, maybe it is. Maybe this is exactly where we were always heading. Date Everything arrived this summer like a fever dream made manifest. Players don mysterious “Dateviator” glasses. Suddenly, household objects transform into potential lovers. Your lamp becomes a narcissistic influencer. Your couch develops commitment issues. Your washing machine exudes pure sex appeal. The premise sounds bonkers. It is, but it’s also prophetic.
The game mechanics themselves are surprisingly traditional, and that’s what makes them so unsettling. You engage in actual conversations with your appliances, complete with dialogue trees and emotional responses. Your refrigerator might confess its insecurities about being too cold. Your toaster could share dreams of making the perfect breakfast. Players navigate genuine relationship dynamics: jealousy, commitment, heartbreak, even breakups. (RELATED: Digital Peeping Toms: The Perverts Building Your Dating Apps)
The digital revolution sold us connection but delivered alienation.
The game includes intimate moments — not explicit sexual content, but emotional climaxes that mirror the rhythm of human courtship. You can go on dates to virtual locations, exchange gifts, and experience the full spectrum of romantic highs and lows. The catch? Your partner is always an inanimate object with a digital personality overlay. The game presents this as completely normal, even preferable to human connection. And why wouldn’t it? Just consider the cultural moment we inhabit. Nearly 80 percent of Gen Z report feeling isolated or left out, a loneliness deepened by the dopamine loop of endless swiping. The digital revolution sold us connection but delivered alienation. Relationships became transactions. Romance became content. And somewhere along the way, intimacy died of neglect. (RELATED: Why Gen Z Is Giving Up on Sex, Love, and Each Other)
Now comes Date Everything, a game that doesn’t parody our romantic collapse. It embraces it.
In this world, you can date anything except an actual human being. That would be absurd. The entire game is built around this exclusion, engineered to simulate intimacy while eliminating its only real source. We’ve grown so disillusioned, so exhausted by love, that we’ve designed a world where people are the one thing you’re not allowed to love. (RELATED: Loneliness Is the New Oil)
The game offers affection with no friction. Intimacy without vulnerability. An environment where the “threat” of genuine emotional exchange has been removed and replaced with programmable affection.
You can date your blender, your air purifier, your coat rack—but not your neighbor. Not your co-worker. Not the stranger you once might’ve met at a party. That level of human unpredictability, that risk of disappointment or rejection? The game bans it. Sterilizes it. Deletes it from the equation entirely.
The creators understand something profound about modern dating culture. Robbie Daymond, the game’s co-founder, explains their central philosophy: “It’s called Date Everything, not romance everything.” Translation: contemporary dating has become so toxic, so exhausting, that we’ve redefined love itself. We no longer seek romance. We seek anything that fills the void.
And Date Everything doesn’t stop at weird dating rules. It digs deeper. The protagonist begins the game by getting fired and abruptly replaced by AI. Sound familiar? It should.
This isn’t science fiction anymore. AI is already devouring white-collar jobs, displacing creatives, automating roles we once thought untouchable. The layoffs don’t come with villainous cackling. They come with press releases about “efficiency.” Economic insecurity doesn’t just tighten wallets; it corrodes hope. It strips meaning from labor, disfigures identity, and leaves millions staring into the abyss of irrelevance. (RELATED: AI Won’t Terminate Us. It Will Just Render Us Irrelevant.)
When your job disappears, when your sense of purpose vanishes, when even love becomes a battleground of ghosting and curated personas, the appeal of machine intimacy grows. It becomes the sedative of choice. Why risk rejection when your couch always listens? Why endure dating anxiety when your lamp flashes just for you?
We already have sex robots. AI companions are evolving daily, trained on empathy, flattery, and synthetic charm. Our appliances are getting “smarter,” more responsive, more attuned. From Siri to Samsung fridges, the line between tool and partner is blurring. The only thing missing was an emotional narrative. Date Everything fills that gap. It packages the unraveling as a quirky, feel-good consumer experience.
Some might see it as a game; I see it as a eulogy.
Date Everything is the logical endpoint.
A culture so atomized, so digitally doped up, so financially strapped that human contact itself becomes obsolete. We’ve traded connection for control and warmth for Wi-Fi. We don’t want messy relationships. We want clean interfaces. Predictable outcomes. Soft, programmable love.
Date Everything is a mirror, one that reflects the contours of a civilization that no longer trusts itself to feel.
Games have always mirrored culture. The Sims once let players simulate domestic life — build homes, find jobs, date, marry, raise kids. It was a digital dollhouse that captured the aspirations of a more optimistic era. You built families because that still felt like a goal. You designed futures because you believed you had one. You controlled chaos, but the chaos still came from people.
Date Everything is The Sims on steroids — and possibly meth. It’s not about aspiration. It’s about avoidance. You’re not building a future. You’re fleeing one. You’re not guiding a family. You’re dodging the “trauma” of forming one. In Date Everything, you don’t embrace life — you sedate it. Numb it. Replace it with a series of emotionally sanitized object-flings, each carefully scripted to ensure you never feel too much.
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