Has Love Become a Marketplace?

For the last two weeks, we have all been flooded with reminders: Buy chocolates. Reserve a romantic dinner. Find the perfect gift. Some of us are caught up in the online dating frenzy, swiping frantically in search of a last-minute spark, while others (me included) give a side-eye to our partners, silently hoping they haven’t forgotten this very special day. Those of us who are single may prefer to spend it with loved ones, enjoy solitude, or simply observe the holiday’s commercial spectacle from a distance, detached yet intrigued by the cultural obsession with February 14th.

Valentine’s Day, once a celebration of genuine affection, now feels increasingly like a scripted shopping event. But is this just another case of seasonal commercialization, or has love itself been fundamentally reshaped by market forces?

Our research on online dating suggests that romance has indeed become part of the marketplace—not just on Valentine’s Day, but every day of the year. Digital dating platforms, designed to optimize choice and efficiency, have transformed the way people seek relationships. Love, once framed as a deep and serendipitous connection, now operates under the logic of consumer markets: endless options, quick evaluations, and an emphasis on maximizing personal returns.

Sociologist Eva Illouz, who coined the term emotional capitalism, has long argued that modern intimate relationships increasingly mirror economic exchanges. Instead of viewing partners as unique and irreplaceable, dating apps encourage a transactional mindset: Swipe left for a better offer. Keep scrolling until you find a premium match. In our study, participants reported that these platforms blur the lines between romance and shopping, making partners feel disposable. Many expressed frustration, feeling caught between the desire for a meaningful connection and the seduction of infinite choice.

Cultural scholar Carolina Bandinelli argues that dating apps create a form of post-romantic love where efficiency and emotional detachment replace deep, embodied intimacy. Users are encouraged to “play the game” of dating, in which validation and humiliation alternate in a gamified loop of swipes, matches, and ghosting. Rather than fostering meaningful relationships, these platforms cultivate a culture of casual, low-investment interactions that minimize emotional risk while maximizing engagement.

Valentine’s Day amplifies this paradox. It sells an idealized yet commodified version of love—one that can be neatly packaged in heart-shaped boxes—while reinforcing the very anxieties it promises to soothe. The holiday often feels forced, commercialized, and expensive, leading many to question its authenticity.

So, where does that leave us? For one, we can start by rejecting the idea that love is a product to be optimized or a game to be won. Real relationships take time, emotional investment, and, ironically, the courage to commit to one person rather than chasing an illusion of endless possibilities.

We can also push back against the pressure to quantify love—whether in the form of extravagant gifts, picture-perfect social media posts, or a never-ending stream of matches on a screen. This Valentine’s Day, instead of swiping or spending, let’s consider slowing down. Valentine’s Day or not, love isn’t a limited-time offer, and its worth can’t be measured by market logic.