Once upon a time, there was a brief outage on some social media platforms. It got fixed. The end. On the face of it, kind of a boring story.

But the widespread attention given to the blanking of suggests another, perhaps less obvious tale: the one that shows that social media platforms, like the books or newspapers or insert-medium-here of other times in history, matter more than just being entertaining pastimes.

Wait, you mean those posts from that cousin you rarely see, sharing updates from her kids鈥� lives? That reel from the influencer, introducing you to a culture or bit of knowledge you never knew? That photo collage you put up as a memorial to a loved one whose loss you鈥檙e grieving? The back-and-forth debate between people on your feed trying to one-up each other on topics that interest you?

Yes. The technologies might be recent. But the things we use them for? That taps into something age-old: Humans are wired to love stories. Telling them. Listening to them. Relating to each other and our communities through them. And, of late, showing them to the world piece by piece through our devices 鈥� so much so that one of Instagram鈥檚 primary features is called, simply, 鈥淪tories.鈥�

鈥淥ur narrative capacity is 鈥� one of the best ways through which we are able to connect with one another,鈥� says Evynn McFalls, vice president of marketing and brand at the NeuroLeadership Institute, a consultancy that incorporates neuroscience into its corporate work. 鈥淥ur brains like stories because it makes it easier for us to understand other people, other circumstances.鈥�

SOCIAL MEDIA AS A COMMUNITY OF STORIES

In his book 鈥淭he Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human,鈥� scholar Jonathan Gottschall says this: 鈥淭he human imperative to make and consume stories runs even more deeply than literature, dreams and fantasy. We are soaked to the bone in story.鈥�

And in these times, social media is so often where they鈥檙e told 鈥� whether in pictures, videos, memes, text threads or mashups of all four. People can get news and information (and OK, yes, misinformation) there, learn and possibly sympathize with others鈥� plights, see things in ways that help us make sense of the world. We tell our own stories on them, make connections with others that might not exist in any other space.

In many ways, these social spaces are where we do 鈥渉uman.鈥�

鈥淚t鈥檚 almost impossible for many people, especially in the United States, to think about their lives and communication without thinking about social media,鈥� says Samuel Woolley, an assistant professor at the University of Texas at Austin鈥檚 School of Journalism and Media.

So when they鈥檙e disrupted? Uh-oh. Threads of connection can disappear. Endorphin-generating activities get cut off. Routines 鈥� for better and for worse 鈥� are interrupted, and and storytelling hiccup and falter.

鈥淥utside of the trivial nature of these platforms, they鈥檝e also really morphed over the last 15 years into an advocacy space,鈥� says Imani Cheers, associate professor of digital storytelling at George Washington University in Washington, D.C. 鈥淭hose types of outages can really cause disruption in the passing and service of information.鈥�

It can also ratchet up the impact if the interruption comes at a moment when communication and information are perceived to be needed the most, Woolley notes: In the United States, the outage corresponded with the moments many were heading to the polls for Super Tuesday.

鈥淓ven though the recent outage only lasted a handful of hours for most people, it still resulted in a lack of access to the news,鈥� Woolley says. 鈥淎nd that鈥檚 a problem.鈥�

A CREEPING SENSE OF UNEASE?

After the outages happened Tuesday, Andy Stone, Meta鈥檚 head of communications, on X, formerly known as Twitter. 鈥淲e apologize for any inconvenience,鈥� he wrote. But for some, it was more visceral than simple inconvenience. Their stories and their online lives were at stake.

When Taylor Cole Miller, an assistant professor of communication studies at the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse, first realized that he wasn鈥檛 getting into his Facebook account Tuesday, his initial concern was security 鈥� that he had somehow been hacked.

Shortly afterward came creeping panic: What if he had lost almost two decades of his Facebook existence, including some connections with people he only had over the platform?

鈥淚 hesitate to say that my life flashed before my eyes, because that鈥檚 just so overwrought,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut the fact of the matter is that as someone who鈥檚 been on Facebook for 20 years, a significant amount of my life is archived鈥� there.

鈥淢any of the ways that I connect with people is merely through Facebook. What happens if poof, it just goes away really fast? What does that mean for who I am as a person and how I interact with other people?鈥�

That type of reaction about losing something that鈥檚 so part of the fabric of one鈥檚 day speaks to the power of story to connect us, says Melanie Green, a professor in the department of communication at the University of Buffalo. And, not incidentally, to the platforms that amplify those stories.

鈥淗umans have a need to belong. We鈥檙e social species, our survival often depends on being part of groups,鈥� she says. 鈥淪tories can help us feel that sense of belongingness.鈥�

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