When you write a blog post, you’re creating a standalone document with a permanent URL. It exists at a specific address on the web, and that address doesn’t change based on who’s looking at it, when they’re looking at it, or what algorithm has decided they should see next. The post is there, stable, waiting for whoever wants to find it.
Compare this to a tweet (by God I’ll not call them “X’s”) or a Facebook post, which exists primarily as an item in a feed, algorithmically sorted, personalized to each viewer. Your post might appear at the top of someone’s feed for an hour and then disappear into an infinite scroll of other content, never to be seen again. The platform has no interest in whether your post is found next week or next year; it has a vested interest in keeping users scrolling through new content right now.
When I write a blog post, I’m writing for an imagined reader who has arrived at this specific URL because they’re interested in this specific topic; I can assume a baseline of engagement; I can make my case over several thousand words, trusting that anyone who’s made it to paragraph twelve probably intends to make it to paragraph twenty.
When I write for social media, I’m writing for someone who is one thumb-flick away from a video of either a hate crime or a dog riding a skateboard. Everything I produce has to compete, in real-time, with everything else that could possibly occupy that user’s attention. The incentives push toward provocation and emotional activation. The format actively punishes nuance, which means that a thoughtful caveat reads as weakness and any acknowledgment of uncertainty looks like waffling.