There is no battlefield more chaotic, more charged, and more unintentionally hilarious than the comment section of an online review. I’m not talking about Rotten Tomatoes or even Yelp’s greatest hits. I mean the ones on Amazon, Google, and TripAdvisor. The ones that read like diary entries written during a nervous breakdown or an audition for a one-act play. And honestly? I’m not above it. I read them like literature. Sometimes, I write them like vengeance.
Maybe it’s the frustrated author in me, maybe it’s the hotel GM who’s seen it all (including someone complaining about the “too clean” smell of bleach in their freshly sanitized room), but online reviews have become a strange form of art I can’t stop consuming. Each one is its own little drama. There’s the protagonist (the reviewer), the villain (usually a customer service employee just doing their job), and the climax (“and THEN they had the audacity to…”).
And I read them all.
I don’t just skim, either. I dive in. I need to know why Linda from Des Moines gave a set of mixing bowls two stars. Did they melt in the dishwasher? Were they too loud? Did her husband leave her after she bought them and now everything tastes like betrayal? I want the whole backstory. I want arcs. I want tears.
I once spent twenty minutes reading a 1-star review for a hotel I didn’t even work for. The woman was outraged that there were no gluten-free waffles at breakfast and that “the orange juice had too much pulp, which speaks volumes about management.” I had to sit down. That’s not a review. That’s a manifesto. That’s a cry for help wrapped in citrus hate.
And while I wish I could say I rise above it, that I use reviews purely as consumer tools… I do not. I become the critic. I analyze tone. I question motivations. I have full-on monologues in my head:
“Oh, Karen, so the waiter didn’t bow when handing you your mimosa? Must be so hard running a personal monarchy in a Chili’s.”
“Steve gave this five stars for a cat harness because it ‘changed his life’ but now I’m wondering how grim life was before the harness.”
Reading online reviews has become a passive-aggressive version of theater, and like any good theatergoer, I have preferences. I skip anything under 50 words—if you’re not committing to the bit, I’m not committing to you. I side-eye 5-star reviews with no punctuation. I want drama with a thesis. I want “The A/C didn’t work, but the staff brought me a fan and also emotional closure.” I want absurd specificity. “The sheets were soft, but they whispered at night.” Yes. Give me that review.
But here’s where it gets personal: I also write them. And, like the little critic that lives inside me, I treat each one as a full-blown essay. I don’t dash off “Great product!” and call it a day. No. I treat that collapsible trunk organizer like it saved my childhood dog. I structure my reviews. I open with a hook. I use transitions. There is often a conclusion.
This is because, in my head, someone like me is reading it—and they deserve a show.
There’s a strange sense of justice that comes with reviewing. Maybe it’s because we all feel so powerless so much of the time. Writing a review feels like claiming authority, even if it’s over something as trivial as the “texture” of soap. It’s like, I see what you did there, Dove, and I have thoughts. It’s petty power. But it’s power nonetheless.
There’s also the dark side: review bombers. The Karens and Kevins who treat reviews like personal revenge campaigns. You can always tell when a reviewer has had a bad day and is now weaponizing it against a dry shampoo or a pancake house. These folks don’t want justice. They want blood. And one star.
Let’s be real though: the best reviews are the unhinged ones. The ones that accidentally turn into philosophical rants about the collapse of society because a Bluetooth speaker arrived late. Those reviews remind me that humanity is just barely holding it together. And somehow, they also remind me not to take things too seriously.
Because the truth is, beneath the drama and the oversharing, reviews are just a reflection of who we are—needy, particular, chronically overstimulated. They show what we value, what we expect, what disappoints us, and what makes us feel seen (or unseen). Reviews are emotional Yelp therapy sessions. A shared Google doc of existential dread and triumph. They are ridiculous. They are relatable. They are us.
So yes, every online review is a micro-drama. And yes, I am the critic, the audience, and occasionally the deranged playwright.
I will continue to spend half an hour deciding between two different trash cans because one of them “smelled weird” to someone in Kentucky three years ago. I will continue to spiral when a single three-star review ruins an otherwise perfect Amazon rating. I will continue to write my own reviews with the passion of someone defending their honor on a reality show reunion episode.
Because in a world that often feels chaotic and out of our control, there’s comfort in the absurd rituals of reviews. There’s a strange kind of community in our shared complaints, compliments, and petty grievances.
And honestly? If my review of a remote controlled butt plug helps one person feel seen, I’ve done my job.