Legal intern Suzanne Castillo co-authored of this post.

Playstation’s decision to kill physical game discs is the latest attack on our diminishing rights to access and engage with culture digitally. Rent-seeking corporations and negligent lawmakers share the blame — and they can do better. 

We’ve seen the same playbook used in the move to digital distribution of  film, TV, and music: draw in customers with the convenience of a digital download, then limit physical access and move the goalpost on what it actually means to “own” a piece of media. The end goal is to turn the customer into a renter, stuck making regular subscription payments for access. Gamers are right to sound the alarm, and we must take this moment to fight for digital ownership before it’s too late.

Disk Space Invaders

Depriving gamers of physical discs leads to another obvious and immediate cost: data.  Unlike other digital media like film and TV, video games require a ton of storage. Access to high speed internet is still abysmal in the US, making the high-speeds needed for digital game downloads a luxury some of us may take for granted. For many, a modern game can take days and exceed their data caps. 

This made physical discs, particularly for the biggest AAA titles, a logical choice that also largely spared gamers from losing traditional ownership rights. With physical disks, the cost of storing the game was included in the purchase.

Own or Be Pwned

Limiting customers to digital copies also pushes gamers further into rent-only copyright culture.

Physical media comes with a "right of first sale," which means you can lawfully share, resell, alter, or destroy your own copy of a copyrighted work. This right has also helped protect the emergence of alternative community servers, and emulator addition of online play to games from the dial up era.

But courts have held that digital media doesn't carry the same right, meaning no such protection is afforded to digital purchases. Your ability to freely share games with friends or pass them on to family members becomes totally subject to the whims of the distributor. 

So, for example, a digital-only approach effectively guts the second-hand market for games. Saving some money with a used game and recouping the costs by reselling are no longer an option. Even with steep discounts and holiday sales, this raises the minimum cost of engaging with the medium at all.

The inevitable conclusion of the move to digital-only purchases is to lock gamers into  subscription models, making their access totally dependent on the distributor — or, several distributors, as we’ve seen with major TV and movie streamers. A handful of companies actually own the games, and your only option is to regularly pay for fractured libraries of games you may never play and will never truly own.

Achievement Locked

Since digital games are easy to copy, distributors and publishers argue that they are in an arms race against piracy. The irony is that law-abiding customers consistently suffer collateral damage. 

Most digital distributors lock down the content they offer with restrictive user agreements and digital rights management (DRM) software. DRM software, in particular, imposes onerous controls on the game — like forcing internet connection for single player games or modifications that harm performance — and can even introduce serious privacy and security concerns. Any gamer or researcher in the US who wants to reduce this burden by removing or modifying that DRM risks a lawsuit, thanks to Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA). This federal law makes it illegal to alter DRM software, and is a beloved tool for companies trying to restrict how we can lawfully use our purchases — whether it’s a copy of the newest tractor simulator or a literal tractor. 

And since much of this DRM is tied to user accounts, ownership of a game is also revocable and modifiable for any number of reasons outside of your control. Error in your subscription payment? Your account got hacked? Licensing deal falls through with a major publisher? Developers want to kill the game in an update? All of this can limit or change your ability to access the game long after your so-called “purchase.”

Level-up Ownership

Policymakers can and should work to restore our ownership rights for the digital age. 

That starts with legal protections ensuring that the same rights that apply to physical media apply to digital media. Next up? Reform Section 1201 of the DMCA to clarify that it does not forbid fair uses.  

At the state level, we need meaningful consumer protections. Some promising models include California’s AB 1921, which would clarify what customers are actually paying for on digital storefronts and ensure some protections for maintaining discontinued games. The gaming industry has done its best to kill the bill, including claiming that private community servers are illegal. 

If you bought it, you should own it, and EFF will continue working to mitigate some of the worst harms of the DMCA 1201, defending modders, and fighting deceptive licensing that makes culture less free.

Google owes its existence to the open web, but today, its technological “innovations” have much to do with locking users into a “walled garden.” The latest of these is “reCAPTCHA Mobile Verification,” an experimental initiative that will let companies block users if they are running independent, "de-googled" versions of Android. These “indie Android” versions are favored by people who want to protect their privacy and their attention by blocking trackers and ads. Worse, this is just the latest in a line of similarly user-hostile measures. 

Long before “agentic AI,” we had the idea that software would act as your agent on the internet. That's why the old-fashioned technical term for a browser is a “user agent.” Your browser acts on your behalf to retrieve information and then show it to you, in the format you choose. It's your agent. 

This is a powerful and profound idea. It is because browsers are our “agents” that we expect them to accept our directives, say, by blocking pop-ups, or by turning off autoplay sound, or by blocking commercial surveillance trackers. 

Your browser does all that because your browser works for you. The reason your browser can work for you is that the web is an open, standardized technology. In theory, anyone who follows the standards published by the World Wide Web Consortium (W3C) can make a browser, and that web browser can connect to any web server. Browsers and servers are interoperable. It's the same force that means you can put anyone's gas in your gas-tank, or anyone's shoelaces in your shoes, or anyone's milk on your cereal. 

But what if manufacturers could dictate those choices to you? What if your light socket refused to use a lightbulb unless it was officially blessed by the socket's manufacturer? What if your dishwasher refused to wash your dishes unless you bought them from one of the manufacturer's “dish partners?” What if your toaster refused to toast “unauthorized bread?” 

It's hard to see how a company could win its market with this strategy. After all, if the dishes are really better than the competition's, you'd buy them voluntarily, without any need for law or technology to force the matter. The only reason to make a dishwasher that refuses a rival's dishes is if the manufacturer's own dishes are ugly, expensive, and/or badly made. 

But once a company owns the market—once they've achieved dominance by buying out their rivals; by bribing potential competitors to stay out of their lane; and by engaging in deceptive conduct to trap key suppliers and customers—they can cement their dominance by blocking interoperability, keeping out rival dishes, milk, gas, lightbulbs, shoelaces and bread, capturing their whole market and squeezing it. 

Once a company owns the market, they can cement their dominance by blocking interoperability.

That's what Google has done, and that's what Google wants to do more of Google's commercial behavior has been so unethical, deceptive and abusive that the company just lost three federal antitrust cases. This thrice-convicted monopolist paid Apple—more than $20b/year— to stay out of the search market: It cheated app vendors, ripping them off with sky-high junk fees and onerous conditions that raised prices while lowering the share of your spending that went to the companies whose products you were paying for. It cheated advertisers, rigging the ad market to gouge businesses on ad prices and underinvesting to fight rampant ad-fraud, sucking hundreds of billions out of the productive economy for overpriced ads that no one saw. 

Google wasn't always this way. The “don't be evil” company owes its very existence to the open web ecosystem. When the company started to index the web in 1998, it was playing on an open field, where any web server could talk to any “user agent,” even one whose user was a startup like Google, that was making a copy of every page on the server. 

For years, Google thrived on the open web, and built open technologies. Android—the mobile operating system that Google bought in 2005 —was presented as an “open” alternative to existing mobile offerings, and as the mobile market collapsed into two companies—Google and Apple—Google always presented Android as the open alternative to Apple's “walled garden.” But there were always ways in which Google's “open” Android wasn't exactly open. The company engaged in illegal “tying” arrangements that forced hardware vendors and carriers to lock out versions of Android that were created by Google's competitors. 

In other words, even though Google offered a mobile platform that was (mostly) technically open, it found other ways to try to choke off the market oxygen for alternative Android versions that tried to capitalize on that technical openness. 

But life finds a way. The existence of an open, modifiable, tinkerer-friendly mobile operating system meant Android hackers could create alternatives to Google's (de facto) walled garden, which thrived in the cracks in that garden wall. Operating systems like CalyxOS, PureOS and Graphene offered a more private, more secure Android experience, one that was largely “de-Googled,” blocking Google's relentless acquisition of your private data. 

And Google's data-hunger is relentless. Android exfiltrates a chunk of your personal and behavioral data every five minutes. The “resting heartbeat” of Android surveillance pulses and pulses, irrespective of whether you're using your device, and the instant you unlock your screen, that heartbeat quickens, sending even more data to the company. All that data has proven irresistible to authoritarian governments. Donald Trump's enforcers have seized on Google data as a vital source of information about the identity of protesters and the location of migrants hunted by ICE. 

So there are plenty of reasons why users would seek out these de-Googled alternatives to Android, finding them in spite of Google's efforts to block access to competing technologies. The worse it got, the better those alternatives looked. 

Perhaps this explains Google's years-long effort to increase the technical barriers to using modified versions of Android, beefing these up to match the commercial restrictions that stand in the way of a de-Googled existence. 

Back in 2023, Google floated the idea of “Web Environment Integrity” (WEI), a set of modifications to web standards that would force your computer to disclose its operating environment to the web servers it connected to, even if you objected to this disclosure. 

WEI was a form of “remote attestation.” That's when your device uses a sub-processor (sometimes called a “Technical Protection Module” or “TPM”) or a walled off part of its main processor (sometimes called a “secure enclave”) to produce a cryptographically signed description of your device and its configuration: which hardware, software, plug-ins, and settings you're running. 

Take away our ability to block obnoxious digital content and you guarantee that we will be flooded with it.

When you connect to a server, it demands that your device send this “attestation” before it handles your request. If your device won't provide this data, or if the server doesn't like (or recognize) your device and its details, it can refuse to deal with you. And because the attestation is prepared by a TPM or a secure enclave that you can't modify or override, you don't get to decide which facts about your device it's allowed to see. 

Practically speaking, this means that remote attestation lets a server refuse to deal with you until you turn off your ad-blocker and your tracker-blocker. It means that the server can discriminate against users who block auto-play sound and video, who block pop-ups, who put the tab in the background when it's playing a mandatory pre-roll ad. 

WEI was especially disturbing in light of Google's plan to kill ad-blockers and privacy blockers through updates to Chrome, an effort that continues to this day. 

These blockers are an important part of the dynamic between web publishers and their users. In the real world, when you get an offer, you can make a counter-offer. That's all an ad-blocker is: a way for users to respond to a server whose opening bid is, “How about you give me all your data and let me take over your computer in exchange for showing you this page?” with “How about 'Nah?'”

We didn't get rid of pop-up ads by making them illegal, or by boycotting advertisers who used them. We got rid of pop-up ads when web users installed pop-up blockers, which made pop-up ads pointless. Take away our ability to block obnoxious digital content and you guarantee that we will be flooded with it. 

These kinds of modifications aren't just used to block ads—they're also key to accessibility. People who have photosensitive epilepsy or suffer from low-contrast vision problems use add-ons to reformat pages so they can safely and legibly access them. 

WEI's creators said they were only trying to put the web on a level playing field with apps, which routinely disclose facts about your device to the companies whose servers you connect to, without asking you, and even if you don’t want them to. Apps are a source of bottomless enshittification, not least because (unlike the web), they enjoy special, dangerous legal protections that make it very legally risky to modify them. WEI wasn't an effort to level the playing field between apps and the web—it was a race to the bottom, an attempt to make the web as enshittification-friendly as apps. 

Public outrage to WEI killed the project, but Google's commitment to augmenting its illegal commercial lockdown efforts with technical lockdowns never ended. Now, Google has rolled out an experimental “reCAPTCHA Mobile Verification” that uses an app, your camera, and your device's TPM or secure enclave to produce an attestation about your Android device. 

This will make it much easier for the apps and other services you interact with to block your device if you run an Android alternative, or if you install a mod that overrides the actions of Google's stock Android. 

This is a terrible idea—it's every bit as bad as WEI was. In an age in which Big Tech is ever-more tied to authoritarian governments, redesigning our devices to tell strangers things we don't want them to know isn't just shortsighted, it's inexcusable.