How Digital Democracy Fulfilled Its Early Promise (In One Unexpected Case)

When four-year-old Joca—a golden retriever with deep, soulful dark eyes—lost his life on a sweltering Brazilian airport tarmac because of a devastating airline error, national outrage could easily have faded into nothing more than another fleeting viral hashtag. But that is not what happened. Fernando, a young resident of São Paulo, drafted and submitted an online legislative proposal that would become known as “Joca’s Law.” The initiative gained enough public support that senators called a formal public hearing, and eventually the bill passed through both Brazil’s Senate and Chamber of Deputies.

This outcome stands in stark contrast to most modern online political engagement, which typically boils down to nothing more than clicking, liking, and sharing—activity the late political theorist Benjamin Barber once dismissed as “the caverns of private solitude.” Brazil’s system, though, offers a clear blueprint for how public institutions can leverage digital tools in a far more meaningful, participatory way.

I first witnessed both the transformative potential and the inherent risks of using technology to nurture this kind of participatory spirit back in 1999. I worked alongside Barber to build Unchat, the very first piece of software designed explicitly to facilitate democratic deliberation among groups. Barber, who died in 2017, was recognizable by his deep, distinctive baritone and eternally boyish cowlick, and he argued consistently that for democracy to survive the onslaught of hostile modern forces, it needs to offer far more than just protected free speech. It must give ordinary citizens actual power to make decisions and act collectively.

Unchat was built to let groups gather, debate, discuss, and reach binding decisions across any distance. What made the tool unique was its rotating moderation structure: every participant got a turn to lead the conversation, with control passing to the next person after a set time limit. This framework was intentional, built to encourage equal representation and collective ownership of outcomes. Our goal was never just to create space for empty talk; we wanted to open up avenues for tangible, practical participation, where everyday people could actively shape the political decisions that affected their lives.

The late 1990s were a heady, optimistic time for anyone who believed the World Wide Web held the power to completely reimagine democracy. Vint Cerf, one of the internet’s founding architects—rarely seen without his signature three-piece suit and French cuffs—summed up that early hope perfectly. He noted that because the internet enables two-way communication, “people could provide feedback. I think a lot of legislators originally thought of the Net as another avenue for communicating with their constituents,” he observed, “except then they discovered the constituents could talk back and talk to each other!”

In the decades since the 1990s, the number and variety of digital platforms has exploded, bringing with it unprecedented ability to reach and engage new audiences. But governing institutions have remained largely unchanged. Stories of ordinary citizens directly shaping how institutions make decisions are vanishingly rare, even in most established democracies. Despite the proliferation of new online engagement tools, two-thirds of people globally still report believing they have little to no influence over government decisions.

Major social media platforms are built to maximize ad revenue first, not foster meaningful dialogue. This core design has transformed citizens from active participants into passive spectators, glued to what comedian Hasan Minhaj calls the “rectangle of sadness”: endlessly distracted by national politics that feel completely out of our power to change.