In a society obsessed with upward mobility, what happens when too many people reach the so-called top? The answer is counterintuitive: the elite experience ceases to feel elite. The once-exclusive peaks of privilege flatten into crowded plains, and the upper-middle class finds itself trapped in a Commons it never anticipated—one where affluence is abundant, yet never quite enough. This is the paradox of mass affluence, and nowhere is it more visible than in the modern American.
Once, priority boarding meant something. It was a quiet signal of success, of having outpaced the herd. Now, as dozens pack into “Group 1,” the illusion of exclusivity erodes. Lounges, once tranquil retreats for the business elite, resemble overbooked theme park queues, their patrons paying a premium for access only to find they’ve merely purchased the right to wait in a slightly different room. The expectation of privilege clashes with the reality of supply and demand, fueling an undercurrent of resentment among those who thought they had transcended the masses, only to realize they are still among them.
This Affluence Paradox manifests everywhere. Teenagers clad in designer hoodies and $500 headphones, first-class cabins packed with professionals whose “status” now extends to half the plane—these signals of wealth no longer separate, they blend. The result? An arms race for new distinctions: private jets, members-only spaces, curated experiences that promise exclusivity—until they too are inevitably democratized and diluted.
But the problem isn’t just one of perception. The market, ever-efficient, transforms luxuries into commodities. What was once an indulgence is now a baseline expectation. Air travel, which once carried a touch of glamour, has become a grueling test of endurance. Overhead bin space is a battlefield, extra legroom a scarce resource, and checking a bag? An insult. As ticket prices rise, people sense that their money no longer buys them distance from inconvenience—it merely buys them participation in a more expensive version of the same experience.
This same phenomenon ripples through housing, where six-figure incomes no longer guarantee access to desirable cities. It plays out in ski resorts, where lift lines frustrate those who thought they had bought into an elite experience. It’s in education, where universities once seen as gateways to success are now hypercompetitive mazes of escalating costs and diminishing returns. Mass affluence fuels mass expectation, and when those expectations aren’t met, the well-off don’t feel privileged—they feel deprived.
The response? Many attempt escape. Some seek hyper-exclusivity, retreating into ever-smaller enclaves of ultra-wealth. Others opt out of the race altogether, embracing slow living, small towns, and analog experiences. This isn’t just rebellion—it’s recognition that the competition for status has no finish line.
And here lies the great irony: the very things people resent—the crowds, the competition, the erosion of exclusivity—are proof of economic success. The world they long for, where air travel was glamorous and privilege was palpable, was a world of far greater inequality. What they truly mourn isn’t the loss of wealth—it’s the loss of distinction.
The Predatorialist lesson is clear: money alone does not separate you from the masses. When affluence becomes widespread, it ceases to be a marker of status and becomes a treadmill of shifting benchmarks. True power lies in perspective—seeing the game for what it is and choosing how (or whether) to play. The machine will always find ways to monetize aspiration; the real question is whether you let it define your sense of worth.
Perhaps the only rational response is the simplest one: step back, recognize the absurdity, and learn to laugh. For those who truly see the game, the chaos ceases to be an affliction—it becomes entertainment.
