Speaker: I was born in nineteen eighty-nine, which means I was
maybe seven or eight when I first started noticing the
discs.
At the grocery store, there was always a little stack of them
near the gum.
We found them inside cereal boxes.
At some point we had so many we stuck them on our bedroom
walls.
You would balance them on your index finger and look at your
reflection.
A tiny funhouse mirror full of rainbows.
They were just part of the texture of being alive in
America in the 90s.
Like 'Got Milk?' commercials.
Or the smell of scented markers.
I didn't know what they were for.
I just knew they were everywhere.
Someone put them there.
I'm Daina Bouquin.
This is Found in the Machine.
Her name was Jan Brandt.
On Friday nights, she went to Blockbuster.
She'd pick up eight movies at a time because she didn't know
what mood she'd be in by Sunday.
One night she noticed a box by the register.
Inside were product samples.
You'd get a box free if you rented three movies.
So she took two boxes, walked into her office at AOL on Monday
morning, and said, we need to put a disc in here.
Jan Brandt had come up as a copywriter, moved into sales,
and eventually shifted to direct mail marketing.
That work taught her something most marketers don't learn.
The physical object you pull from the mailbox is doing work
before it ever gets opened.
The weight of it in your hand.
It can shape the decision, in a fraction of a second, about
whether to open it or throw it away.
She had developed an absolute belief.
A belief that you could not send someone a real package in
the mail and have them not open it.
A package.
Not an envelope.
Something you could really feel.
In 1993, AOL CEO Steve Case brought her in with a mandate:
grow the subscriber base.
She was given control of AOL's entire marketing strategy.
So she set out to make the internet feel inevitable.
To understand what that meant, you need to remember what
getting online actually looked like in the early 90s.
Before AOL simplified everything, connecting to the
internet was a genuinely technical act.
You had to find a local access number for your area.
You had to understand protocols.
And if you didn't, you had to read a manual.
Brandt had sat in focus groups watching people try to figure
out computers for the first time.
One person held the mouse in the air, pointing at the TV
screen like a TV remote.
She remembered seeing another put it on the floor and try to
work it like a sewing machine pedal.
They were not going to read a manual.
They were not going to configure anything.
And they were everyone.
The internet was not a place most Americans had been, and it
was a place that required you to already know your way in.
AOL was trying to change that.
But at the time it was a distant third, or fourth, in the
online services market.
And almost nobody could explain what the internet actually was
in a way that made someone want it.
It made advertising nearly impossible.
You couldn't put it on a billboard.
You couldn't capture it in a TV commercial.
But what you could do was put it in someone's hand.
Each of those discs had a clear polycarbonate core, a thin
aluminum layer to hold the data, and a coating of lacquer on
top.
Light and cheap to make.
Not biodegradable.
Brandt's team could produce them by the millions and ship
them everywhere.
And she intended to.
She launched what she herself called a carpet bombing
strategy.
It started with floppy disks in 1993 and shifted quickly to
CD-ROMs.
The strategy wasn't just to mail them, it was to make them
inescapable.
The discs turned up in magazines next to the perfume
samples.
They were at the bank by the deposit slips.
In your fast food order with your napkins.
On the airline meal tray between the pretzels and the
ginger ale.
If your eyes landed somewhere, the odds were decent that a disc
was nearby.
And then there were the Omaha steaks.
Omaha Steaks shipped frozen orders all over the country.
Brandt wanted a disc in every package.
The problem was obvious.
It would have to survive being frozen solid, thawed, then stuck
in someone's computer.
Before her team could commit, they flash froze a floppy disk,
let it thaw, and found out whether it still worked.
It did.
The disk went out with the steaks.
As the software grew more complex, the pressure to go to
two discs grew with it.
She absolutely refused.
She was, in her own words, "crazed about it." Getting the
disc into someone's hand was worthless if it came with
friction.
The whole point was that you picked it up, you put it in, and
the door opened.
One disc, one step, one door.
She understood that the internet wasn't something you
could sell.
You could only give it away.
And you had to give it away until people forgot there was a
time before it.
The scale of what followed is almost impossible to comprehend.
At the peak of the campaign, AOL had distributed over a
billion free trial discs.
50% of all CD-ROMs manufactured in the entire world bore the
AOL logo.
Not 50% of promotional discs.
50% of all discs, including music albums and software. The campaign cost at least $300
million.
But AOL grew from 200,000 members to over 22 million.
At its peak, they were signing up new subscribers every six
seconds.
And then the system broke.
In December 1996, AOL switched to flat rate pricing.
Unlimited access for a monthly fee.
It was the right call competitively.
And it was also a disaster.
The number of people trying to connect at once overwhelmed the
infrastructure completely.
On some evenings, roughly 15% of subscribers got a busy signal
just trying to log on.
Attorneys General around the country threatened lawsuits.
AOL promised refunds.
Steve Case made a commercial telling people the company was
working day and night to fix it.
The public dubbed the company "America on Hold." The campaign
had worked.
Brandt had gotten so many people through the door that the
door was jammed.
As the infrastructure caught up and the congestion eased, the
discs kept coming.
But they had become a type of cultural noise.
Everyone had stacks of them.
Nobody needed more.
They were mocked in the press.
PC World's readers voted them the most annoying tech product
of all time.
And because the discs were everywhere, the physical objects
began a second life.
The blue and white disc that had been millions of Americans'
first contact with the internet became raw material.
People used them as coasters.
They hung them in gardens as suncatchers, shattered them to
make lampshades and bowls.
One collector eventually built a glowing 150-pound throne out
of 4,000 of them.
And one of the early floppy discs was mailed to a man named
Bernard S.
Finn, promising 15 hours of free access.
He never opened it.
He just kept it.
That disc is now in the collection of the Smithsonian
National Museum of American History.
Among the things the country has decided are worth
remembering.
Over a billion discs.
The ones that didn't become folk art or end up in a museum
mostly went in the trash.
The ones that went in the trash are still there.
Then, if you lived in the right place, broadband arrived.
Getting online was no longer an event you prepared for.
The connection was just there.
The way water is there when you open a tap.
By 2007, AOL had retired the campaign.
They had mailed mountains of plastic across the earth so we
could leave the physical world behind.
And for most of us, it worked.
But broadband did not arrive everywhere.
A rancher in Montana still prints USDA forms and pays for
postage.
A student in Alabama does her homework in a McDonald's parking
lot to access Wi-Fi.
Laying fiber optic cable can cost anywhere from tens of
thousands to hundreds of thousands of dollars per mile,
depending on terrain, soil, and how many households a mile
actually passes.
Nobody agrees on the exact numbers.
What everyone does agree on is that the math doesn't work.
In a city, a mile might pass thousands of households.
In rural Wyoming, it might pass three.
No private company has ever fixed that equation.
And no public policy has either.
As of the 2024, 7.9 million American households were completely offline. AOL suspended all remaining dialup service in 2025. Millions of people still can't access broadband. On tribal lands, that number is nearly one out of every four people. For them, the only option is likely their cell phone when they can get a signal. It's that or satellite, and satellite isn't available everywhere. If you are one of these people, you remain isolated. The internet never became invisible. It's something you still need to work for. Jan Brandt handed millions of people the physical edge of something enormous. She gave us that moment when
connection was something you could hold in your hand.
It was round.
And your fingerprints got all over the back.
Now all that plastic waits in landfills.
And in a farmhouse, somewhere without broadband, the people
wait.
I'm Daina Bouquin.
This is Found in the Machine.
Before you go, if you want to go deeper on any of these
stories, I started a companion newsletter. Scripts, cut scenes,
sources, and notes for me arriving with every episode.
You can find it at notes.foundinthemachine.com.
Thanks for listening.