In recent days, a peculiar craze has emerged in China surrounding OpenClaw. Some cloud computing companies have started hosting offline events, offering free lessons on deploying OpenClaw; some professionals from the crypto space have organized so-called "AI + Web4" themed gatherings; and there are even practitioners from the catering industry leveraging this topic for offline sharing, claiming that stores can improve efficiency through OpenClaw.
I've seen photos from many of these events, and they're quite interesting. Many people rushed to the venues with their laptops, a mix of different ages gathered together. Some were searching everywhere for WiFi, while others followed the projection screen step-by-step, typing Git commands into their terminals. The whole scene had a peculiar, almost pilgrimage-like atmosphere.
What impressed me the most were some participants with graying hair. They held onto their old computers that had been used for many years, sitting quietly in corners, waiting for the system to slowly run complex Agent environments. There was a subtle dissonance between the outdated hardware and the cutting-edge technology, like a scene from a real-world cyberpunk setting.
This made me ponder a question: Why are people so enthusiastic about OpenClaw?
For tech enthusiasts, this phenomenon is easy to understand. Open-source projects have always had their own communities, and those who enjoy tinkering are naturally drawn to them, accustomed to trying out various new tools. But judging from the atmosphere at these events, many people clearly don't belong to that circle. They seem more like they were propelled there by a certain sentiment.
This sentiment has repeated itself throughout internet history.
Whenever a new technology is portrayed as a force capable of changing the world, people start searching for their place within it. Over a decade ago, people discussed internet finance; later came self-media, short videos, and cryptocurrencies; now it's AI's turn. Media and social platforms are filled with similar narratives: "Build an AI automation system in three minutes," "Ordinary people can also have AI employees," "Start an AI business without knowing how to code." In these stories, technology appears as an opportunity with an extremely low barrier to entry.
Thus, an interesting phenomenon has emerged. Many people install OpenClaw not because they already know what they want to do with it, nor because they understand its technical principles. They simply feel that if everyone is talking about AI, they'd better install it too.
This behavior, to some extent, resembles a symbolic ritual.
For some older participants, the motivation might be even more complex. Over the past few decades, they have experienced multiple technological transitions. From the early internet to mobile payments, from forums to short videos, the pace of technological change has accelerated. When a new technological wave emerges, it's easy for people to develop a worry—a fear that they are slowly being left behind by the times.
Against this backdrop, installing a seemingly advanced piece of software brings a sense of psychological security. When an icon symbolizing AI appears on the desktop, when they too can talk about Agents and tokens, this behavior makes them feel like they are still participating in this era.
Here, the software is not merely a tool; it's more like a symbol. It symbolizes a sense of place, a confirmation that one is still standing at the entrance to the future.
If we extend the timeline a bit, this is actually a cyclical social phenomenon. When new technological narratives appear, people try to participate in them in some way. Some truly create new products and industries, while many more just stand at the doorway, hoping to confirm one thing.
They are not simply installing a piece of software.
They just want to know, when the future arrives, whether they will still be inside it.