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Subscriptions: when renting definitively replaced owning
Twenty years ago, when you bought software, you went home with a cardboard box, a CD-ROM and a serial number scribbled on a sticker. It was yours. You could reinstall it, resell it or lend it. Adobe Photoshop CS2 cost around 600 euros, which was a lot of money — but you paid it once.
Today, Adobe Creative Cloud costs around 60 euros a month. That is 720 euros a year. And if you stop paying, you can no longer access your files in their native format. You are renting your own creative tools.
This shift — from ownership to access — is one of the deepest and quietest transformations in our relationship with things over the past decade. And most of us accepted it without really thinking about it.
The story of a turning point
It all began with music. In 2001, iTunes let people buy tracks for 0.99 dollars each, download them and keep them forever. A few years later, Spotify offered 40 million tracks for 10 euros a month — without owning anything. Its success was immediate and massive.
Then came films (Netflix, 2007), software (Adobe Creative Cloud, 2013), video games (Xbox Game Pass, 2017), books (Kindle Unlimited), cars (BMW subscriptions for heated seats, a controversy that stirred even the most indifferent drivers), household appliances, clothing, razors, meal deliveries...
In 2013, when Adobe announced the end of perpetual licences for its Creative Suite, the backlash was immediate: a Change.org petition gathered more than 50,000 signatures. Ten years later, Adobe was still posting steadily rising revenue and had more than 30 million Creative Cloud subscribers worldwide. Rebellion turned into resignation, then into habit.
The dizzying numbers
The global subscription economy market was worth around 624 billion dollars in 2025 and is expected to exceed 1.4 trillion dollars by 2030 — annual growth of nearly 18%, far above most other economic sectors.
At the individual level, the figures are just as significant. In France, households spend an average of 41 euros a month on streaming subscriptions alone in 2026 — video, music and online games. Worldwide, the average American spends 1,887 dollars a year on digital subscriptions. The global average stands at 6.7 subscriptions per person.
Month by month, these amounts seem reasonable. Added up over ten years, they reveal something else: structural dependence and permanent spending without any accumulation of assets.
The appeal of access
It would be dishonest not to acknowledge the real benefits of the subscription model. Access to 100 million music tracks for 10 euros a month is, objectively, extraordinary value compared with the era of the 15-euro CD. Netflix provides thousands of hours of content for the price of a cinema ticket. Spotify lets you discover artists whose albums you would never have bought.
The subscription model has also democratised tools once reserved for professionals. A newly self-employed graphic designer can now use the same software as a large Paris agency for a few dozen euros a month instead of paying several thousand euros upfront.
Then there is convenience. Nothing to install, nothing to update, nothing to store. You pay and it works. You stop paying and it stops. It is simple, smooth and frictionless — to use the preferred vocabulary of the marketing departments at major tech companies.
But at what price, exactly?
The problem is precisely this lack of friction. It makes spending invisible. We no longer feel the act of purchasing or see the money leave the account — or rather, we notice it only indirectly, as a slight drop in the balance on the first of the month, lost among the other direct debits.
In June 2024, the US Federal Trade Commission sued Adobe over deceptive practices, arguing that its annual subscriptions, “disguised” as monthly plans, “trap” consumers in contracts that are costly to cancel. The case highlighted a widespread phenomenon: subscription companies actively rely on inertia, forgetfulness and the complexity of cancellation procedures.
There is also a more fundamental question: what happens when the service ceases to exist? In 2023, Google shut down its Stadia cloud gaming service. Millions of players lost access to games they had paid for — because they had not bought the games; they had bought access. In practice, that distinction matters enormously.
The growing fatigue
Consumers are beginning to feel the weight of the model. According to recent studies, 41% of consumers say they suffer from “subscription fatigue”. More than half of subscribers cancelled at least one service over the past year, and 55% of Americans say they want to reduce their subscription spending in 2026.
France is showing a similar signal: households went from an average of 3.2 digital subscriptions in 2025 to 3 in 2026. This decline is explained by budget pressures, but perhaps also by a gradual awakening.
Consumers believe that 28 euros a month is a “reasonable” amount for online subscriptions. In reality, they spend 41. The gap says something about how difficult it is to perceive what we are truly spending when payments are automatic and fragmented.
What does “owning” still mean?
Beyond the figures, the philosophical question remains. To own something is to be free to do with it as you wish — modify it, pass it on, sell it or keep it indefinitely. The concept of ownership lies at the heart of our legal systems and our psychological relationship with objects.
The subscription economy does not eliminate ownership — it moves it. You no longer own the music; perhaps you own your smart speaker. You no longer own the film; you temporarily own access to it. You no longer own the software, but you own the files it generated — until their format becomes obsolete because updates are no longer available.
It is a quiet but profound transformation of what it means to “have something”.
A choice, not an inevitability
The trend is not irreversible. Platforms such as Bandcamp still let users buy albums permanently. Software such as Affinity offers perpetual licences. Streaming services such as MUBI or Criterion Channel focus on curation rather than accumulation.
The return of subscription fatigue shows that consumers are becoming aware of their ability to act again. Cancelling a service, choosing to own rather than rent, favouring quality over quantity — these gestures may seem trivial, but they are a form of taking back control.
In a world where everything is optimised and monetised through subscriptions, it may be worth asking: do I want access to this, or do I want to own it? The answer is not the same. Neither are the consequences.
Subscriptions: when renting definitively replaced owning
Twenty years ago, when you bought software, you went home with a cardboard box, a CD-ROM and a serial number scribbled on a sticker. It was yours. You could reinstall it, resell it or lend it. Adobe Photoshop CS2 cost around 600 euros, which was a lot of money — but you paid it once.
Today, Adobe Creative Cloud costs around 60 euros a month. That is 720 euros a year. And if you stop paying, you can no longer access your files in their native format. You are renting your own creative tools.
This shift — from ownership to access — is one of the deepest and quietest transformations in our relationship with things over the past decade. And most of us accepted it without really thinking about it.
The story of a turning point
It all began with music. In 2001, iTunes let people buy tracks for 0.99 dollars each, download them and keep them forever. A few years later, Spotify offered 40 million tracks for 10 euros a month — without owning anything. Its success was immediate and massive.
Then came films (Netflix, 2007), software (Adobe Creative Cloud, 2013), video games (Xbox Game Pass, 2017), books (Kindle Unlimited), cars (BMW subscriptions for heated seats, a controversy that stirred even the most indifferent drivers), household appliances, clothing, razors, meal deliveries...
In 2013, when Adobe announced the end of perpetual licences for its Creative Suite, the backlash was immediate: a Change.org petition gathered more than 50,000 signatures. Ten years later, Adobe was still posting steadily rising revenue and had more than 30 million Creative Cloud subscribers worldwide. Rebellion turned into resignation, then into habit.
The dizzying numbers
The global subscription economy market was worth around 624 billion dollars in 2025 and is expected to exceed 1.4 trillion dollars by 2030 — annual growth of nearly 18%, far above most other economic sectors.
At the individual level, the figures are just as significant. In France, households spend an average of 41 euros a month on streaming subscriptions alone in 2026 — video, music and online games. Worldwide, the average American spends 1,887 dollars a year on digital subscriptions. The global average stands at 6.7 subscriptions per person.
Month by month, these amounts seem reasonable. Added up over ten years, they reveal something else: structural dependence and permanent spending without any accumulation of assets.
The appeal of access
It would be dishonest not to acknowledge the real benefits of the subscription model. Access to 100 million music tracks for 10 euros a month is, objectively, extraordinary value compared with the era of the 15-euro CD. Netflix provides thousands of hours of content for the price of a cinema ticket. Spotify lets you discover artists whose albums you would never have bought.
The subscription model has also democratised tools once reserved for professionals. A newly self-employed graphic designer can now use the same software as a large Paris agency for a few dozen euros a month instead of paying several thousand euros upfront.
Then there is convenience. Nothing to install, nothing to update, nothing to store. You pay and it works. You stop paying and it stops. It is simple, smooth and frictionless — to use the preferred vocabulary of the marketing departments at major tech companies.
But at what price, exactly?
The problem is precisely this lack of friction. It makes spending invisible. We no longer feel the act of purchasing or see the money leave the account — or rather, we notice it only indirectly, as a slight drop in the balance on the first of the month, lost among the other direct debits.
In June 2024, the US Federal Trade Commission sued Adobe over deceptive practices, arguing that its annual subscriptions, “disguised” as monthly plans, “trap” consumers in contracts that are costly to cancel. The case highlighted a widespread phenomenon: subscription companies actively rely on inertia, forgetfulness and the complexity of cancellation procedures.
There is also a more fundamental question: what happens when the service ceases to exist? In 2023, Google shut down its Stadia cloud gaming service. Millions of players lost access to games they had paid for — because they had not bought the games; they had bought access. In practice, that distinction matters enormously.
The growing fatigue
Consumers are beginning to feel the weight of the model. According to recent studies, 41% of consumers say they suffer from “subscription fatigue”. More than half of subscribers cancelled at least one service over the past year, and 55% of Americans say they want to reduce their subscription spending in 2026.
France is showing a similar signal: households went from an average of 3.2 digital subscriptions in 2025 to 3 in 2026. This decline is explained by budget pressures, but perhaps also by a gradual awakening.
Consumers believe that 28 euros a month is a “reasonable” amount for online subscriptions. In reality, they spend 41. The gap says something about how difficult it is to perceive what we are truly spending when payments are automatic and fragmented.
What does “owning” still mean?
Beyond the figures, the philosophical question remains. To own something is to be free to do with it as you wish — modify it, pass it on, sell it or keep it indefinitely. The concept of ownership lies at the heart of our legal systems and our psychological relationship with objects.
The subscription economy does not eliminate ownership — it moves it. You no longer own the music; perhaps you own your smart speaker. You no longer own the film; you temporarily own access to it. You no longer own the software, but you own the files it generated — until their format becomes obsolete because updates are no longer available.
It is a quiet but profound transformation of what it means to “have something”.
A choice, not an inevitability
The trend is not irreversible. Platforms such as Bandcamp still let users buy albums permanently. Software such as Affinity offers perpetual licences. Streaming services such as MUBI or Criterion Channel focus on curation rather than accumulation.
The return of subscription fatigue shows that consumers are becoming aware of their ability to act again. Cancelling a service, choosing to own rather than rent, favouring quality over quantity — these gestures may seem trivial, but they are a form of taking back control.
In a world where everything is optimised and monetised through subscriptions, it may be worth asking: do I want access to this, or do I want to own it? The answer is not the same. Neither are the consequences.
Subscriptions: when renting definitively replaced owning
Twenty years ago, when you bought software, you went home with a cardboard box, a CD-ROM and a serial number scribbled on a sticker. It was yours. You could reinstall it, resell it or lend it. Adobe Photoshop CS2 cost around 600 euros, which was a lot of money — but you paid it once.
Today, Adobe Creative Cloud costs around 60 euros a month. That is 720 euros a year. And if you stop paying, you can no longer access your files in their native format. You are renting your own creative tools.
This shift — from ownership to access — is one of the deepest and quietest transformations in our relationship with things over the past decade. And most of us accepted it without really thinking about it.
The story of a turning point
It all began with music. In 2001, iTunes let people buy tracks for 0.99 dollars each, download them and keep them forever. A few years later, Spotify offered 40 million tracks for 10 euros a month — without owning anything. Its success was immediate and massive.
Then came films (Netflix, 2007), software (Adobe Creative Cloud, 2013), video games (Xbox Game Pass, 2017), books (Kindle Unlimited), cars (BMW subscriptions for heated seats, a controversy that stirred even the most indifferent drivers), household appliances, clothing, razors, meal deliveries...
In 2013, when Adobe announced the end of perpetual licences for its Creative Suite, the backlash was immediate: a Change.org petition gathered more than 50,000 signatures. Ten years later, Adobe was still posting steadily rising revenue and had more than 30 million Creative Cloud subscribers worldwide. Rebellion turned into resignation, then into habit.
The dizzying numbers
The global subscription economy market was worth around 624 billion dollars in 2025 and is expected to exceed 1.4 trillion dollars by 2030 — annual growth of nearly 18%, far above most other economic sectors.
At the individual level, the figures are just as significant. In France, households spend an average of 41 euros a month on streaming subscriptions alone in 2026 — video, music and online games. Worldwide, the average American spends 1,887 dollars a year on digital subscriptions. The global average stands at 6.7 subscriptions per person.
Month by month, these amounts seem reasonable. Added up over ten years, they reveal something else: structural dependence and permanent spending without any accumulation of assets.
The appeal of access
It would be dishonest not to acknowledge the real benefits of the subscription model. Access to 100 million music tracks for 10 euros a month is, objectively, extraordinary value compared with the era of the 15-euro CD. Netflix provides thousands of hours of content for the price of a cinema ticket. Spotify lets you discover artists whose albums you would never have bought.
The subscription model has also democratised tools once reserved for professionals. A newly self-employed graphic designer can now use the same software as a large Paris agency for a few dozen euros a month instead of paying several thousand euros upfront.
Then there is convenience. Nothing to install, nothing to update, nothing to store. You pay and it works. You stop paying and it stops. It is simple, smooth and frictionless — to use the preferred vocabulary of the marketing departments at major tech companies.
But at what price, exactly?
The problem is precisely this lack of friction. It makes spending invisible. We no longer feel the act of purchasing or see the money leave the account — or rather, we notice it only indirectly, as a slight drop in the balance on the first of the month, lost among the other direct debits.
In June 2024, the US Federal Trade Commission sued Adobe over deceptive practices, arguing that its annual subscriptions, “disguised” as monthly plans, “trap” consumers in contracts that are costly to cancel. The case highlighted a widespread phenomenon: subscription companies actively rely on inertia, forgetfulness and the complexity of cancellation procedures.
There is also a more fundamental question: what happens when the service ceases to exist? In 2023, Google shut down its Stadia cloud gaming service. Millions of players lost access to games they had paid for — because they had not bought the games; they had bought access. In practice, that distinction matters enormously.
The growing fatigue
Consumers are beginning to feel the weight of the model. According to recent studies, 41% of consumers say they suffer from “subscription fatigue”. More than half of subscribers cancelled at least one service over the past year, and 55% of Americans say they want to reduce their subscription spending in 2026.
France is showing a similar signal: households went from an average of 3.2 digital subscriptions in 2025 to 3 in 2026. This decline is explained by budget pressures, but perhaps also by a gradual awakening.
Consumers believe that 28 euros a month is a “reasonable” amount for online subscriptions. In reality, they spend 41. The gap says something about how difficult it is to perceive what we are truly spending when payments are automatic and fragmented.
What does “owning” still mean?
Beyond the figures, the philosophical question remains. To own something is to be free to do with it as you wish — modify it, pass it on, sell it or keep it indefinitely. The concept of ownership lies at the heart of our legal systems and our psychological relationship with objects.
The subscription economy does not eliminate ownership — it moves it. You no longer own the music; perhaps you own your smart speaker. You no longer own the film; you temporarily own access to it. You no longer own the software, but you own the files it generated — until their format becomes obsolete because updates are no longer available.
It is a quiet but profound transformation of what it means to “have something”.
A choice, not an inevitability
The trend is not irreversible. Platforms such as Bandcamp still let users buy albums permanently. Software such as Affinity offers perpetual licences. Streaming services such as MUBI or Criterion Channel focus on curation rather than accumulation.
The return of subscription fatigue shows that consumers are becoming aware of their ability to act again. Cancelling a service, choosing to own rather than rent, favouring quality over quantity — these gestures may seem trivial, but they are a form of taking back control.
In a world where everything is optimised and monetised through subscriptions, it may be worth asking: do I want access to this, or do I want to own it? The answer is not the same. Neither are the consequences.
