We live in the age of total experience. Nothing less. A world where art, tech and storytelling blend into one big sensory smoothie, with augmented reality foam and emotional toppings.

Didn't sleep well? Dive into an interface. Doubting the meaning of life? Scan that QR code. Feel like crying? Don't worry, there's an app for that. Behind this giant karaoke of connected presence hides a well-oiled machine: the attention economy. Time. Focus. Your soft little heart.

The Holy Grail? Taylor Swift. The multinational disguised as your best friend. Everything is under control: Each emotion has its data plan, each shiver its NFT. Your intimacy? Boom, in a story. Your anxiety? Bonus track. They call it "immersion."

So now everyone's doing it. The immersive museum, the immersive gallery, the immersive startup. Even your baker is about to sell you an XR baguette with haptic feedback. Everything is smooth, calibrated, approved by a committee of curators on a dopamine drip.

But me, I'm after something else. Something a bit crooked. Leaking at the edges. An experience that doesn't want to please, but stares at you sideways. A weird little device blinking in Morse code, saying: "you think you're inside it, but you're the installation."