The hypertext by David Kolb contains screens linked by 272 connections, creating a nonlinear web that feels more spatial than textual. When I wander through it and reach a “dead end” — a screen that doesn’t interest me — I have to retrace my steps, refresh the site, and choose another route. This process, though frustrating, mirrors the act of navigating a physical space: each choice carves a personal path through the work.
Even without strong visuals or design embellishment, the structure alone gives the page depth, an illusion of interiority. Moving through it feels like descending through layers of thought, from outer surfaces toward inner reflections. It reminds me of narrative games such as Disco Elysium, where dialogue options function like hyperlinks: each click opens another consciousness, another pocket of meaning. Both formats dissolve hierarchy and invite participation, turning the reader into a co-author. Each link becomes a syntactic hinge; each return, a rereading. The non-hierarchical structure dissolves the boundary between reader and author, much like modernist stream-of-consciousness literature. It also reminds me of reading Joyce or Woolf, where consciousness meanders and doubles back, and where coherence emerges only through persistence.
What strikes me most is how repetition functions within this system. Certain words, such as “resistance,” “enclave strategy,” and “seamless,” reappear across nodes, haunting the text. Their recurrence first feels tedious, but eventually, it becomes a kind of conceptual trap, forcing me to notice subtle shifts in context. As Kolb writes, “Writing almost identical nodes with the same title is one way to bring the issues forward,” which frustrates readers yet also sharpens perception. The hypertext’s subversiveness is therefore literary at its core. It resists the utilitarian function of digital text, but instead insists on slowness, rereading, and attention.