After President Trump began his second term in January 20, 2025, thousands of U.S. government web pages vanished. In response to new executive orders targeting diversity initiatives and gender-related policies, more than 8,000 pages were deleted across multiple agencies. The information removed included scientific research, veterans’ care resources, vaccine guidance, and hate crime reports. Researchers, doctors, and historians who relied on these pages for critical data suddenly found themselves cut off.
While administrations often modify or remove web content, the scope of this digital purge was unprecedented. Some pages reappeared after revisions, while others were permanently lost. The event underscored an unsettling reality: in the digital age, information can disappear in an instant. And yet, paradoxically, the internet has long been seen as a place where nothing ever truly dies.
Death in the Digital Age
There is an old saying: “Once on the internet, always on the internet.” While meant to warn about the permanence of digital footprints, this idea also fuels the efforts of digital preservationists. Initiatives like the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine work to ensure that deleted web pages are not erased from history. Since 1996, the Wayback Machine has captured and archived over 916 billion web pages, offering a way to access past versions of websites, even those that have been deliberately erased.
Following the recent mass deletion of government web pages, the Wayback Machine has gained renewed attention as journalists, researchers, and citizens sought access to vanished information. This event underscored the precarious nature of digital records: they can be erased instantly yet persist through traces, memories, and the determination of those who refuse to let them be forgotten. The act of digital preservation aligns with EXP.’s theme for April—death as both an end and a catalyst for rebirth, illustrating how loss can inspire new efforts to safeguard history.
The Irony of Digital Mortality
However, digital preservation itself is under threat. The same technology that allows information to live on beyond its intended lifespan is also subject to erasure by legal and corporate forces. A prime example is the Hachette v. Internet Archive case, which challenged the Internet Archive’s book digitisation efforts.
The lawsuit, brought by major publishing houses, argued that the Internet Archive’s practice of scanning and lending books violated copyright law. Initially, the Internet Archive justified its work under the fair use doctrine, arguing that it was simply enabling broader access to knowledge, especially during the pandemic when physical libraries were closed. However, courts ruled against the Internet Archive, stating that its lending model was not transformative and infringed upon publishers’ rights.
This ruling represents a troubling precedent: a resource that seeks to preserve knowledge can itself be dismantled. While the court acknowledged that the Internet Archive is a nonprofit rather than a commercial entity, the legal loss limits its ability to provide digital access to literature, just as it attempts to safeguard the history of the web.
But the legal challenges facing the Internet Archive are not over. The organisation is now embroiled in another major copyright lawsuit, this time from Universal Music Group and other record labels. At the heart of the dispute is the Great 78 Project, an effort to digitise recordings from 78 RPM records, many of which are no longer commercially available. The labels claim that the project constitutes mass copyright infringement, while archivists argue that it is an essential initiative for preserving vanishing cultural artefacts.
If the court sides with the music labels, the Internet Archive could face damages of up to $700 million—an existential threat to the nonprofit. More broadly, this case raises pressing questions: Who gets to decide what parts of our cultural and historical record are preserved? Should corporate interests have the power to erase knowledge in the name of copyright? And if digital archiving is restricted, how will future generations access the past?
Preserving the Impermanent at EXP.
At EXP., we believe that technology can be a tool for preservation, storytelling, and meaningful engagement with history. Our creative venture, PLAAAY, blends art, architecture, and adventure to craft interactive experiences that bridge the past and present through digital storytelling.
One of our flagship experiences, The Mysterious Vanishings of Gough & Kau U, explores the theme of disappearance. Set in Hong Kong, the adventure follows AIXO, a being from 100 years in the future, as it investigates the vanishing of street art. Much like websites or forgotten music recordings, street art is inherently impermanent—painted over, demolished, or weathered by time. However, through technology, we can preserve its memory. Using augmented reality and interactive maps, we bring erased artworks back to life, allowing players to experience them in a new, digital form.
Just as the Internet Archive strives to preserve deleted web pages and maintain cultural memory, PLAAAY seeks to ensure that artistic and historical knowledge is not lost to time. While nothing lasts forever, technology offers a way to honour what came before and create something new from what remains.
Embracing Death as Transformation
The tension between erasure and preservation reminds us that death is not just an end, it is a transformation. The web pages lost in 2025 sparked renewed efforts in digital archiving, the Internet Archive’s legal battles challenge us to rethink how we value and protect knowledge, and experiences like The Mysterious Vanishings of Gough & Kau U show us how technology can be a force for conservation, ensuring that even what disappears is not entirely forgotten.
As we move forward in an era where information is more fragile than we once believed, we invite you to join us in preserving what matters. Explore PLAAAY and discover how the past can live on in the digital present.
