A “yes” on Partiful used to mean something. Now, it’s a gamble.
Aubrey Strobel, a 33-year-old influencer, learned this the hard way. She spent $1,000 on food, alcohol, and decorations for a June 20 party celebrating her 10-year anniversary in New York. She invited 50 people via Partiful, a Gen Z event platform. Ten said no, three said maybe, and 24 said yes. She prepared a speech, hauled pizza, and set up a table on the West Side Highway. When the afternoon arrived, only eight friends showed up.
Strobel posted about her experience on Instagram and TikTok, racking up 100,000 views. “We have to have a conversation about Partiful etiquette,” she said. “If you RSVP yes, that means you’re going. That doesn’t mean you’re supporting someone.”
This isn’t just one bad party. It’s a symptom of a broader shift. Experts say RSVP culture is changing as young people rethink community and social obligation amid a loneliness epidemic. Platforms like Partiful, Apple Invites, and Paperless Post make hosting easier, but they also make it easier to bail.
“I feel like RSVP culture is just lost right now,” Strobel said. “A lot because people are really flaky in 2026.”
The problem is widespread. Commenters on Strobel’s posts shared similar stories. “People have gotten way too comfortable with canceling,” one wrote. Another added, “Partiful invites have made a lot of people lazy.”
Partiful’s design is meant to simplify planning. It puts guest lists, event details, and photos in one place. Hosts can text everyone at once. But Strobel says the platform’s transparency—allowing attendees to see who else is coming—creates a transactional vibe. People check if the guest list benefits them before committing. Or they see a crowd and assume their absence won’t matter.
“As a millennial, when you got an invitation in the mail, you never knew how many people were going to be there,” Strobel said. “Peeking in the windows to a party isn’t helping etiquette in 2026.”
Strobel moved to New York from Arizona in 2016 with zero friends and no money. She lived in hostels and commuted far. Her anniversary party was meant to honor how far she’s come. Instead, she watched the sun set over the West Side Highway as leftover pizza sat untouched and Statue of Liberty hats went unworn. A passing child interrupted her speech: “Where is everybody?”
“Even though I feel pretty secure, I was just like, ‘this is truly horrible. I don’t want to ever do that again,'” she said.
Frank Chaparro, a friend of 10 years, said Strobel is the type who always goes the extra mile. He blamed the low turnout on shifting norms. “In 2026, you have to follow up repeatedly to get people to RSVP,” he said.
Stanford psychology professor Jamil Zaki says social infrastructure has eroded. Former U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy declared loneliness a public health crisis in 2023. Fewer people join faith groups, sports leagues, or service organizations. They don’t live in the same towns they grew up in.
“Many of the defaults that made social connection part of the infrastructure of our lives are gone,” Zaki said.
He points to apps like Uber, TaskRabbit, and Postmates replacing the need for friends. “When we show up for others, our stress decreases, our sense of agency increases, our happiness increases,” Zaki said. “We actually are depriving ourselves of one of the great sources of well-being.”
Chaparro remembers casual get-togethers from college—wine and pasta nights—that don’t happen as often now. He says young people have swung too far toward individualism. “There’s more of a focus on, ‘What is going to make me feel the best that I can feel today?’ and that tops any sort of etiquette or social order.”
Yet most people want more friends. Zaki likens building community to going to the gym: you have to show up intentionally. “Statistically speaking, people want to connect with you way more than you realize,” he said. “There’s so much life out there with each other.”
