Apple once defined itself by opposition. Not just competition, but philosophy. Where Microsoft built sprawling software empires full of checkboxes, nags, and upsells, Apple sold restraint. Fewer options. Fewer interruptions. Fewer moments where the software leaned over your shoulder and asked for your credit card.
That distinction mattered. It wasn’t cosmetic. It shaped how people thought, wrote, composed, edited, and worked.
Lately, that line has blurred—and not subtly.
Apple is now borrowing from Microsoft’s worst habits, polishing them with softer colors and calmer language, and slipping them into places they don’t belong. The most jarring example is inside Pages, Numbers, and Keynote: apps that once opened to a blank canvas now open to a storefront. “Premium.” “Included with Apple Creator Studio.” “Try one month free.” The moment that used to invite thought now invites a transaction.
Microsoft pioneered this pattern. Office became Microsoft 365. The ribbon filled with locked icons. Features appeared just long enough to be missed. Templates, fonts, and tools dangled behind subscriptions. The software never stopped reminding you that more existed—if you paid. Apple mocked this approach for years, positioning itself as the antidote.
Now Apple is doing the same thing, just more quietly.
Technically, Apple can claim innocence. Pages is still free. The core tools still work. Your documents still open. Nothing essential has been taken away. But that defense misses the point. The problem isn’t loss of function; it’s loss of trust.
When software inserts monetization into the creative moment, it changes the relationship. The blank page is no longer neutral. It’s framed by marketing language. The app isn’t simply a tool anymore; it’s a funnel. That shift alters how users feel before they even begin.
Apple used to understand this deeply. Its best products were designed to disappear once you started working. The interface receded. The machine got out of the way. That wasn’t just good design - it was respect for human attention.
Microsoft historically failed at this. Its software demanded engagement on its terms, not yours. Apple won by doing the opposite.
What’s changed is not Apple’s capability, but its incentives. Hardware margins are tighter. Services revenue is king. Subscriptions smooth earnings curves and please investors. Templates, fonts, and “premium” experiences are low-risk entry points into recurring revenue. No lawsuits. No compatibility scandals. Just a gentle, persistent nudge.
But gentle doesn’t mean harmless.
Once users internalize that every creative surface may double as an upsell surface, behavior changes. Exploration narrows. Trust thins. People hesitate. They wonder what’s free, what’s locked, what might disappear later. The software becomes something to manage rather than rely on.
That uncertainty is poison for creative tools.
Microsoft learned this the hard way. It took years to recover credibility with professionals who felt burned by shifting licenses and vanishing features. Apple seems to believe it can avoid the same fate by keeping the paywalls aesthetic and optional. That belief is optimistic at best.
Because users aren’t stupid. They recognize patterns. They remember promises. And they notice when a company starts acting like the thing it once stood against.
Apple didn’t lose its way overnight. But every “Premium” tab, every subscription banner inside a core app, nudges it further down a path it once ridiculed. The tragedy isn’t that Apple is becoming Microsoft. It’s that Apple is becoming the version of Microsoft it used to warn us about.
And once that trust erodes, it never quite comes back.
