When you scroll through one of these pages, the first thing you notice is how unremarkable everything appears. A team photo taken during a Hurricanes game. A smile that was familiar. a caption that starts with a name that a rugby fan from New Zealand would instantly recognize. The sentence that doesn’t belong—a wife gone, a child lost, a tragedy that never occurred—comes next. Hundreds of comments from people who trusted every word were found beneath.
The odd thing is that. I’m not uncomfortable with technology. The comment sections are the problem. Thousands of New Zealanders send love and condolences to a family that, according to all available accounts, is doing just fine. Before anyone seemed to slow down and inquire as to whether it was true, a post claiming Julian Savea’s wife had passed away received over a hundred condolence messages. Although the story wasn’t real, the grief was. The entire issue resides in that space between genuine emotion and manufactured content.
Nor are these pages constructed awkwardly. The person in charge of them is aware of something that most marketers spend years trying to understand: trust is developed gradually and then rapidly eroded. Photos of actual rugby are posted first. authentic match outcomes. Some innocuous tribute posts. Only when the audience and engagement increase do the made-up tragedies begin to emerge. A fan scrolling through their feed on the way to work in the morning has no real reason to question what they’re reading because by then the algorithm has already determined that these pages should be seen.
People should be more concerned about the second layer of this. Many of these posts direct readers to other websites, such as prismcanvas.information that search results have connected to possible frauds. Thus, this is more than just false information. It involves directing emotionally engaged individuals—such as those who are depressed or sympathetic—to links that they would not typically click on a typical Tuesday. That was a purposeful design decision. It’s also the point at which curiosity turns into something sinister.
Rugby union is not the only sport experiencing this trend. The NRL and AFL have both used the same playbook, which has a similar effect on Australian sports. The Western Bulldogs appear to be one of the few teams willing to confront it head-on thus far, issuing a warning that false information about players, employees, and even their families has been making the rounds. The club’s advice was straightforward: consider your options before responding, as each comment advances the post. It’s wise counsel. The fact that so few other organizations have made any kind of statement is also startling.
As expected, Facebook’s reaction has been inconsistent. After enough reports, some pages are deleted. Some stay for weeks and produce fresh content, sometimes with slightly different names. Without being acknowledged, users are performing the moderation tasks that the platform was meant to perform. It’s difficult not to wonder how much of this could be slowed down with improved detection tools—ironically, the same AI that’s causing the issue in the first place.
As you watch this unfold, you are struck by how inexpensive it is to produce everything and how costly it feels to clean up. Somewhere in Wellington or Brisbane, a fan is typing “rest in peace” to a person who is still very much alive after a few prompts, a stolen photo, and a made-up headline. There’s a sense that this is just the beginning of something bigger, and that the next ten years of online dishonesty may be tested in sports communities, which are based on loyalty and strong emotional responses. On the field, the game is still going on. Nearly everything in its vicinity can no longer be taken for granted.
