The Sordid History on the Fullness of Chip Bags: An AI Analysis

I made mistake! It crossed my mind to write a short, whimsical blog on the history of the fullness of chip bags. I wasn't actually going to invest the time, but I decided to use ChatGPT to research, just to see what it said. It provided an unexpectedly perfect summation- clear, concise, precise... and dare I say funny? This is an unwelcome wake up call. I never could have written something this good.

Prompt: 

Chip bags are not as full as they used to be. Please provide the sordid history of the fullness of chip bags.

ChatGPT:

A Brief, Sordid, and Slightly Greasy History of the Chip Bag’s Emptiness

Once upon a time—roughly within living memory, or at least within the memory of people who say things like “they don’t make things like they used to”—a bag of chips felt honest. You opened it, and there they were: chips, right up near the top, exposed to the air like they had nothing to hide. This era, which we will call The Age of Trust, did not last.

I. The Primitive Era (Pre-1950s): Chips Without Deception

Early potato chips were sold in tins, glassine bags, or wax paper sacks—containers that were frankly incapable of lying. If the bag was half-empty, it looked half-empty. The chips went stale quickly, broke easily, and inspired no great faith in capitalism, but they were morally upright. You paid for potatoes fried in fat, and you got potatoes fried in fat.

II. The Ballooning of Optimism (1950s–1970s): Plastic and Promise

Enter plastic packaging, a miracle of modern chemistry and moral ambiguity. Suddenly chip bags could be sealed, branded, and inflated—initially not to deceive, but to protect. Nitrogen flushing (replacing oxygen with nitrogen gas) kept chips fresher and less broken. This was the official explanation, and—crucially—it was true.

The bags grew larger, the graphics bolder, the fonts more jubilant. A bag of chips began to feel like an event. And yes, there was air inside—but the chips were still plentiful enough that no one complained. The social contract held.

III. The First Betrayals (1980s–1990s): Shrinkage with a Smile

This is where things get sordid.

Manufacturers discovered shrinkflation: the gentle art of charging the same price for less product while changing nothing except the net weight printed in six-point font on the back. The bag stayed big. The chips quietly disappeared.

Consumers noticed… vaguely. But inflation was high, distractions were many, and the chips were still there—just thinner, fewer, more prone to existential despair.

This was also the era when “serving size” became a philosophical concept rather than a practical one.

IV. The Age of Air (2000s–2010s): The Lie Becomes Structural

At some point, the ratio tipped. The air was no longer protecting the chips; the chips were justifying the air.

A modern chip bag, when opened, reveals a landscape: a few scattered crisps at the bottom, like survivors of a disaster waiting for rescue. The bag is now mostly atmosphere, a portable meditation on absence.

Companies insisted—correctly but maddeningly—that:

The air prevents breakage

The weight is clearly labeled

You are buying chips, not volume

All true. Also beside the point.

The emotional experience had changed. Opening a chip bag now involved anticipation followed by betrayal, a sequence formerly reserved for politics.

V. Late Capitalism, Crinkling Loudly (2020s–Present): Acceptance and Irony

Today, everyone knows the bag is lying. The joke is fully public. Memes circulate. Lawsuits are filed. Nothing changes.

Manufacturers respond by:

Adding even more air

Charging more for “family size,” which contains enough chips for one reflective adult

Introducing artisanal chips in smaller bags that are honest about being insulting

Consumers, resigned, reach their hand into the void and think: Well, I guess this is just how it is now.

Conclusion: What the Chip Bag Took from Us

The tragedy of the modern chip bag is not economic—it is spiritual. It taught us that appearances are negotiable, that fullness is a suggestion, and that joy can be measured in ounces if you squint hard enough.

The bag is not emptier because of necessity.

It is emptier because it can be.

And every time you open one and feel that rush of disappointment, remember: this didn’t happen overnight. It took decades of careful inflation, regulatory compliance, and the slow erosion of shame.

Crunch wisely.