How minimalism, depth, and a cream-coloured page became our manifesto for reclaiming attention

When The Asian Review launched five years ago, we could scarcely have imagined reaching 85,000 daily readers from around the world, nor earning our place amongst the ten best literary review magazines globally. Yet here we stand at this milestone, not with triumphalism, but with reflection—and a radical new direction born from that contemplation.

From today, The Asian Review abandons featured images. We’re stripping away visual embellishments entirely, adopting a stark black-and-white format against a cream paper virtual background. Our articles will now maintain a minimum length of 900 words. Even our logo—now registered as a trademark globally—has transformed to pure black, a visual declaration of our commitment to clarity and substance over decoration.

To some, this might seem counterintuitive in an age of diminishing attention spans and algorithm-driven engagement. To us, it feels like the only honest response to what we’ve learned about reading, attention, and the life of the mind over half a decade of publishing.

The Tyranny of the Thumbnail

We’ve watched, as you have, the gradual transformation of literary discourse into something unrecognisable. Serious criticism now competes with listicles. Thoughtful essays jostle for space alongside clickbait. And increasingly, what determines whether a piece finds readers isn’t the quality of its argument or the elegance of its prose, but the appeal of its thumbnail image.

This shift towards image-focused clicking has created perverse incentives. Editors commission photographs before they commission thinking. Writers craft headlines for social media algorithms rather than for readers seeking understanding. The featured image—once a complementary visual element—has become the master, with text serving merely as justification for the click.

We’ve been complicit in this. Our own analytics told the story: articles with striking imagery outperformed those without, regardless of content quality. Readers spent more time selecting what to read based on visual appeal than on headline or subject matter. We were training our audience to judge books by their covers, quite literally.

The Case for Cream and Black

Our new design philosophy emerges from a simple question: what if we removed the shortcuts? What if readers had only words—the title, the author, perhaps a brief standfirst—to guide their choices? What if we forced ourselves, and our audience, to slow down?

The cream background isn’t merely aesthetic nostalgia, though we admit to a fondness for the tactile memory of actual paper. It’s a conscious choice to reduce eye strain, to create a reading environment that invites lingering rather than scanning. Black text on cream is easier on the eyes than harsh black-on-white or the grey-on-grey favoured by some minimalist designs. We want readers to stay, to read deeply, to finish what they’ve started.

Our logo’s transformation to black represents more than rebranding—it’s a philosophical statement. By securing global trademark registration simultaneously with this visual simplification, we’re signalling permanence and conviction. This isn’t a temporary experiment or a marketing ploy. This is The Asian Review committing to a vision of literary culture that privileges substance over spectacle, depth over distraction.

By eliminating images, we’re making a statement about value. A literary review should be judged by its ideas, its arguments, its prose. Not by its ability to source striking photography or commission attractive illustrations. The democratisation here is intentional: writers in regions without access to image libraries or professional photographers compete on equal footing with those from publishing centres. The words alone must carry the weight.

Minimum 900 Words: Against the Soundbite

Our 900-word minimum represents another deliberate provocation. In an era of thread culture and TikTok criticism, we’re insisting that some ideas simply cannot be compressed. Nuance requires space. Complexity demands development. The best literary criticism has always understood this—from Woolf’s extended essays to Sontag’s ambitious explorations.

We’re not naive. We know readers’ attention spans have genuinely shortened. But we refuse to accept this as permanent or desirable. Instead, we’re using our platform to actively resist this trend, to create conditions where sustained attention becomes possible again. Think of it as resistance training for the mind.

Our 900-word minimum means writers cannot rely on superficial takes or hot takes. They must build arguments, provide evidence, engage with complexity. For readers, it signals commitment: if you begin one of our pieces, you’re embarking on a journey, not grabbing a snack. This mutual commitment between writer and reader is precisely what literary culture requires to survive.

Desensitising the Image, Resensitising the Word

We call this process “desensitisation from image-focused clicking”—breaking the Pavlovian response that connects visual stimulus to clicking behaviour. By removing images, we’re asking readers to re-engage their linguistic imagination, to create their own mental pictures from descriptions, to value ideas over aesthetics.

This isn’t technophobia or nostalgia. It’s recognising that different media serve different purposes. Social media excels at the visual, the immediate, the emotional punch. Literary reviews should excel at the considered, the developed, the intellectually rigorous. By trying to compete with Instagram and Twitter on their terms, we’ve been losing what makes literary criticism valuable.

The irony isn’t lost on us: we’re making these changes precisely because we’ve succeeded by conventional metrics. Our 85,000 daily readers give us the security to take risks, to lead rather than follow. Ranking among the world’s top ten literary review magazines means we have a responsibility to shape discourse, not merely respond to it.

A Global Trademark for a Global Vision

Registering our newly simplified black logo as a global trademark isn’t vanity—it’s protection for an idea. As literary culture fragments across digital platforms and geographic boundaries, we’re staking a claim for a specific approach: minimalist in design, maximalist in intellectual ambition.

The black logo on cream background will become synonymous, we hope, with a particular reading experience. Not the frantic scrolling of social media. Not the passive consumption of video content. But the active, demanding, rewarding experience of sustained reading. Of grappling with ideas that resist easy summary. Of finishing an essay changed, even slightly, from who you were when you began.

Looking Forward

Five years have taught us that growth metrics and engagement statistics tell only part of the story. Yes, we’ve reached 85,000 daily readers. Yes, we’ve earned international recognition. But the question isn’t whether we can grow larger—it’s whether we can grow better.

Our readers have consistently told us, through surveys and correspondence, that they come to The Asian Review seeking substance. They want to be challenged, to discover new perspectives, to engage with ideas that demand concentration. Our new format honours that relationship.

This shift won’t happen overnight. Readers accustomed to visual cues will need adjustment time. Writers will need to work harder to craft compelling openings without the safety net of an arresting image. Editors will need to trust in content quality over algorithmic optimisation.

But we believe this is the future—or rather, a return to what always mattered. The word. The idea. The argument developed with care and received with attention. Black on cream. Simple, stark, uncompromising.

In our sixth year and beyond, The Asian Review commits to this vision: cream pages, black text, a black logo that means something, and ideas worth your time.

By Hasintha Thilakaranthe