The far right has long provided us with a window through which we can view the changing nature of racism, and racist politics. While this traditionally played itself out in the humdrum of election campaigns, it has now adapted to the digital age – and at phenomenal speed. When I began studying the far right almost 10 years ago, the main sources of information were interviews with activists, party newspapers and magazines, and the occasional meeting. Today, almost everything you need to know about the far right is online. In fact, far right activists have embraced the internet to such an extent that it is now virtually impossible to track all the bloggers, Twitter accounts and Facebook pages that have, for them, become indispensable tools of communication.

For optimists, the arrival of internet technology and social networking signalled an opportunity to counter the right's extremist politics: an arena through which the bonds that bridge communities opposed to right-wing doctrine could be strengthened. But, for pessimists, this change was only ever going to strengthen extremist groups and their supporters, by forging links between members of a closed and stigmatised community, strengthening their collective identity.

Counter-jihad networks use social media to organise ... Swedish riot police detain a man during an anti-Islam demonstration in central Stockholm on Saturday. Violence erupted during the demonstration, a gathering of several nationalist groups including the far-right English Defence League, when police tried to keep leftist counter-protesters separated from the demonstrators.

The digital age is changing the modern far right and how we make sense of it in four main ways. First, it has facilitated the quest for credibility. Social media tools have enabled fringe groups once derided for having "more initials than members" to cultivate an image of power and influence. The British National Party was one of the first far right groups in Britain to realise the internet's potential. At first, it simply replicated the website of a more successful French far right party but, before long, it had built one of the most dynamic, interactive and popular websites in British politics. Even though the party is now dismissed as a failure, it has retained almost 85,000 Facebook likes. This almost matches the Liberal Democrats, is nine times higher than the UK Independent Party's Facebook following, and five times higher than the Greens. An entry for the English Defence League – formed only in 2009 – has attracted more than 15,000 likes, while dozens of affiliated pages (Hindus who support the EDL) have 1000-5000 followers. Not all are sympathisers, but a significant portion are.

Second, it has helped them sustain the loyalty of followers and cultivate a strong collective identity. The far right's virtual communities have become essential to understanding how these groups pull rather than push citizens into their world. One example is a study of Stormfront, an influential site that has a global reach and is a key rallying point for neo-Nazis. One activist described the forum as "like a second home". Importantly, while most of these followers were ridiculed in the public sphere, this virtual community offered them a set of shared values, norms, meanings, and a shared sense of history. At times this was expressed through seemingly insignificant gestures – such as wishing each other a happy birthday – but it offered something entirely absent in the offline world: solidarity, comradeship and – above all – acceptance. As sites such as Stormfront demonstrate, the far right is not simply about winning elections; it also strengthens and passes a particular belief system and collective identity on to future generations.