Office Space is best remembered for lampooning soul-crushing, gray-cubicled, white-collar jobs, with their pointless managerial demands and constant mistreatments. But the film also offers a second critique of work: the low-wage service job, which turns out to have much in common with office work. Joanna’s failure to voluntarily don supplementary flair parallels Peter’s resistance to administrivia. Even before the dot-com bubble had burst, and long before the sharing economy made odd jobs a part of the white-collar tech sector, Office Space already showed that every job was absurd and alienating in basically the same way.

Today, a decade and a half after the film’s release, both office work and service work exert even more affective demands on workers. Knowledge workers are expected to “love what they do,” and subsequently to invest as many of their waking hours as possible in the cause. That’s a feature absent from Office Space, parts of whose plot revolve around the need to get to and be in Initech’s office to get work done. Meanwhile, service work has been reframed as liberating and gig workers have been recast as micro-entrepreneurs in charge of their own schedules and dreams.

Once work became a function of the individual mind, hand, and soul rather than the time and effort leased by a company for its ends, all labor—from waiting tables to pushing papers—became a process of singular creativity. Hence the rise of “handmade” and “artisanal” goods and services as supposed salves for the faceless bureaucracy of corporate sameness. Today, everything is positioned as if it’s one-of-a-kind and unique, even when it’s really just a commodity. Mobile apps that use the same widgets as every other are just as likely to be called “handcrafted” as the menus offering the same pork belly tacos as the ones at every other gastropub.

It’s a different world than that of Office Space, where jobs require the compliant delivery of services. The hip waiter of the 1990s telegraphed affectivity by dressing quirkily and kneeling down at the front of the table to insinuate him or herself into the customer’s peer group—“How’s everybody doing?” Whether office or service work, jobs were all about simulating the worker’s emotional investment in a product incapable of bearing real emotional output. It was an inevitability of faceless corporate life: In the franchised restaurant and the faceless cubicle farm, management must manufacture a synthetic culture to replace the lost organic one.

Today the reverse is true. The worker’s simulated affect is still required, but it takes a back seat to the product’s simulated affect—whether that product is an app or an appetizer. Startup employees are expected to be devoted to their company’s products and services, but the company’s users are increasingly forced to endure this passion as a feature of the service: The earnest appeals in emailed updates for Kickstarters doomed to failure; the emoji-endeared log-in slogans in corporate groupware like Slack and Asana; the app entrepreneurs who are “so excited to share what they’ve been up to.” And now, apparently, in restaurant menus that make sure you know which plates you’re expected to Instagram when they arrive.