Why do Web3 practitioners seem to have such a strong sense of "sneakiness"?

By Liu Honglin

Certain careers earn instant approval from parents—civil servants, doctors, teachers. Others spark envy among young people: product managers, investment banking analysts, engineers at major internet companies. But if you say at the dinner table, "I work in Web3," you’ll likely get one of three reactions: friends laugh and label you a "crypto trader," peers immediately ask, "Did you launch a token?" and elders shake their heads in confusion.

So you stop talking about it—or you get vague: "I'm exploring new technologies lately," "working on some overseas projects," or "helping a friend with data assets." This murky, hard-to-explain "occupational identity shame" is what we call the "undercover feeling" experienced by many working in Web3 today.

The Unsayable Job Title: A Crisis of Self-Identity Among Practitioners

In the Web3 space, there's an interesting phenomenon: many people twist their job descriptions beyond recognition. A legal director at a crypto exchange might say they’re doing cross-border compliance research; a core NFT project founder may describe themselves as developing digital cultural products; someone who’s made substantial profits through DeFi arbitrage might simply say they’re “doing overseas asset allocation.”

It's not that they lack confidence. It's because the industry’s labels are easily misunderstood, dismissed, or stigmatized. From being called a “coin speculator,” “pyramid schemer,” or “scammer” to accusations of money laundering or fraud—none of these fit neatly under “professional experience.”

You can passionately explain that Web3 represents the frontier of fintech, an early blueprint for a decentralized internet, a real-world testing ground for blockchain applications—but all someone will reply is, “So what coin are you actually trading?”

To be fair, this “undercover feeling” doesn’t come from nowhere. It stems from a tangle of very real issues.

First, regulatory ambiguity. Many countries are still cautiously navigating how to regulate digital assets. In mainland China especially, issuing tokens is banned, trading isn’t supported, and speculation is discouraged. Under such conditions, practitioners often carry a psychological burden of operating in gray areas. You know your work involves technological innovation and compliance exploration, but you also realize that even coding or running operations for overseas projects might make others assume you're involved in illegal transactions.

Second, too many bad actors. Fraud, Ponzi schemes, rug pulls, exit scams—the past few years have seen one problematic Web3 project after another. The headlines aren't usually about technical breakthroughs, but about project teams fleeing with funds or exchanges collapsing. In media narratives, “crypto circles” have become synonymous with scandals. Even if you're genuinely building something meaningful, you're automatically lumped in with the worst of the industry.

Third, public understanding lags far behind. Tell someone you're working on blockchain technology, and they still think only of Bitcoin. Say you're building a DAO, and they suspect you're starting a cult. Mention NFTs, and they assume you're just selling profile pictures. The more you try to explain, the more confused they become—until eventually, you give up and say something like, “I’m in internet finance,” just to move on.

Being Open and Aboveboard Feels Like a Luxury

In such an environment, many Web3 practitioners carry quiet stress. They constantly weigh various “risk controls”: avoid mentioning tokens in public, don’t leave real-name traces, never use domestic bank cards for payments, don’t tell relatives your project issued a token.

This is nothing like traditional entrepreneurship. In the Web2 era, launching an app, creating a consumer brand, or opening an e-commerce shop—even if it failed—you’d still proudly post about it on social media. But in Web3, even if your project raised millions and has tens of thousands of users, you hesitate to speak up. You fear scrutiny, and you fear misunderstanding.

Ultimately, this “undercover” mode reflects our industry’s lack of social legitimacy. Deep down, everyone knows the field hasn’t yet matured enough for you to stand tall and speak proudly. You can present a polished deck full of “token economics” and “ecosystem incentive models,” but someone will still ask, “Isn’t this just another way to scalp naive investors?”

Should We Be Bolder?

To be honest, Web3 practitioners live in inner conflict. On one hand, you believe you're building foundational infrastructure for the future internet—representing technology, innovation, freedom, globalization. On the other, in daily life, you selectively avoid these terms, afraid others will find out you’re “into chains, coins, Web3.”

It’s not that you’ve lost faith in the path. It’s that you doubt whether the world can understand what you’re saying.

But that doesn’t mean we must keep operating in secrecy. In fact, more and more Web3 builders are now actively trying to create new ways of communication—not by throwing around jargon, but by telling stories; not by insisting on “technical superiority,” but by showing real-world use cases; not by preaching “decentralization ideals,” but by demonstrating tangible value to people around them.

For example, when you say, “I build wallets,” people might wonder, “Are you receiving illicit funds?” But if you reframe it: “We’re building cross-border remittance tools specifically for overseas migrant workers,” it suddenly sounds more relatable. Or when you say, “We do NFTs,” people assume, “Oh, another PFP project.” But if you say, “We help musicians distribute digital royalties so they can receive payments directly without going through platforms,” your mission instantly gains credibility.

Of course, repackaging won’t magically erase the “undercover feeling.” But it’s a shift—from avoidance to explanation, from internal struggle to constructive engagement, from self-denial toward gradually claiming professional identity.

More importantly, we must acknowledge the gray nature of our industry—and our own place within it. But gray isn’t a sin; secrecy is. You can operate in ambiguous zones, but you shouldn’t forever face the world with a furtive mindset.

No one knows exactly where this industry is headed. But one thing is clear: an industry that can only exist in the shadows has no future.