Ah, the olden days of choosing where to spend your money on dining, travel, and all that connected those experiences. Neighborhood restaurants would drop flyers in your apartment lobby to let you know they were there. Hotels would rent space on billboards and place ads in newspapers and magazines. Some joined industry groups, such as the Leading Hotels of the World, which got its start by promising ship passengers when they arrived at their destinations there would be appropriate accommodation for them. The go-to reference for figuring out where to eat would have been the iconic burgundy Zagat guides, one of the original crowdsourced review guides with quotes from ordinary restaurant goers about what places were like.
All of that changed, of course, with the advent of the Internet. Booking destination platforms took over the jobs travel agents once did. Hotels had to create their own websites or be left behind. Other travel-related services tried to get on the platforms and build loyal followings of their own as well.
And now, we have another inflection point in the evolution of the hospitality experience with the advent of credit card companies vertically integrating access to entire hospitality ecosystems. As the economy becomes increasingly digitally intermediated, these players have quietly managed to insert themselves into critical decision points and, without many people realizing it, heavily influence the decisions consumers make.
Free choice? Or plausible path of least effort?
Imagine you opened the digital restaurant booking and management app Resy last week to book a table. Were you making a free choice? Or were you navigating an environment that someone else had very deliberately designed to achieve a specific outcome? The answer, increasingly, is both.
American Express acquired Resy in 2019 and integrated it into its mobile app as a benefit for rewards cardholders. Five years later, Amex paid $400 million for another reservation platform, Tock. Chase acquired the restaurant discovery site the Infatuation in 2021 and has built exclusive dining promotions, food festivals, and content access into its Sapphire card lineup. Oh, and remember Zagat? That was sold initially to Google, then The Infatuation and is now being re-imagined as a Chase property. Even DoorDash spent $1.2 billion to acquire reservations platform SevenRooms, on the assumption that its CRM and location capabilities will better allow the platform to tailor offerings such as food deliveries to customers.
What many don’t realize is that each of these ecosystem moves are the deliberate construction of what behavioral economists would call choice architectures. My colleague Eric Johnson, one of the world’s leading authorities on choice architecture, laid out the mechanics in his essential book, The Elements of Choice. Choice architecture refers to the way a decision process is designed. It can be manipulated, intentionally or inadvertently, to influence the decisions we make. The options may be the same, but the presentation can change your choice. Johnson’s key insight is that the choice architect, the person framing your choices, has a lot more influence than you think. Decision-makers are often unaware of the subtle environmental factors that actually drive their choices.
Architecting choices involve creating several levers that have a surprising impact. One is what choice is presented as the default. Defaults are powerful. Why else would Google reportedly pay Apple $20 billion to be the default search engine on iPhones? Another lever is which choices seem to be the easiest. Eric calls this lever the creation of plausible paths. The number of choices matters, too. So does the sequence. And all of these levers operate on us without our even being aware, for the most part, that we are being influenced.
Credit card issuers designing choice architectures for entire ecosystems
Now as Fortune has recently reported, credit card issuers have seized an opportunity to create integrated choice architectures for entire ecosystems of travel, eating, and transportation.
Consider how Chase structures its travel portal. Sapphire Reserve cardholders earn eight points per dollar when they book through Chase Travel. Book the same hotel directly, and they earn four. That differential is an illustration of choice architecture at work. Chase has created a default path with a reward attached. Once you’re booking through the portal, Chase processes the payment, controls the booking engine, and runs the rewards program. Every stage of the transaction sits inside the issuer’s infrastructure.
Or consider how Amex has designed the discovery experience. Resy solicits partner restaurants by showing the value of credits earned by Amex users at their business, with a note promising “look out for more of these card members in your seats in 2026.” Think about what that means structurally. The restaurants that want Amex card members, and increasingly, they all do, are incented to participate in the Resy platform. Which means the universe of “great restaurants” that surfaces when an Amex card member opens the app is not a neutral representation of the dining landscape. It is a curated set of businesses that have opted into Amex’s ecosystem. The choice set has been prefiltered, and most users have no idea.
This is what Johnson means when he writes that choice architecture changes the information we see. On the surface, user interfaces look as though they are about fonts, colors, and displays. Beneath that surface, the interface is being deliberately designed to change what goes on inside our heads.
The ecosystem plays are accelerating. Amex plans to merge Resy and Tock into a single platform, bringing more than 25,000 restaurants, wineries, and culinary experiences into the Resy ecosystem. This gives cardholders far more places to use their dining credits. It hopes to make the competitive gap with Chase’s OpenTable partnership, which works at fewer than 400 participating restaurants, increasingly stark. Bilt, which began as a card for earning points on rent, has incredibly included BLADE helicopter transfers and car service for suite-level hotel bookings through a partnership, layering more of the trip into the same ecosystem, one that now reaches more than 5.5 million U.S. households.
The traditional model—swipe, earn points, redeem them somewhere else—is giving way to something more vertically integrated. These are a portal to the ecosystem controlled by the credit card companies.
The business logic is impeccable. Once upon a time, those customers who paid their bills every month were the scourge of the credit card business. The sky-high interest rates paid by those who carried balances (the “revolvers” in banking parlance) were far more attractive. With this strategic move, banks can make so much on interchange fees and annual fees that even a cardholder who never carries a balance is profitable.
Once that customer is inside the ecosystem, the issuer can keep selling to them. Premium banking, wealth management, and travel. Every restaurant reservation booked through Resy, every hotel night booked through Chase Travel, every food festival attended with an Infatuation-curated lineup is a data point. And data compounds.
The credit card companies are not doing anything that any platform-enabled business cannot do. You are a choice architect every time you present options to clients, employees, or partners—deciding the order of items, the categories to organize them into, and how to describe them. Even if you didn’t realize it, your design decisions influenced the choice. The question is whether you are designing deliberately or by accident.
Good choice architecture works well for the architect and the decider
Most people have a vague sense that how choices are posed might influence them, but they lack a concrete awareness of how, exactly, they are being influenced. When Amex surfaces a curated list of Resy restaurants with your credit preloaded and a 25% average spending lift embedded in the incentive structure, you are not browsing the open internet. You are inside an architecture.
None of this is necessarily sinister. Johnson is careful to point out that good choice architecture can serve people’s genuine interests. It can help them save for retirement, make healthier food choices, locate hard-to-find providers and find better matches. The organ donor default is the canonical example: Changing a single checkbox led to dramatically more lives saved.
But when the designer’s interests and the chooser’s interests diverge—when the architecture is built to maximize interchange revenue and platform lock-in rather than to help you find the best dinner—the burden falls on you to notice. And noticing, as Johnson documents across decades of research, is genuinely hard. The whole point of effective choice architecture is that it works without your awareness.
The next time an app nudges you toward a “featured” restaurant, a “curated” hotel collection, or an “exclusive” experience available only to card members, ask yourself a simple question: Who built this environment, and what were they optimizing for?
The answer will tell you something important about whether you are making a choice, or having one made for you.
