This question has surfaced in the past week, when the New York Times reported on the efforts of some of their readers to contact Google following a period of downtime of their GMail service. After emails went unanswered, these people scoured the website for a contact number to register their displeasure and to find a solution, but to no avail. I laughed when I first read this, because the idea of actually getting on the phone and ringing one of these companies seems manifestly absurd – but why? Why have we come to rely on the system of support that they've established for us?

Said system goes something like this. You feel that something's not working properly on one of these websites. You try again. It still doesn't work. You quit the browser, start it up again, try again, and it's still not playing ball. So you look around for some kind of "Help" button. It takes you to a page of Frequently Asked Questions, which you scour to find some description of your particular scenario, but without luck. So, with a gut feeling that there's no way that Facebook's staff would be remotely interested in your predicament, you start searching for other people online who are suffering the same problem. And with that solidarity – should you find it – comes a certain level of satisfaction. "It's not just me," you think. "There must be loads of us with this problem, so they're probably doing something about it."

These web giants attitude to customer support is simple: "There's no question you could possibly ask us that isn't covered in our online documentation. If you can't suss it out, you'd be unlikely to have any more luck working it out with the help of an underpaid call-centre worker, so we haven't employed any. Keep trying until the penny drops, and if you're still having trouble, ask a friend who isn't as frightened of computers as you are. Oh, and if there's something wrong with the site, believe us – we knew about it before you did, so there's really no point in telling us, because we're dealing with it."

It's a harsh stance, but is it a fair one? With millions upon millions of customers, should we really expect these global companies to offer soothing telephone support? They do consider us their customers, don't they? After all, we might not pay them hard cash, but they still rely on being able to punt advertising in our direction to survive. So why no 1-to-1 option? Google responded to this precise question from the New York Times by saying that it's just not possible, because it would take them too long to collect data about a problem that is affecting many users simultaneously. (It's worth noting, however, that one particular blogger who discovered a Google Customer Service phone number last summer said: "Take the promptness of a doctor's office, the incompetence of a vehicle licensing service, and the worst customer service experience you have ever had with a phone company and multiply it by 500. That's Google Customer Service.")

Netflix, a US online DVD rental service, have a telephone support system for their 8.4 million customers that requires just 375 staff, and as a result have received top ratings for online retail customer satisfaction. By contrast, I had a quick zip around some major sites yesterday, looking for customer support phone numbers. eBay and Flickr merely offer an email form, once you've battled through their Frequently Asked Questions and drop down menus. GMail have their Help Center, but no immediately obvious way of contacting them unless you'd like to "suggest a feature". Microsoft's Hotmail service doesn't even have that. MySpace have a "contact us" link that informs you that "your question probably already has an answer", before reluctantly offering up an email form after navigating various popup menus. There's no sign of a contact form on Facebook, although searching "contact facebook" on Google gives this rather anonymous form.

Paypal do offer telephone support – although they position a "virtual assistant" called Louise between you and the number to dial. "Even though I'd like to be a real person, I'm not," she says. "How can I help you?". I told her I'd like to speak to a human being. "My software allows me to speak with you," she replied. Great. Eventually, however, I did get the phone number. But five minutes of labyrinthine menus and automated systems left me no nearer humanity than with Louise. Perhaps Louise represents the future of all customer service. But I hope not.

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