A design career is a progression from thin markers to fat markers.
When you’re starting out, someone else gives you direction. You’re expected to fill in the details using very fine lines. To do so, you must understand the characteristics of the materials you’re representing on the paper, whether they be code, words, images, or bricks.
Once you’ve mastered the details, you can graduate to Sharpies. You can’t get too granular with Sharpies. This is good since it allows you to focus on the relationships between elements without getting lost in the details. You now understand how things can fit together locally. You can also identify, define, and convey patterns that allow designers with finer markers to work faster.
Eventually, you move up to whiteboard markers. With these blunt tools, you explore systemic issues: how elements relate to each other at the highest levels, how the outside world interacts with the system, how the system will evolve resiliently, who is responsible for what. You do this with collaborators in real-time; this includes stakeholders with concerns that are very different than yours. You develop gravitas and political savvy. At the whiteboard, you have an audience, and the stakes are high.
This audience includes designers wielding Sharpies and fine markers. Now you’re the one giving direction. As the person wielding the fat marker, it’s your responsibility to nurture the people using markers finer than yours, so they move on to fatter markers. You must also bring in new people to take up the fine markers others have left behind.
And what if you’re a team of one? Then you must keep markers of varying widths at hand. You must know which work best in which conditions, and when you need to switch pens. (You must still work on the gravitas and political savvy, by the way.)
You can’t design exclusively using whiteboard markers any more than you can with only fine markers. You need a combination of both. Good design managers help their teams master their skills and broaden their perspectives, and keep a vibrant mix of line widths in play. As a leader, you don’t necessarily stop being a practitioner; you just move on to a fatter marker.
“We haven’t had good experiences with workshops.” I was unsettled when I heard this. I’d just suggested to this person — an executive in a large company, and a possible client — that a workshop would be the most effective way for his team to overcome their most pressing challenge. Now he was saying he didn’t buy it… literally. He continued: “Workshops mostly mean getting out of the office and having bagels. People get excited for a couple of days, and then nothing happens.”
The words landed like two bricks. What could be less appealing to an executive than spending money for his or her people to take off work, get riled up, and then… nothing? My friend was saying that what I was proposing was, at best, a distraction.
Given the way many workshops are run, he’d be right. It’s undeniable that a special energy emerges when people leave their routines to focus on a specific problem for a couple of days. I’ve seen teams be incredibly engaged and creative in these contexts many times. But then what? What happens when they’re back in their cubicles? They return to the same patterns that led to needing the workshop to begin with.
There must be a way to build on the momentum generated during workshops so that “nothing happens” becomes “everything changed”. It turns out there is a way to do this, and it’s based on a solid framework that’s been around for a long time.
In systems design there is a rule of thumb known as Gall’s law. It states:
“A complex system that works is invariably found to have evolved from a simple system that worked. A complex system designed from scratch never works and cannot be patched up to make it work. You have to start over with a working simple system.”
— John Gall
Information environments (websites, apps, etc.) are systems, so this law applies. (I’ve seen it in action.) We acknowledge this when we talk about starting with a minimum viable product (MVP).
One of the main challenges teams face in such projects is arriving at agreement at what constitutes the “minimal” feature set. Designers can — and should — help teams clarify the product vision upfront. This helps make the process less painful.
Once a clear vision is agreed upon, the designer’s role shifts to defender of the vision. This is necessary because there will always be forces pulling things away from the minimal feature set — often for valid reasons.
When the product is real and can be tested, it can (and should) evolve towards something more complex. But baking complexity into the first release is a costly mistake. (Note I didn’t say it “can be”. It’s guaranteed.)
If you design software, you need to know about placemaking. Why? Because the websites and apps you design will create the contexts in which people shop, bank, learn, gossip with their friends, store their photos, etc. While people will experience these things primarily through screens in phones, tablets, and computers, they actually perceive them as places they go to to do particular things.
Your users need to be able to make sense of these information environments so they can get around in them and find and do the things they came for, just as they do with physical environments such as towns and buildings. People need to form accurate mental models of these environments if they are to use them skillfully.
As a discipline, software user interface design has only been around for about sixty years. However, we’ve been designing places for much longer. There’s much we can learn from architecture and urban design to help us create more effective apps and websites. This article is a short case study in the design of a particular physical environment that has valuable lessons for those of us who design information environments: Disneyland.
This post is based on a speech I wrote for two back-to-back keynotes delivered in November 2016 at Interaction South America (Santiago, Chile) and the Italian IA Summit (Rome). The U.S. election was decided on the eve before I flew to Rome.
When architects tour Rome, one of the things they learn is that buildings can last a long time. When I was younger, I had the privilege of studying architecture for two semesters in the city, and one building stood out for me: the Basilica of San Clemente al Laterano, a beautiful church built during the middle ages. I was struck by the fact that the basilica had been built on top of an earlier building: a 4th century church which you can visit by descending to a basement under the main structure. That church, in turn, was also built atop an earlier building which was used by followers of the cult of Mithra, and which you can also visit today. The Basilica of San Clemente has been used as a place of worship for almost twenty centuries. When you visit it, you have a tangible experience of the evolution of Western spiritual practice over that span of time.
Buildings serve more than mere utilitarian purposes, such as keeping us dry from the rain or giving us a safe place to rest. They’re also physical manifestations of the political, social, and cultural environments that produced them. Buildings tell stories about who we are — and who we were — as a people. As an architect, I often think about the longevity and cultural import of buildings and how it contrasts with what I currently design: software. If buildings are among our longest-lived cultural artifacts, apps and websites are among our most ephemeral. Software is changing all the time, sometimes in big ways. For example, iOS 7 introduced a completely new visual design to the iPhone’s operating system. From one day to the next, the feeling of the entire information environment changed. Perfectly functional applications that didn’t immediately implement the new style suddenly looked old and out-of-place. This change was experienced by millions of people, literally overnight.
The world is a little scary right now. In many places, the old ways of being are going away. Many people are having a hard time understanding where they fit in, and they’re reacting by making choices that go against their best interests. You’re not aware of this because mama and I are trying to not worry you, but it’s happening.
A few days ago, the United Kingdom voted to leave the European Union. This is a big change in the world, and it was triggered in no small part by fear, ignorance, and cynicism. In the United States, a dangerously unfit man is running for president by stoking the basest impulses in people, and finding support among many. And he’s not the only one: so-called leaders are once again gaining a foothold in many countries by fanning hatred and fear.
I say “once again” because this has happened before. Almost eighty years ago, the world plunged into a terrible war under similar circumstances. More than 60 million people died, and many more were left without families or homes. I hope you don’t experience anything that awful in your lifetimes. But it could happen, so I want to do everything I can to make the world safe for you.
You’re too young to understand, so I’m addressing this essay to your future selves. I’m publishing it as an open letter because I think other people could benefit from it too.
In 2013 I published a blog post to explain my digital sketching and note-taking setup. Much has changed since then, so it’s time for an update.
If you want to dig deeper into this topic, you should check out that original post. But I in case you’re strapped for time, this is where it left off: I was then using a Lenovo ThinkPad Tablet 2 running OneNote (“modern” version) under Windows 8.1. That device/software combination served me very well. (So much so that I eventually upgraded to that machine’s successor, the ThinkPad 10.) However, over the past couple of years a few things have happened that have caused me to revise this setup. I’m still using OneNote, but have left Windows behind in favor of iOS. Somewhat surprisingly, I’ve also gone back to doing more sketching and note-taking with (physical) paper and pencil.
This year, World IA Day was celebrated in 57 locations around the world. That’s a lot of people gathering to learn and talk about information architecture! This article, which is based on the keynote presentation I gave at WIAD San Francisco, is inspired by the thought of all these folks — mostly designers — coming together around this year’s theme: “Information Everywhere, Architects Everywhere”.
I think most of us who design digital products and services have a pretty good grasp of what we mean by “information”. Information is our raw material; we are immersed in it every day. However, I suspect “architecture” is more elusive. In what sense is what we do architecture?
Earlier in my career, I used to think that architecture was a useful metaphor for the work I was doing. I would tell clients that “I’d do for their websites what architects do for their buildings” or that “site maps are to websites what plans are to buildings”. However, I’ve come to realize that architecture is more than a metaphor in what I do. In this article, I hope to persuade you that the apps and websites we design are architecture in a very real sense, and to make you more aware of your role in the creation of architectures made of information.