Tag: technology


An Accessible Future


What will the future of information design look like? Often, technology rises up to propose the answer: better software and analytic tools, more sophisticated visual forms, ubiquitous touchscreen-based and virtual information environments, immediate data and information access anywhere. Sci-fi fantasy made real seems an appealing prospect to some, and technology has fast been catching up: it’s only a matter of time before we’re invoking holographic information panels and gliding through multi-layered data streams while walking down the street (without smart devices or embarrassing head gear). But is that all we should expect, and more to the point, is that the best we should set out to achieve?

Rather than ask what more we can do, we might do well to ask what we can do better. Information design is a field shaped as much by imagination as it is by craft. We are capable of applying as much creativity to identifying and framing problems as we are to solving them. If we want to forge ahead into a meaningful future, why don’t we challenge the status quo of pursuing and optimizing known solution domains and start rattling information design out of its comfort zone? Why don’t we ask what’s stopping us from fully realizing information design’s potential to help people? And how best should we harness technology to remove those obstacles?

Many different people, but one presentation format

A persistent challenge in information design is designing for the broadest audience and ensuring that the most people can understand a message, be it a warning, a safety alert, a transit service change, or a simple indication of an option. Airport signage, mass transit systems, highway and city traffic signs, emergency notifications, and other communications are meant to benefit the public, but often that refers to a specific sub-set of the population: sharp-sighted, able-bodied, relatively young people fluent in the local language and visual conventions. Routinely excluded are the elderly, the non-native language speakers, those with impairments of vision, hearing, and mobility, and those with cognitive differences. Even with the introduction of federal regulations (the Americans with Disabilities Act in the U.S.) and slowly growing recognition of universal design and design for all in product design, architecture, and urban planning, inequalities in the everyday information experience persist.

Tied to the challenge of multiple audiences for the same information is the fact that an information design solution is typically presented one way, whether it’s print, environmental, or screen-based media: one form of display, one typeface and size, one color scheme, one written message (possibly translated to other languages on the same display or supplemental versions). While it’s true that different layouts of the same information exist when the size and physical context of the display change (as with responsive web design or transit safety message displays), each instance adheres to one set of design choices within a brand or visual system. Every design decision, by nature, rejects a multitude of other possibilities and permutations, and collectively these decisions are supposed to average out for the widest possible audience. Even the most carefully-considered “effective” designs inevitably fall short because a segment of the population can’t see the message, can’t read the message clearly or understand it, can’t interact with the information display, and can’t find alternative options that suit their needs and abilities. To say it’s unfair that whole groups of people are unable to enjoy the same level of access and affordance as others because they don’t fit the “average” would be a gross understatement.

How can information designers start embracing the diverse needs and requirements of all kinds of people and truly design for maximum inclusion by all means available — especially when it comes to essentials like safety, security, and well-being?

Information that adapts to people’s needs

Consider the services and businesses that presume to cater to people’s needs and preferences: Amazon, Netflix, Pandora, and Google, among others. The algorithms and recommendation engines that power these online entities have significant influence on our information environment; by gathering snippets of personal data and filtering the “relevant” from “irrelevant,” they decide what we see and filter our options to what we’re most likely to like… and buy. But what if we could turn that technology towards the greater good? What if machines could learn what our capabilities and limitations are, not to nudge our spending habits, but to assist us in navigating our world safely and in seamlessly interacting with the complex systems of daily life?

Adaptive, or dynamic information design (for lack of a better term) is one path towards technology-enabled inclusion and accessibility. The concept is a bit far-fetched, but with the rapid convergence of enough tech trends, it may become more plausible*: Imagine a system that could read your access profile and dynamically generate a heads-up information display with an optimized version of the information you were looking at, tailored exactly to your needs, with, say, big enough text (in your preferred language), sufficient color contrast, and clear direction on what actions are possible for you. This could be driven by a library of evidence-based design principles for controlling visual variables (type, color, size, layout, etc) as well as the design of other multi-sensory information (sound/speech, Braille, touch feedback, etc).

Virtual reality displays already provide a convenient canvas on which to superimpose information, but with the addition of other devices and equipment, multi-sensory features for non-visual use cases might be possible. Some existing technologies are already pointing the way:

  • Google Glass, Microsoft HoloLens and augmented reality: personalized information overlay
  • Image recognition software: detection and analysis of information displays
  • Global wifi networks and cloud-based services: proximity sensing, profile transmission, and custom information delivery
  • Apple Watch’s haptic technology: sensory information
  • Voice command and text-to-speech technology: touch/keyboard-free interaction and audio information

Given the current state of the art, the physical apparatus to make these capabilities possible would no doubt be cumbersome to wear and look a little unfashionable, but iterative refinement of such a concept might lead to something more elegant (for comic book fans, the evolution of Iron Man’s armor comes to mind).

So how does information design in the present venture into the realm of “adaptive”?

Bridging the static-dynamic information design divide

Information design is a highly fragmented field, but two broad divisions generally co-exist today: the old “static” world of print and signage and the still-new “dynamic” world of electronic displays and computer-driven experiences; despite the popularization of blended static-dynamic information displays, such as immersive storytelling and online news features fusing both standard articles and analytic tools to “play” with the data, information design practice still clings to the distinction between those who design for pure content presentation (traditional graphic/communication designers) and those who design for interaction (user experience designers, interaction designers, etc). Those on the “static” side sometimes forget how fluid and flexible information has become and what potential that simple fact holds for their work, regardless of what current conventions or tools say you can do. Meanwhile, those on the “dynamic” side sometimes forget the basic human desire for simple, familiar, and un-intimidating experiences that recognize their individuality, forgive mistakes, anticipate hiccups, and offer a clear path to a live person who can help.

Information design that is acutely sensitive to all people’s needs and sufficiently capable of delivering the most optimal experience possible, as in the case of adaptive information design, will rely on a range of skills and roles from design, anthropology, psychology, computer science, and information science, among many others — not the work of a hyper-talented, do-it-all unicorn designer. Both “static” and “dynamic” sides possess complementary expertise to appropriately frame the communication challenge, thoroughly assess the audience, and work toward comprehensive solutions that continuously learn from repeated use.

The dream of a better world and a bright future doesn’t have to be incomplete, biased, or exclusive to select populations. Nor does it have to subscribe to Hollywood’s (or Silicon Valley’s) vision of progress. Information designers have the capacity to shape that future, and not have their role dictated by it, by co-creating a future where addressing physical challenges becomes a priority and where everyone finally feels like they belong.

This paper describes an application of augmented reality for improved situational awareness in combat. Instead of overlays that re-present information “your way,” the system discussed here provides views into different categories of information that are critical for urban warfare situations, like whether an object in view is friendly, hostile, neutral, or unknown.


A Life Less Designed


“What the hell am I doing?” I ask myself on a Sunday morning, half-covered in grass clippings. The weather is warm and immaculate, ideal for a hike or picnic or lazy stroll through town. Instead, here I am clutching my Sears Craftsman line trimmer, dutifully mowing my overgrown lawn. There are blisters forming on my rawhide-gloved hands. I’m sneezing uncontrollably from all the pollen in the air. My legs are sore from the frog-like hopping about to tear weeds out of cracks in the sidewalk. I see my neighbors on their way to brunch (their landscaping is all concrete, no grass) and wave my most neighborly wave. Behind my smile, I’m seething with envy.

My ego tells me I’m beyond this grunt work. I’m a designer, for heaven’s sake! Why spend my free time on mundane chores when I should be free to pursue the finer things, as any cultured, creative person should in this day and age? Would I prefer to scroll through those saved-for-later long articles? Or would I rather enrich my mind with literature, art-making, or a bit of writing? Maybe all I want is to not think at all and enjoy a documentary or TV series, guilt-free? Am I not entitled to these and more choices in the year 2016, rather than feel burdened by antiquated chores?

Despite my ego’s bourgeois indignance, I can’t deny that this yard work is maybe kind of fun. I’m outside, physically active, using muscles I didn’t know I had. I’m taking pride in my handiwork as a home owner: the clean edges where green meets grey, the uniformly level height of grass, and the sense of order restored. I’m in awe of the smallness of insects marching on the ground below and the vastness of the cerulean blue sky above. It’s just me and my natural environment — at least, whatever a semi-suburban residential neighborhood can afford — with little else in between.

The fact that something like yard work can be both annoying and fulfilling is a reflection of the larger issue we face with the nature and quality of progress today. On one hand, many think a better life is one of minimal inconvenience and maximum enjoyment: frictionless experiences, pre-anticipated needs, and adaptive systems that respond to our every desire. Plenty of work has gone into building that idea of “better” through research and investments in everything from motion-sensing bathroom fixtures to voice-activated devices and self-driving cars. If I fully subscribed to that vision, I’d happily welcome any sort of liberation from horticultural busywork. Some clever tech startup could easily capitalize on that “unmet need” by building an outdoor Roomba — an app-controlled grass-trimming drone that could trim and sweep my grass every few weeks. Lost time reclaimed!

But on the other hand, maybe that wasn’t lost time at all. Maybe in eliminating that task I’m actually paying a bigger price: I’m losing a part of my life in which I feel more connected with myself and what’s around me.

As I wrote in an earlier post, the solutionist thinking that pervades discussions of design, technology, and progress overlooks the value of common problems humans might actually need to have in order to retain our human-ness. Cameron Tonkinwise, the Director of Design Studies at the School of Design at Carnegie Mellon University, discusses this topic in his Medium piece, Contempt by Design: When Empathy turns into Hatred of Everyday Life. Design empathy can be a means of understanding people in order to design for them and with them, but it can also lead to design decisions that work against them. For instance, he describes the typical habit designers have historically fallen into and the consequences of solutionism:

Every time designers notice pain points, obstacles, or even just opportunities for things to happen a little more productively or pleasantly, the outcome is another thing…. Our societies are unsustainable because mass production has allowed designer empathy to go unchecked.

Design, in this sense, is a tool of commercialism: it fuels consumption (and waste) under the guise of making life better. Rather than seek to enrich life by first understanding what a better life really means and how people define it for themselves — before any type of intervention is considered — design, and the players driving it, tend to take any chance to insert themselves into the everyday human narrative. A highly cynical distillation of the current formula in play might look like this:

  1. Crank up the “creative” to spark desire and keep people buying stuff they never thought they needed.
  2. “Innovate” when you hit a sales slump to jolt the market with something new.
  3. Repeat as needed.

More problems arise on another level, when design presumes to know what’s best for all of us and cushions our lives in pseudo-utopian bliss. Tonkinwise counters rampant design solutionism with a call to action for design to seek a deeper understanding of its role in everyday life and even question where it does and doesn’t belong:

This is the greatest danger of design empathy; that its concern for humans and its insight into materiality end up being contempt for all the friction and finitude of everyday life. To counter this we all, but especially designers, must learn to empathize with the activities of everyday life. We must use design thinking not to eradicate all the hardships of everyday life, but rather to find existing everyday pleasures in material practices. We must be prepared to listen to people when they say that they do enjoy doing some mundane tasks. We must accept that not everything needs to be disrupted, that some things need not be changed.

Maintenance activities like doing laundry, washing dishes, and sweeping a floor have a dignity to them, a timelessness, and even philosophical meaning. Accepting them as an essential part of life, just like other human-scale manual activities that have been around for generations, is becoming harder and harder because the apparent benefit of not having to do them (and ease of access to “solutions”) outweighs the deeply-ingrained sense of displeasure attached to them. Especially for those with the means (even more modest means), it is almost unthinkable to do some of these things by one’s own hand any more when it costs relatively little to minimize the problem.

On a personal level, I honestly don’t look forward to every chore, but once I’m engaged in the flow of an activity, the feeling is practically zen-like. Instead of contemplating some other fun thing I could be doing and getting annoyed that I’m not doing it, I try to stay in the present and focus on the task — on how I can perfect the movements and what small hidden lessons I can extract from just becoming absorbed in the moment. My mind sifts through fragments of thoughts generated throughout the day, makes connections, recalls loose threads, and basically catches up with itself. No matter what the task is, there’s a minimum of stuff necessary; save for the grass trimmer and my washer and dryer, it’s usually low-tech, low-end design: a broom, a sponge, a trowel, a dust pan and brush. What’s great about those things is that they are designed to help me do something — they don’t remove me from the equation altogether. And using them is, in a way, part of the fun.

We need to celebrate the joys of a life less designed and protect the necessary boundaries between the collective entity of design-business-technology and human experience. If we continue riding the runaway train of “progress,” if we tacitly agree to the intermediation of every effort, every gesture, every thought with a design “solution” — without making better design decisions for ourselves — what then will be left for us to do? What will be left of us?



Bridging Generations


As someone who’s slowly inching toward 40, I feel distinctly out of place with the present. It doesn’t feel like my present. The more I age, the greater the sense of anachronism. Three distinct realities are blurring together: the old world wisdom my grandparents conveyed to me during my childhood, the analog-to-digital transition through which I have come of age, and the Web revolution whose rapid escalation has left virtually no part of my present life untouched.

It seems to me that the faster technological “progress” happens — and the more I notice it — the less natural it feels and the more alienating it becomes. Every advance in technology that’s introduced into our lives appears to grant us some new luxury or capability that wasn’t available (or needed?) before, but when those novelties become normalities, what they actually do is erode a bit of the past to make a little more room for the future. Devices, apps, screens, texts, buzzes, beeps, taps, swipes, and every other new feature added to our tech-saturated experience claim to be human-centered in some way or another, and yet we’re forced to let go of what’s comfortable and familiar in order to learn these strange new tech-intermediated ways, adapt to them, and end up having our behavior altered by them. The hyper-computerization and hyper-connectivity that permeates all our waking and sleeping hours takes away more than it gives back, and what it takes are the things I’m not willing to give up — the ethos of simpler times.

I may sound like a grumpy old man, but no, I am not a Luddite ready to flee to a cabin in the wilderness, nor am I fearful of an impending techno-dystopia. Low and high technology is a good thing; I am just as profoundly amazed by wood screws, indoor plumbing, electricity, and wifi as I am grateful for them. The problem I see is that we are no longer shaping and molding technology to us as we used to — it’s the other way around. We’ve ceded control of how we live our lives — decisions about what fits and what doesn’t, what enriches our lives and what saps it — to the forces of corporate “innovation” and easy availability of tools like e-mail, wireless devices, social networks, and text messaging. Meanwhile, with each passing generation, I see growing indulgence in fleeting pleasures and mindless habits enabled by devices and further disconnection from now bygone values like self-restraint, hand skills and craft, deep concentration, listening skills, and the big one, human-to-human attention. (Far be it from me to level judgement on those poor younger generations wedded to their smartphones: I learned how to curb my device habit back when I had an iPhone 3G.)

There’s no point in reminiscing about the “good old days.” They’re not coming back. Regarding the past with warm nostalgic affection and preserving stories of yesteryear may help keep the memory alive, but it doesn’t do much good for everyone else in the here and now. What matters are the practices and attitudes that helped make those days “good” — the common sense that governed everyday conduct — and how to carry them forward. In my own lifetime, numerous aspects of life have radically transformed for the worse because of the pervasiveness of technology, such as how we work, how we learn, how we interact with each other, and how we spend our free time (of course, the good-vs-bad debate goes both ways). Reconnecting with old world / analog thinking might help restore some of the things we’re losing.

One area in particular troubles me the most today: communication.

Way back when (up until 25 years or so ago), communication was an art form:

  • Letters were lengthy, hand-written with care or typed on special stationery.
  • Conversation was rich with well-told stories, clever turns of phrase, and literary allusions, not to mention back-and-forth dialogue.
  • Phone calls were the lifeline of business, with protocols for answering and concluding.

Today, communication is broken into tiny little fragments:

  • E-mails, the sorry substitute for letters, are piecemeal, poorly written, and replied to at whim days or weeks later — sometimes regardless of the sender’s situation.
  • Conversation is regularly interrupted by the buzz, ring, or glow of a device that’s rarely out of reach, and then the problem is remembering where one left off.
  • Text messaging, chat, and social media updates have all but replaced phone calls, which are now dreaded by younger generations, in personal and work contexts.

How do we fold some of the past back into the present with a sense of balance? For starters, let’s be more considerate and deliberate in how we communicate. Here is some advice I follow from that little voice in the back of my head:

  • Write purposeful e-mails with complete thoughts and clear points, and keep the recipient in mind. If there’s a question or unresolved issue in a message you receive, address it in a timely way — the other person will almost always interpret a delayed reply negatively. On the other hand, if you really care and the message is personal, write out your thoughts and hand-deliver or mail them. The gesture alone matters a lot, and not just for thank-you’s, birthdays, and holiday cards.
  • Turn your phone off and put it away when you’re having a conversation. Take interest in the person you’re talking to face-to-face. He or she is a human being right in front of you, so respect their time and attention by giving them yours. Conversation should be interesting and dynamic — like “intellectual jazz,” as Richard Saul Wurman put it. Probe shared interests like travel, aspirations, art exhibits, books, nature, etc, before delving into talk of the latest Netflix show.
  • If you get an urge to text (or any sort of social media update), think twice. Does this thought require a text? Is it urgent or can it wait? Also, consider stopping off to the side of traffic (foot and vehicular) if you absolutely must read or write a text and avoid accidents. When you do choose to write a text, again consider who you’re writing to. It’s still writing and doesn’t excuse you from putting coherent thoughts together.

I know this sounds like a lot of tired old finger-wagging, but it needs to be said, generation after generation, from one context to the next. So we don’t forget. For those whose experience of life has been defined early on by the omnipresence of technology in their daily activities and interactions, it may be a fool’s errand to sell them on a philosophy of “slower, less, and more thoughtful” technology use, or heaven forbid, “as little as possible.” Someday, when they’re older, when the pace of change rattles their own sense of comfort, they might see things differently and long for their own good old days.

I am thankful for having known the past far enough back before technological progress started getting out of hand. I am glad to have developed a callus on my right middle finger from years of writing and drawing, not typing or tapping (although I’m kind of proud to have learned how to type on an IBM Selectric). I treasure the time of not having information at my fingertips, not always knowing what my friends or complete strangers are thinking or doing, not having an immediate solution to boredom in my pocket, and especially, not always being available to everyone. I enjoy talking to people twenty, thirty, even forty years older than me with whom I share the same tech-free experiences and delights, and I marvel at their stories of tougher times, when wars, economic depressions, political upheavals, and emigrations were the major forces of change in their lives. Above all, and despite my uneasiness about what’s happening today, I feel lucky to have experienced so much change in my still short life so far, to have learned the lessons of others, and to be able to translate some of the “wisdom of the ages” into what I do now. Maybe some of it will rub off on these young whippersnappers.


Design In-Between


As tax season feverishly comes to a close, it seems a fitting moment to consider a realm of design work that hardly gets any attention. Not the dull gray administrative documents like tax forms and instructions. Not websites like IRS.gov. Not tax preparation software like TurboTax.

I’m talking about receipts. More generally, I mean all those little in-between design artifacts like tickets, stubs, and claim checks that serve boring but necessary functions of everyday life — counting, recording, verifying, identifying, authorizing — but sit squarely in design’s blind spot.

I do an awful lot of squirrel-like receipt stashing, but it’s not until tax time, when I have to sort through each one forensically to account for every little expense, that I start to realize how little design actually goes into these small, flimsy but widely diverse paper squares. Ages ago, bills of sale and other transactional documents were handwritten, or preprinted with lines and recurring information so that only new data need be entered. There was a charm to them, the human touch of penmanship framed within a mechanical imprint. These days, most receipts are entirely machine printed in blocky low-res fonts on wispy thermal paper. Can’t forget the legal fine print or sincerely heartfelt “HAVE A NICE DAY” or “THANK YOU FOR YOUR BUSINESS.” And, opportunistically, some supermarkets take advantage of the empty real estate on the back of a receipt and slap on some ads and coupons.

How could designers let this anti-design go on for so long?

Aside from expense accounting, receipts allow for returns, exchanges, and refunds, but have afforded little else (notably, Pret A Manger prints the wifi password and bathroom keycode on their receipts to “reward” patrons). The same goes for used transit tickets, museum admission stubs, parking tickets, boarding passes, and all the other commercial ephemera we accumulate almost every time we spend money. There’s a chance they might get used as bookmarks or impromptu note paper, maybe even serve as a souvenir of a special event, but most of the time, they get absent-mindedly stuffed into pockets or crumpled and tossed away. Soon enough, though, with the rise of e-mail receipts and device-based transactions, all those scraps of paper will be no more.

So should we just wait for this annoying single-use detritus to get phased out and happily welcome our paperless future? Or is there an opportunity to reconsider the role of this clerical confetti?

One way to think about this particular design challenge is to situate these artifacts in a broader context of use and to revise the notion of design work as primarily conventional grand gestures. For instance, if a transit system takes such great care to design their identity, wayfinding and signage, online information systems, advertising, marketing, all the way to their employees’ uniforms, why do they cut corners or care less about other, more mundane but ubiquitous touchpoints like their ticketing systems and the design of tickets and receipts? Is it assumed that the investment won’t pay off because tickets are low cost and disposable (because that’s what other similar companies are doing)? Or has it never occurred to them that they could completely reimagine tickets and receipts to enhance or extend their usefulness and value, not to mention minimize waste? What do customers think?

It doesn’t take much “out of the box” thinking to open doors of design exploration:

  • AMUSEMENT: What if there was a random fortune printed on the bottom, like you’d find in a fortune cookie?
  • ART: What if you could collect different receipts with art printed on the back, then assemble them to make interesting collages?
  • RECREATION: What if the receipt contained a game like sudoku or a picture to be colored in?
  • INFORMATION: What if you could see a personal dashboard of your spending habits or purchases or recommendations drawn from your past transactions? Or what if your local coffee shop printed out headline news and weather on your morning coffee receipt?
  • ENVIRONMENT: What if the paper had seeds in it, so you could plant it and grow a garden?
  • GAMING/CONTESTS: What if there was a puzzle or series of clues over time that customers would have to piece together and solve in order to win something?

The list could go on (some of it is borrowed from Berg’s Little Printer). The point is that there’s a world of possibility right now to do more with these little pieces of paper — to actually reinforce and improve the experience a customer, passenger, or citizen has with a company or organization.

Designers shouldn’t limit their capabilities to the standard-issue items they’re hired to design for, like the physical environment, the look and feel of a product or service, the face-to-face staff encounters, the online/mobile interactions, and the marketing, advertising, and information design artifacts. Nor should they limit their thinking to familiar patterns and cling to assumptions about what can and can’t be done — and especially what is and isn’t worth their attention. Outside of the spotlight of typical design moments is a lot of overlooked but necessary “in-between” design: forms, instructions, and documents that serve as connective tissue linking touch points; tickets, stubs, and receipts that punctuate the start and end of key activities; labels, stickers, and tags that make systems visible.

Good design is about the big things, the little things, and even the seemingly insignificant things that end up in our coat pockets. All of those things form a complete picture of our designed lives.


Embrace the Wait


Have you ever stopped to think about waiting? We spend so much time just waiting for some things to happen, other things to pass. Consider the moments of waiting that happen over the course of a typical day: on line at a register, in traffic, in a doctor’s office, on a plane, etc. The very concept of waiting — a momentary suspension of activity or delayed action until a specific event happens — seems to suggest that we have to be in some mode of action at all times during our waking hours. Being idle has come to be a bad thing, and waiting itself has a generally negative connotation because the thing you want is not in the present but locked away in some defined or undefined point in the future. Time needs to pass before that desired state can come to be. And oh how we pass our time!

To me, commuting by mass transit is the perfect encapsulation of waiting, next to air travel. Commuting can be considered a form of routine waiting. It’s finite, scheduled, expected, and for that reason, we find ways to pour our lives and lifestyles into that span of time. Rituals, habits, indulgences all make their way into our commutes. Over the years as a regular commuter to and from New York City, I’ve observed a growing but unsurprising trend: devices have come to dominate the commuting experience. I regularly scan my subway car to see how many people are using a smartphone, tablet, e-reader, or other gadget. Most of the time, the majority of passengers are immersed in some tech-enabled activity: reading, listening to music, playing video games, watching movies. Signal permitting, people are chatting away, texting, snapping selfies, scrolling through streams of social media updates, or typing in updates of their own. It’s bad enough that we actually are capable of doing all of those things in a shared public space like a subway car or bus, that these are all options for things you can do when you have nothing else to do. The real problem is twofold. First, we haven’t yet learned how to distinguish what we should do from what we shouldn’t do in those situations. Second, and more the focus of this post, we don’t really know how to deal with moments of pause in an activity- and device-free way — to simply embrace the wait.

Reframing the meaning of those quiet, interstitial spaces in our lives requires an understanding of what we’re doing with the busy, booked-up blocks of time on our daily agenda and why. Most of us measure our personal worth or success by our productivity and accomplishment. We feel good about ourselves when we get more stuff done, so we work very hard to do more and more. In school and at work, we often get rewarded not just for scoring higher on a performance scale (like an A+ or a 100%) but for occupying our time with as many extracurricular activities as possible. We try our hardest to exclaim to the world “I am NOT idle! I am highly driven and motivated to succeed!” but what we achieve in the end is little more than exhaustion.

Filling empty space to capacity is a common habit, whether it’s our calendars, our closets, or our stomachs. We do no different to our brains. I would argue that the concept of information overload has less to do with us being bombarded by information from lots of external sources than with us deliberately saturating our own attention with more information than we need. If we’re drinking from the firehose of information, as they say, we’re also the ones holding the hose to our own mouths and controlling the valve. Devices that connect us to the plethora of information in the world and in our lives are not necessarily at fault. They just make it far too easy to indulge in our existing impulses, especially when we think there’s nothing better we should be doing than funneling our attention into a small glowing rectangle that’s conveniently within arm’s reach.

So what else should we be doing if we can’t play with our devices? My simplistic answer: Do as little as possible or nothing at all.

If sleep is the chance we have to rest our bodies and sort out all the memories we’ve collected during the day, what chance do we have during our waking hours to reset our minds and make sense of our experiences and our lives? Sure, there’s meditation, yoga, running, hiking, and many other mind-easing pursuits to help us gain perspective and focus, but what about those in-between waiting moments sprinkled throughout the day? I like lists, so here are five techniques I find useful:

  1. Create and capture rather than consume: Carry a notepad or small journal and write out what’s on your mind (yep, with a real pad and a real pen, no apps). It doesn’t matter whether you write or draw or both, and it doesn’t matter if it looks/sounds good or not, so long as you allow yourself to express whatever has accumulated in your head. Even sitting somewhere and describing what you see can be interesting.
  2. Do some creative visualization: I wrote about this technique in an earlier post, but it’s worth resurrecting. Whether you believe it works or not, it’s a remarkably calming exercise to envision a goal or end result you want to achieve in as crisp and vivid detail in your mind as possible. Give it form, color, texture, smell — whatever will bring it to life. With repeated practice, you might be surprised with the outcome.
  3. Work out unresolved issues: Unpack a problem that’s on your mind. Don’t simply replay what went wrong over and over. Look at it from different angles, step outside your shoes, identify the things you didn’t know or understand clearly.
  4. Move around: Lots of waiting involves sitting for prolonged periods. Movement, even in small ways, can be beneficial. There are many kinds of simple, low-impact exercises that can be done while seated or that require little space.
  5. Daydream: Really, why not? Let yourself stare out the window of a bus or train, watch the clouds go by, observe people bustling about, or just take in your surroundings.

Waiting can be about much more than waiting, and it can certainly involve more than the digital pacifiers we carry around with us. We need to reframe waiting as an opportunity to disconnect from the task-driven part of ourselves that craves stimulation and reconnect with the other, quieter part that longs for stillness, peace, and reflection. Maybe we can start to think anew about waiting as the space between notes of music, a deep breath after a steep climb, a blank page dividing chapters of a book, or a welcoming patch of green space in a towering, grey city.


The Real Meaning of Information Design


We’re in the midst of an information design information overload. Blogs, books, courses, and workshops proliferate, covering every hot topic under the sun: big data, data visualization, infographics, “vintage” information design, software, etc. And while there are a few helpful guides along the way to navigate through this space, digging through the layers of content and finding not just the gems of knowledge but the very foundation of information design can be daunting. My goal in this post is to address the gap between what information design looks like today and what it really is by surfacing some of the most important (and interrelated) aspects of information design that are either implicit in a variety of resources or missing entirely.

What information design is really about:

1. Problem solving, not just visualization

Information design is commonly associated with end results: infographics, diagrams, data displays, and other kinds of outputs. This association with finished products can give the false impression that information design is only about visualizing facts and data, while overlooking the cognitive activities that information design is intended to enhance. Effective information design supports problem solving by giving structure to thought along the entire problem solving process, whether it’s in figuring out what problem to solve, organizing facts and data, finding patterns and synthesizing insights, or generating solutions aligned to a particular goal. And the form that information design takes at each step in the process need not be a perfectly polished digital visualization — hand-drawn sketches, color-coding systems, spatial organization schemes, and other sense-making methods all work to enable understanding.

2. People and purpose, not just tools and technology

Many blogs and books focus on the how of information design, like what software to use or how to construct different kinds of charts. Craft and technique are valuable to know and gain proficiency in, but what’s not often discussed in great depth is understanding who we’re designing for and why they need our help. Information design at its core is about helping people achieve their goals within a given context, whether they’re customers, patients, or citizens. How information designers achieve that goal may vary, as the toolkit continuously grows and evolves. What is fundamental and unchanging in all information design work is being highly attuned to people’s needs and defining their challenges in a way that guides the path to a meaningful solution.

3. Guidance and instruction, not just visual presentation

Related to points 1 and 2 above, many works of information design tend to be dense with tightly formatted content, which a viewer is left to deconstruct and decipher. Rather than make life easier, these “rich” visualizations require more time and effort to extract meaning because the information designer plays back the same content they received — without synthesizing it into a more digestible form — and adds a layer of graphic design following some aesthetic conventions of information design. True information design must go many steps beyond pure presentation and find the shortest path to understanding, removing all barriers and minimizing effort. That means guiding a viewer from an overview gradually to the detail, showing a whole and then breaking it into its parts, or connecting a new concept to something familiar. Information design should seek to create an ecosystem of understanding, where a potential gap or grey area is supported or reinforced by another resource, like direct phone or chat links to a live person, or signs and information at critical points of need along a service or experience journey. The idea is to do as much as possible to “be there” to help someone without physically being there.

4. Principles and frameworks, not just creative techniques

Generally speaking, information design thinking is largely absent from information design doing. The widely appropriated aesthetic of information design — pies, bars, diagrams, icons, and other graphic methods for visual explanation — creates a false sense of authority or credibility when applied superficially to content, as is common with the ongoing infographic/info illustration trend. This growing popularization of information design techniques reduces the practice of information design to a “look,” and may free creators of information design from any obligation to think deeply about the content and make sense of it first. What’s more, the emphasis in many websites and publications has increasingly (and maddeningly) shifted from information that is logical and meaningful to information that is beautiful. Part of the reason for this is that foundational practical information design knowledge is scattered across different sources or isn’t clearly spelled out in one place. It takes years of practice and immersion in the literature (past and present) as well as teaching experience to distill the essence of information design work into basic, workhorse principles and frameworks, such as information coding systems and visual frameworks for diagramming. Once those principles and frameworks become second nature, information design can be applied to any kind and scale of challenge, from planning a meeting or learning experience to mapping out a corporate strategy.

5. Systems thinking, not just isolated efforts

Information design does not live in a vacuum — it operates within a context, be it a company or a society. For information design to have real value, it cannot remain locked in a one-off artifact that could potentially get hidden or forgotten from underuse. It needs to connect to people, ideas, and situations. It needs to be part of a living system and align with a broader rationale, whether it’s a corporate vision and mission, a brand, an existing architecture, or a workflow. Information design that exists for itself or only serves one very narrow purpose isn’t information design. Going further, an information designer needs to be mindful not just of the conceptual and organizational context, but also of the physical and environmental conditions in which their work will perform. The idea of a system extends to the lifespan of the solution: how accessible it is to different people, how legible it is in different lighting situations, how durable it is after repeated use, and how often it will need to be updated or replaced.

In time, I’m confident that more sense-making around information design will naturally happen as awareness grows about what it really is. But it will take considerable work: an earnest effort among all stakeholders to dive deep into the history, theory, and practice of information design; a willingness to share learnings and best practices with the broader information design/visualization community; an inclusive, instructive dialogue around unclear topics; and a mindfulness about how information design is represented and understood in the mainstream.