Posts Tagged ‘Usability’

Posted on April 7, 2008 - by deCadmus

Wayback: Back the Net Day? Hooey.

I’m taking a day off. Yes, really.

In lieu of the new and stunningly original piece of pith (I could have phrased that better, I’m certain) you were expecting to find in this space today, I offer this from the Bloggle Archives, circa April, 2001.

It’s a beaut if I do say so, myself.

Dear Netizen:

Your help is needed.

Fueled by a “viral lack of confidence,” the Internet economy has slipped into a recession. If this trend continues, you might soon lose access to your favorite online store, greeting card site, news source, music site or financial chat group. Imagine the Internet without Excite, Yahoo! or Amazon.com.

But you can help the Net regain its respect. We must band together and send the world a loud, clear message that the Net will not only survive, but thrive.

That’s why we’re asking you to demonstrate your dedication to the Internet. On April 3, join us in “Back the Net Day.”

Michael H. Tchong
Editor & CEO
ICONOCAST Inc.

Dear Mr. Tchong:

I can appreciate that you feel threatened by the current state of affairs on the Net… we’re in what’s probably an overly-corrective downturn, and the costs in terms of both human and financial capital have been severe. Just the same, it was precisely this kind of hollow media hype that led to the grossly inflated capitalization of the “Internet economy,” and the grossly inflated expectations of its investors. [Not to mention the grossly inflated egos of media hucksters, but you're far more familiar with that than I.]

I find it highly unlikely that yet more hollow media hype — which is what your “Back the Net” campaign is — will serve any useful purpose. Especially hype that sows the seeds of fear, uncertainty and doubt [FUD]. The Internet has been around a while now, long before it provided either you or I with our milk money. I’d wager the Internet itself isn’t going anywhere any time soon. Now, Net based companies with business plans that don’t translate into revenue… those are another matter, entirely.

Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Tchong. I back the Net every day. I’m probably the most determined supporter of the Internet I know. Day after day I teach, I consult — I’ve even been known to evangelize — on the Internet’s capacity to create intimacy between companies and consumers, for their mutual benefit. Certainly the Net has the intrinsic ability to do far more… but frankly, we’re still struggling with the basics of spatial navigation and information design, meaning and metaphor.

So, Mr. Tchong, if you don’t mind, I’ll just get back to work. I’ll try today, as I do every day, to make the Internet a more meaningful, more useful place — one site at a time.

Best regards,

-deCadmus

Posted on March 28, 2008 - by deCadmus

Wayback: The Web Is Not Walden Pond

From the Bloggle Archives, circa March, 2002. I wrote this as an antidote to what struck me as a surge in misplaced web design ideals; ideals that, in fact, turned out to be the beginning of ‘Web 2.0,’ for all that’s worth. I think it’s as relevant today as it was six years ago…

The Web is not Walden Pond… and attempts to make it so through increasingly stark simplicity are well-intentioned, but badly aimed.

Simplicity often belies the truth. The truth if the web is that it is the most mind-boggling array of unstructured information that has ever been. And it’s growing exponentially, and it will not stop. It is increasingly the de facto body of reference for all of us. It will inexorably be the sum total of explicit knowledge on our planet. How do you simplify that? By making it “…as simple as possible, but not simpler.”

As simple as possible…

Consider the works of Matisse and Picasso. Not your style? Try Keith Haring. Simplicity is alluring. A line-drawing can evoke far more than it actually reveals, by distilling the subject to its most essential form. It’s not coincidental that great art illustrates this… there is more than a little art to conveying the very essence of something.

…but not simpler.

Mere simplicity can dilute meaning. Consider Starbucks coffee stamps… at-a-glance labels that would tell you what the coffee in the bag is all about. Starbucks coffees are — very simply — Bold, Mild or Smooth. Does it really suffice to say that Sumatra, an earthy, dry-processed Indonesian coffee with loads of body and a caramelly finish is bold? Or smooth? It’s both, and then some, isn’t it?

On the other hand, consider Google. Google’s apparent simplicity belies the complexity that lurks behind its interface… it is arguably the web’s largest, most relevant and most capable search engine. Would Google be so effective if not for its extraordinary clarity of purpose?

Design — be it product design or interface design — can be simplified to the extent that it is no longer meaningful, or useful. Simple can be obscure. Simple doesn’t scale. Simplicity does not make a very good design goal. Instead, simplicity is most effective as a method to achieve a different design goal… clarity.

Posted on March 13, 2008 - by deCadmus

Maple-Bacon Goodness Spoiled by PayPal

When there is a confluence of links — when not one, but two sites I visit every day features links to the very same interesting new thing — I can’t resist. And so I learned of Lollyphile, and their Maple-Bacon Lollypop.

With the exception of Maple-Bacon Cupcakes (with Maple Frosting) this is perhaps the most wonderful food-related thing I’ve yet learned of. And since my lobbying efforts with my local professional cupcake-baker have heretofore fallen on deaf ears (c’mon Sharon… you know you really want to make them!) it might seem that placing an order for some Maple-Bacon Lollypops would be just the thing to sample the presumed salty, savory, sweet goodness that is a Maple-Bacon Lollypop. There’s just one problem… Lollyphile uses PayPal for their shopping cart.

I had a PayPal account for years. I paid for eBay actions with PayPal, I purchased coffee, I made donations of various sorts to one non-profit group or another. Then one day PayPal inexplicably forgot who I was. My account — poof! — disappeared. My attempts to login, and to try to verify or reactivate my account failed. So far as PayPal is concerned, I no longer exist… I suspect the small sum of money that was in my PayPal account similarly evaporated.

To cut to the chase, I no longer do business with PayPal. Consequently, I can’t complete a purchase with businesses who offer only PayPal as a payment method. I suspect — actually, I’m certain — that I’m not alone. There’s lots of folks who’ve been burned by PayPal. Lots. (Note to any company that does business on the Internet: when there are numerous sites on the web dedicated to nothing more than collecting customer horror stories about doing business with you, maybe you have a problem worth looking into. Just sayin’.)

My point — and I do have one — is not that PayPal is evil (and to be honest, I don’t think they are; I think they’ve made some stupid mistakes and pissed off a lot of their customers, but stupid does not equal evil.) My point is this: if you’re a new company just getting your feet wet and selling online, and you’ve hitched your wagon to a payment system that doesn’t serve 100% of your potential customers, then that’s a percentage of sales you can write off, straight off the top. Can you afford that percentage? If you can, then you’ve either got really deep pockets (in which case, why would you limit yourself to PayPal?) or maybe this is just a hobby (in which case, knock yourself out, and have a great time!)

Sorry, Lollyphile. Let me know when you’ve got a safe, trustworthy merchant service and I’ll be happy to buy some Maple-Bacon Lollypops. Meanwhile, best of luck.

Posted on August 18, 2007 - by deCadmus

Worst, Worster, Worstest. Or, Blame it on Starbucks.

By most all accounts, Stanley Fish is a smart guy — well-read, thoughtful, erudite — an esteemed scholar and a critical thinker. So how, exactly, did Professor Fish come to write what Slate’s Ron Rosenbaum decries as, “The Worst Op-Ed Ever Written?”

It was Aug. 5, and professor Stanley Fish, the famous postmodernist and “guest columnist” for the New York Times, had some breaking news to expound upon in an op-ed piece. He had discovered a new development in American culture that deserved the kind of exegesis only he could deliver: the appearance of a new kind of coffee place.

Have you heard about these new coffee places? Professor Fish’s column made it seem as though they had never been noticed or discussed before.

“Getting Coffee Is Hard To Do” was the title of his essay, which in its self-satisfied cluelessness may just qualify as the worst op-ed ever written.

The article in question is, naturally, on the far side of the New York Times’ “TimesSelect” paywall. And so instead of linking to the NYTimes I will link to the same article, available complete and free of charge on the web site of the International Herald Tribune, thus saving the NYTimes untold electrons and subsequent ad views.¹

Rosenbaum continues (at some length):

It turns out these new coffee places are incredibly difficult to navigate, even for a brilliant academic like professor Fish.

Here’s how he describes his harrowing experience: “As you walk in, everything is saying, ‘This is very sophisticated and you’d better be up to it.’ ”

Of course, we know that professor Fish is being ironic here. Some might say condescendingly so. From his tone, we know that the elements of what he mockingly describes as “sophistication”—”wood or concrete floors, lots of earth tones, soft, high-style lighting, open barrels of coffee beans, folk-rock and indie music, photographs of urban landscapes, and copies of The Onion”—aren’t true sophistication to a man of professor Fish’s discernment. They’re kitsch, faux-sophistication—and you can’t fool him. He can see right through it!

At which point we can very nearly see Mr. Rosenbaum — in a fit of ironic zeal — shaking his fist at the absurdity of it all. Before penning the line which shows his hand…

Although at this point you begin to wonder if his op-ed wasn’t meant to be a feature in the Onion (”Area professor befuddled by coffee place”), Fish is apparently serious about the profound difficulty this new cultural phenomenon presents.

As you, Mr. Rosenbaum, are apparently serious about your criticism of Professor Fish. And while you are each intent upon channeling the spirit of Andy Rooney² it’s Professor Fish who wins the day. Because — unlike you, Mr. Rosenbaum — Professor Fish has a point.

Somewhere in Professor Fish’s editorial — beyond his curmudgeonly bluster and his longing for those bucolic diners of yesteryear and, perhaps, his effort to wring every red cent out of a paid-by-the-column-inch writing gig — lurks a simple truth: ordering coffee ain’t what it used to be. Moreover placing a coffee order is more difficult than it needs to be.

Today’s coffee bar — corporate juggernaut and indie, alike — is an embarrassment of excess, a superabundance of selection that requires more decisions to be made in mere moments than most will manage for the remainder of their day. More, those decisions are made amidst the cacophony of gushing steam wands, howling grinders and blenders, and the hipster coffee-house-music selection of the day that somebody’s dialed up to eleven.

Mind you, none of those decisions are even possible until the great, under-caffeinated masses pass their first test of the day by working out where to belly up and place an order (and where to pay for it, and where to collect their made-to-order coffee concoction.) And you know what? Despite the face that I’ve patronized hundreds and hundreds of coffee shops — and the fact that I do human factors engineering for a living, and that I’m intimately involved in the coffee trade — at fully half of the coffee shops I visit I get it wrong and have to be steered to my destination by the person behind the counter.

Oh, stop your arm-waving, you. Yes, I see you, coffee shop owners and managers. And I know what you’re going to say. “But, I have signs!” Yes, you have signs. Emphatically lettered, too… and with arrows. ORDER HERE! they say. PAY THERE! Allow me to get Dr. Phil on you for just a moment, and ask: “How’s that workin’ for ya?” Quite frequently the answer is, it’s not. And it doesn’t matter how big you make those signs, and it doesn’t matter how many arrows you add to them. The reason it won’t work is this: those aren’t the signs your customers are looking for.

Consider a simple scenario…

A customer walks in off the street… let’s call him Stanley. It’s his first time here.

1. Stanley looks around to try to determine if he’s in the right place. Coffee shop? Check.
2. He takes a slightly closer look at his surroundings to decide if this is someplace he wants to do business with. Clean? Well-lighted? Smells like coffee? Check.
3. Stanley glances to see if there’s maybe something for sale in addition to coffee. He might like a cheese Danish. Check.
4. Now Stanley checks out the menu above the bar. He’s looking for something tasty… a seasonal sort of specialty cappuccino. He’s looking. He’s looking. Still looking… Ah, there. Check.
5. Just to be certain that he doesn’t lose it — what didja call that thing again? — Stanley steps forward to the counter with his eyes still on the menu and… finds that he’s someplace other than where you want him to be to place an order.

Stanley is now flustered, and perhaps a bit embarrassed. When you interrupted his order to direct him to where he’s supposed to be to place it he completely blanked on the name of the whatsit drink he was going to get, and — when he gets to the front of the line — he orders a small coffee. Black, two sugars.³

So much for your signs.

You know that old saw about the customer always being right? It’s not true, of course. Customers make mistakes all the time. And, like the goof that Stanley just made, a whole lot of those mistakes aren’t their fault. It’s the fault of folks who do, in fact, make it hard to order a cup of coffee. So, mister coffee shop owner,⁴ maybe you owe Stanley an apology.

And you, Mr. Rosenbaum… maybe you owe Professor Fish an apology, too.

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Notes and Links

1. Rumor has it that the NY Times is dropping the TimesSelect subscription service. Maybe they do get it after all, but it remains to be seen. ↩
2. No, no… you say. Nobody can channel the spirit of Andy Rooney; he is not dead. I say, have you *seen* him lately? That, friend, is a zombie. Andy Rooney died a dozen years ago, at least. To his credit he’s answered one of life’s more inscrutable mysteries: yes, your eyebrows do continue to grow after you die. ↩
3. And presumably Stanley hightails it back to his office where he spends the rest of the day writing a screed to be published in the Op-Ed section of a large newspaper. ↩
4. Or Miss, or Ms. or Mrs…. I’m an equal opportunity critic. ↩

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Posted on July 14, 2007 - by deCadmus

From the Bloggle Archives: Mediums Writ Large

I’ve recently been asked whether this essay — a Bloggle classic, originally offered in three parts in July, 2001 — might be used as part of the coursework in a new media studies program.¹ Before I replied I gave it a quick read — it’s been a while after all — and was gratified to find it holds up pretty well. Hope you enjoy it…

When Thug the caveman first scrawled an image of himself on a wall of stone, we can imagine the prehistoric critics — “Arg! Ick dannae throg!” Which, roughly translated, imparts that the cave art lacked passion, and what’s more Thug would be better off spearing dinner. Little did the critics know that someday we might define the dawn of recorded history by Thug’s efforts.

When, in the Middle Ages Gutenberg created the printing press, the voices of his critics echo still… “What’s the use! The people cannot read! And if they could they would not understand without us to tell them what it means!” Which suggests that Johannes’ critics may have had some idea how the printed page would usurp their power, though even they could not know how profoundly it would change the world to come.

When Bell uttered his first words through his electrical speech machine, his critics were dumbfounded… “Who would you talk to? And won’t you disturb their dinner?!” True enough, dinner would never be the same. What’s more, dinner would never be the same wherever you might go, as one day everyone over the age of 12 would have a phone in his or her pocket.

When Zworykin [or Philo T. Farnsworth] patented his kinescope, his critics were confused. They argued amongst themselves whether the thrust of their criticism would be the tried and true, “It’ll never work” or the more obscure, “Mid-season replacements will confuse your audience.” In either case, they surely couldn’t imagine a live broadcast of man taking his first steps on the moon, or Ally McBeal’s dancing baby.

When Berners-Lee made the Internet accessible to everyone, the critics on Wall Street were frantic. “Buy!” they screamed. And then, “Sell! Sell!” Which suggests that critics haven’t changed all that much through the ages… they still don’t understand the creation of a medium any more today than they understood it in Thug’s time. Or Gutenberg’s. Or Bell’s. Or Zworykin’s.

A medium has the capacity to not only change our thinking, but to change how we think… how we communicate, experience, and understand. And to tell the truth, we still don’t know what the implications of the Internet and the Web really are. This much is fairly certain, though — we’re not finished. We’re only just begun.

So what is this invention, this medium, that has evidently caused us fits throughout the ages? Is it a tool? A toy? A myth?

A medium is vehicle for communication. It’s a transport for the expression of ideas… a means for transmitting a message from the sender — the person who wants to express something — to an audience, those who might receive that message. This could be an audience of one, or an audience of thousands, or even millions.

Even as a medium transports a message, it also shapes it, and manifests in that message properties that are unique to that given medium. Likewise a medium lends the message its own limitations. The stark lines of a rock chip scratched against a cave wall, the gilded manuscripts of the thirteenth century, an analog broadcast beamed through the airwaves — each has its strengths and its limitations. To master a given medium it’s critical to learn what those strengths and limitations are. Which is precisely why the Internet — and in particular, the Web — is such a mess today.²

It’s not immediately apparent how a new medium is best used. If our early cave artist were given a paintbrush would he paint a prehistoric Mona Lisa? More likely he’d try to use the handle to scratch on the walls. It’s no surprise, then, that early television broadcasts were little more than televised radio plays, or that today’s web sites try so hard to look like television screens with hyperlinks. We’ve got a new set of tools, but we’ve yet to master the techniques required for the medium. For that matter, we’re still trying to discover what they are.

So what do we know about this medium–this Internet? We know that there are three laws that govern the Internet, and none was penned by a legislator. The first of these is Moore’s Law — a nifty bit of insight offered by Gordon Moore, the founder of Intel. Moore’s Law states that every 18 months, processing power will double, while costs remain constant. It’s the principle on which Gordon Moore built his business, and it’s proved remarkably accurate. Moore’s law has been essential not only in terms of how it has driven innovation, but in how it’s made basic computing capability more affordable for a mass audience.

That brings us to the second law that governs the Internet. Metcalfe’s Law, offered by Bob Metcalfe — a guy who knows quite a lot about networks — he invented Ethernet, and founded 3Com. Metcalfe’s Law states that the utility of a network equals the square of the number of its users. Consider the computer you’re looking at now. Imagine it unplugged from the network. Alone. Isolated. It’s still a computer. You can run a spreadsheet, edit a document, play a game. But once you connect that computer to even just one more, the power of your own computer increases dramatically. You can now share those documents, or send messages to the other computer on your network. The utility of your computer continues to increase — geometrically — with each additional node that is introduced to your network.

And that brings us to the third law that governs the Internet. At a certain point — critical mass — the power of the computing network is so great that it extends beyond the realm of technology alone, and affects the social, economic and political worlds in which it operates. This is the Law of Disruption, described by Chunka Mui in Unleashing the Killer App. Between the accelerated curve of technological change and the incremental curve of human change there is a widening gap — a vacuum — and a vacuum is a powerful force. I believe that both the fundamental cause for that gap, and the vehicle that will fill it–the agent of change–are one and the same… the Internet.

And so we are where we began, with the birth of a new medium — the invention of a vehicle for communication that disrupts as it transforms. The effects of this particular medium will be especially powerful, and likely unusually disruptive. While other mediums have empowered the individual to communicate with the masses, to do so on a large scale has always required an intermediary — an art gallery, a publisher, a theatre or broadcast company. These are powerful organizations, groups that are rarely content merely to replicate a message, when they can edit and augment it as well.³

The Internet, however, is inherently a many-to-many medium. Virtually anyone who has the ability to browse the web has the capability to publish on the web, without the services — or the editorial predilections — of any intermediary whatsoever. It’s interesting to imagine what might have transpired if Thug’s cave art were instantly transported to every cave that chose to tune in. Or if there had been a printing press in every kitchen.

It’s just as interesting to imagine where the Internet will lead us. I don’t claim to know. But I expect it’ll be a helluva ride.

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Notes and Links

1. Yes… I imagine they are desperate. But it wouldn’t be the first time this has occurred. ↩
2. It’s worth noting, six years on, that despite our progress — and the Web 2.0 mantra — the Web is still pretty messy. ↩
3. Never has this proved more true than in our “post-911″ world of political spin-doctors and bold-faced propagandists that pose as analysts and news organizations. ↩

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Posted on May 5, 2007 - by deCadmus

On the calculus of memory (or lack thereof)

New Castle lies on the seacoast of New Hampshire, a three hour drive from my home in Vermont. Along the way the road weaves through Vermont’s Green Mountains and New Hampshire’s Boreal forest, and most every turn reveals another postcard-perfect view of New England landscape.

That said, I missed fully half the scenery, on account of the angry gnome sitting on my shoulder, kicking me in the head. The wretched little creature called itself Disremembrance, and — just before the kicking began — it whispered in my ear that I’d left the power adapter for my computer on my desktop at home. Ouch. Ouch! OUCH!

And so began the calculus of memory — or lack thereof. Turn back, or keep going? Would my MacBook make it through a 75 minute multi-media presentation at full power, driving two displays? Could I borrow or buy a replacement? For that matter, could I find a shop that stocked the elusive MagSafe power adapter in New Castle? In Portsmouth? Could I deal with not being able to make any last-minute changes to my presentation ’cause I don’t want to burn through my batteries? Crap, how much sleep would I lose over this?

I kept driving. In the end, the friendly hotel staff helped me find a replacement power supply within a mile or two of the hotel, the presentation was wicked fun and I’ve been invited to do it again… three times now. (I think that’s a good sign!)

And that pissant little gnome? He took a header off a drawbridge on the sea coast. Didn’t even make a splash.

Posted on May 2, 2007 - by deCadmus

On the Road…

I’m on the road — destination New Castle, New Hampshire — where I’ll be presenting a usability session at the annual VT/NH DMG conference.

This is a new presentation for me; a new platform (Keynote), new tools (MacBook) and lots and lots of capabilities I could have only ever wished for, before. I’m seriously stoked about what I can do on this platform. This is gonna be fun.

Posted on April 16, 2007 - by deCadmus

Now this is just almost embarrassing…

But not so embarrassing that I won’t post it…

The Vermont/New Hampshire Direct Marketing Group has made me a poster boy of sorts for their (19th Annual!) conference at the lovely Wentworth by the Sea Hotel and Spa in New Castle, New Hampshire.

I understand the resort is beautiful. And they have lovely spa packages. Maybe you should book now…

Posted on February 26, 2007 - by deCadmus

From the Shameless Self-Promotion Dept.

Join me at Wentworth by the Sea for the Vermont / New Hampshire Direct Marketing Group’s 19th annual conference where I’ll be presenting, Get the “F” Out of Your Web Site.

“F”-patterns. “C”-menus. The “three-click” rule. The “8-second” rule. You’ve probably heard every one of these offered as Usability Gospel. Sure, each has its roots in serious research (conducted by very serious people.) But each is nothing more than a general guideline — a rule of thumb — and more than one of these legendary laws of usability may lead your customer experience efforts dangerously astray.

Learn which rules to follow, which to ignore - and which to break! - in this lively deconstruction of web site usability and myth-information.

The VTNHDMG is a well-regarded and long established regional affair for catalog marketing and web customer experience types… and despite that, they still invited me to present. Should be fun!

Posted on November 2, 2005 - by deCadmus

!#$%@! Blister Packages!

To accompany the lonely usability note below, and for your reading pleasure, see Pogue’s catchy NY Times ditty, 10 Ways to Please Us, the Customers:

1. Thou shalt not entomb thy product in indestructible plastic. Sure, we understand the temptation: you want your packaging to be sturdy yet see-through, so shoppers can see exactly what they’re buying. Trouble is, you’re caring only about whether people take your product home; you apparently don’t care about what happens after that. You don’t seem to mind that getting those hard plastic packages open is a dangerous ritual involving scissors, steak knives, band saws and, eventually, blow torches.

I hate blister packages. I really, really do.

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