There’s a psychological burden of digital life even heavier than distraction. When the iPhone was first introduced in 2007, the notion of an “everything device” was universally celebrated. A single object that could serve as phone, camera, music player, web browser, and so much more promised unprecedented convenience and connectivity. It was, quite literally, the dream of the nineties. But the better part of twenty years later, we’ve gained enough perspective to recognize that this revolutionary vision came with costs we did not anticipate. Distraction, of course, is the one we can all relate to first. An everything device has the problem of being useful nearly all the time, and when in use, all consuming. When you use it to do one thing, it pushes you toward others. In order to avoid this, you must disable functions. That’s an interesting turn of events, isn’t it? We have made a thing that does more than we need, more often than we desire. Because system-wide, duplicative notifications are enabled by default, the best thing you could say about the device’s design is that it lacks a point of view toward a prioritization of what it does. The worst thing you could say is that it is distracting by design. (I find it fascinating how many people – myself included — attempt to reduce the features of their smartphone to the point of replicating a “dumbphone” experience in order to save ourselves from distraction, but don’t actually go so far as to use a lesser-featured phone because a few key features are just too good to give up. A dumbphone is less distracting, but a nightmare for text messaging and a lousy camera. It turns out I don’t want a phone at all, but a camera that texts — and ideally one smaller than anything on the market now. I know I’m not alone, and yet this product will not be made. ) This kind of distraction is direct distraction. It’s the kind we are increasingly aware of, and as its accumulating stress puts pressure on our inner and outer lives, we can combat it with various choices and optimizations. But there is another kind of distraction that is less direct, though just as cumulative and, I believe, just as toxic. I’ve come to think of it as the “digital echo.” On a smartphone, every single thing it is used to do generates information that goes elsewhere. The vast majority of this is unseen — though not unfelt — by us. Everyone knows that there is no privacy within a digital device, nor within its “listening” range. We are all aware that as much information as smartphone provides to us, exponentially more is generated for someone else — someone watching, listening, measuring, and monetizing. The “digital echo” is more than just the awareness of this; it is the cognitive burden of knowing that our actions generate data elsewhere. The echo exists whenever we use connected technology, creating a subtle but persistent awareness that what we do isn’t just our own. A device like a smartphone has always generated a “digital echo”, but many others are as well. Comparing two different motor vehicles illustrates this well. In a car like a Tesla, which we might think of as a “smartcar” since it’s a computer you can drive, every function produces a digital signal. Adjusting the air conditioning, making a turn, opening a door — the car knows and records it all, transmitting this information to distant servers. By contrast, my 15-year-old Honda performs all of its functions without creating these digital echoes. The operations remain private, existing only in the moment they occur. In our increasingly digital world, I have begun to feel the SCIF-like isolation of the cabin of my car, and I like it. (The “smartcar”, of course, won’t remain simply a computer you can drive. The penultimate “smartcar” drives itself. The self-driving car represents perhaps the most acute expression of how digital culture values attention and convenience above all else, especially control and ownership. As a passenger of a self-driving car, you surrender control over the vehicle’s operation in exchange for the “freedom” to direct your attention elsewhere, most likely to some digital signal either on your own device or on screens within the vehicle. I can see the value in this; driving can be boring and most times I am behind the wheel I’d rather be doing something else. But currently, truly autonomous vehicles are service-enabling products like Waymo, meaning we also relinquish ownership. The benefits of that also seem obvious: no insurance premiums, no maintenance costs. But not every advantage is worth its cost. The economics of self-driving cars are not clear-cut. There’s a real debate to be had about attention, convenience, and ownership that I hope will play out before we have no choice but to be a passenger in someone else’s machine.) When I find myself looking for new ways to throttle my smartphone’s functions, or when I sit in the untapped isolation of my car, I often wonder about the costs of the “digital echo.” What is the psychological cost of knowing that your actions aren’t just your own, but create information that can be observed and analyzed by others? As more aspects of our lives generate digital echoes, they force an ambient awareness of being perpetually witnessed rather than simply existing. This transforms even solitary activities into implicit social interactions. It forces us to maintain awareness of our “observed self” alongside our “experiencing self,” creating a kind of persistent self-consciousness. We become performers in our own lives rather than merely participants. I think this growing awareness contributes to a growing interest in returning to single-focus devices and analog technologies. Record players and film cameras aren’t experiencing resurgence merely from nostalgia, but because they offer fundamentally different relationships with media — relationships characterized by intention, presence, and focus. In my own life, this recognition has led to deliberate choices about which technologies to embrace and which to avoid. Here are three off the top of my head: Replacing streaming services with owned media formats (CDs, Blu-rays) that remain accessible on my terms, not subject to platform changes or content disappearance Preferring printed books while using dedicated e-readers for digital texts — in this case, accepting certain digital echoes when the benefits (in particular, access to otherwise unavailable material) outweigh the costs Rejecting smart home devices entirely, recognizing that their convenience rarely justifies the added complexity and surveillance they introduce You’ve probably made similarly-motivated decisions, perhaps in other areas of your life or in relation to other things entirely. What matters, I think, is that these choices aren’t about rejecting technology but about creating spaces for more intentional engagement. They represent a search for balance in a world that increasingly defaults to maximum connectivity. I had a conversation recently with a friend who mused, “What are these the early days of?” What a wonderful question that is; we are, I hope, always living in the early days of something. Perhaps now, we’re witnessing the beginning of a new phase in our relationship with technology. The initial wave of digital transformation prioritized connecting everything possible; the next wave may be more discriminating about what should be connected and what’s better left direct and immediate. I hope to see operating systems truly designed around focus rather than multitasking, interfaces that respect attention rather than constantly competing for it, and devices that serve discrete purposes exceptionally well instead of performing multiple functions adequately. The digital echoes of our actions will likely continue to multiply, but we can choose which echoes we’re willing to generate and which activities deserve to remain ephemeral — to exist only in the moment they occur and then in the memories of those present. What looks like revision or retreat may be the next wave of innovation, borne out of having learned the lessons of the last few decades and desiring better for the next.

Back in 2012 when my first (and only) book was published, a friend reacted by exclaiming, “You wrote a book?!?” and then added, “oh yeah…you don’t have kids.” I was put off by that statement. I played it cool, but my unspoken reaction was, “Since when is having kids or not the difference between one’s ability to write a book?” I was proud of my accomplishment, and his reaction seemed to communicate that anyone could do such a thing if they didn’t have other priorities. Thirteen years and two children later, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to reflect upon that moment. I’ve come to a surprising conclusion: he was kind of right. My first child was perhaps ten minutes old before I began learning that my time would never be spent or managed the same way again. I was in the delivery room holding her while my phone vibrated in my pocket because work emails were coming in. Normally, I’d have responded right away. Not anymore. The constraints of parenthood are real and immediate and it takes some time to get used to the pinch. But they’re also transformative in unexpected ways. These days, my measure of how I spend my time comes down to a single idea: I will not make my children orphans to my ambition. If I prioritize anything over them, I require a very good reason which cannot benefit me alone. Yet this transformation runs deeper than simply having less time day to day. Entering your forties has a profound effect on your perception of your entire lifespan. Suddenly, you find that memories actual decades old are of things you experienced as an adult. The combination of parenthood and midlife can create a powerful perspective shift that makes you more intentional about what truly matters. There are times when I feel that I am able to do less than I did in the past, but what I’ve come to realize is that I am actually doing more of the things that matter to me. A more acute focus on limited time results in using that time much more intentionally. I’m more productive today than I was in 2012, but it’s not because of time, it’s because of choices. The constraints of parenthood haven’t just changed what I choose to do with my time, but what I create as well. Having less time to waste means I levy a more critical judgment of whether something is working or worthwhile to pursue much earlier in the process than I did before. In the past – if I’m dreadfully honest — I took pride in being the guy who started early and stayed late. Today, I take pride in producing the best thing I can. The less time that takes, the better. But parenthood has also reminded me of the pleasures and benefits of creativity purely as a means of thinking aloud, learning, exploring, and play. There’s a beautiful tension in this evolution - becoming both more critically discerning and more playfully exploratory at the same time. My children have inadvertently become my teachers, reconnecting me with the foundational joy of making without judgment or expectation. This integration of play and discernment has enriched my professional work. My creative output is far more diverse than it was before. The playful exploration I engage in with my children has opened new pathways in my professional thinking, allowing me to approach design problems from fresh perspectives. I’ve found that the best creative work feels effortless to viewers when the creation process itself was enjoyable. This enjoyment manifests for creators as what psychologists call a “flow state” - that immersive experience where time seems to vanish and work feels natural and intuitive. The more I embrace playful exploration with ideas, techniques, and tools, the more easily I can access this flow state in my professional work. My friend’s comment, while perhaps a bit lacking in tact, touched on a reality about the economics of attention and time. The book I wrote wasn’t just the product of writing skills - it was also the product of having the temporal and mental space to create it. (I’m not sure I’ll have that again, and if I do, I’m not sure a book is what I’ll choose to use it for.) What I didn’t understand then was that parenthood wouldn’t end my creative life, but transform it into something richer, more focused, and ultimately more meaningful. The constraints haven’t diminished my creativity but refined it.

On the Ambient Entertainment Industrial Complex “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” Pascal’s observation from the 17th century feels less like historical philosophy and more like a diagnosis of our current condition. The discomfort with idleness that Pascal identified has evolved from a human tendency into a technological ecosystem designed to ensure we never experience it. Philosophers and thinkers throughout history worried about both the individual and societal costs of idleness. Left to our own devices — or rather, without devices — we might succumb to vice or destructive thoughts. Or worse, from society’s perspective, too many idle people might destabilize the social order. Kierkegaard specifically feared that many would become trapped in what he called the “aesthetic sphere” of existence — a life oriented around the pursuit of novel experiences and constant stimulation rather than ethical commitment and purpose. He couldn’t have imagined how prophetic this concern would become. What’s changed isn’t human nature but the infrastructure of distraction available to us. Entertainment was once bounded — a novel read by candlelight, a play attended on Saturday evening, a television program watched when it aired. It occupied specific times and spaces. It was an event. Today, entertainment is no longer an event but a condition. It’s ambient, pervasive, constant. The bright rectangle in our pocket ensures that no moment need be empty of stimulus. Waiting in line, sitting on the train, even using the bathroom — all are opportunities for consumption rather than reflection or simply being. More subtly, the distinction between necessary and unnecessary information has collapsed. News, social media feeds, workplace communication tools — all blend information we might need with content designed primarily to capture and hold our attention. The result is a sense that all of this constant consumption isn’t entertainment at all, but somehow necessary. Perhaps most concerning is what happens as this self-referential entertainment ecosystem evolves. The relationship between entertainment and experience has always had a push-pull kind of tension; experience has been entertainment’s primary source material, but, great entertainment is, itself, an experience that becomes just as affective background as anything else. But what happens when the balance is tipped? When experience and entertainment are so inseparable that the source material doubles back on itself in a recursion of ever dwindling meaning? The system turns inward, growing more detached from lived reality with each iteration. I think we are already living in that imbalance. The attention economy is, according to the classic law of supply and demand, bankrupt — with an oversupply of signal produced for a willful miscalculation of demand. No one has the time or interest to take in all that is available. No one should want to. And yet the most common experience today is an oppressive and relentless FOMO you might call Sisyphean if his boulder accumulated more boulders with every trip up and down the hill. We’re so saturated in signal that we cannot help but think continually about the content we have not consumed as if it is an obligatory list of chores we must complete. And that ambient preoccupation with the next or other thing eats away at whatever active focus we put toward anything. It’s easy to cite as evidence the normalization of watching TV while side-eying Slack on an open laptop while scrolling some endless news feed on a phone — because this is awful and all of us would have thought so just a few years ago — but the worst part about it is the fact that while gazing at three or more screens, we are also fragmenting our minds to oblivion across the infinite cloud of information we know is out there, clamoring for attention. Pascal feared what happened in the empty room. We might now reasonably fear what happens when the room is never empty — when every potential moment of idleness or reflection is filled with content designed to hold our gaze just a little longer. The philosophical question of our time is not how to fix the attention economy, but how to end it altogether. We simply don’t have to live like this.

How to Achieve UX Clarity By Making Tough Decisions No interface operates in isolation. Everything we make, however contained we may think it is, actually has porous, paper-thin walls between it and the vast digital ecosystem around it. Those walls may be enough to keep our information contained, but they do nothing to prevent the constant bleeding and blending of attention from anyone we hope will look at it. Our interfaces, no matter how well-designed, receive just a tiny portion of the attention that anyone has to give anything. This is a massive challenge. What it really means is that the thing most likely to impact the effectiveness of our designs is completely out of our control. So what do we do? One thing, above all: simplify. Remember, our things don’t exist in isolation — they live within browsers, within operating systems, within an endless sea of competing applications and notifications. They are a tiny piece of an incomprehensibly vast digital ecosystem that comprises more information, more density, and more choice than anyone can effectively navigate. So when they end up looking at or using the things we make, they are not starting from scratch, they are starting from saturation. Clarity Through Decision The first response to this challenge is to be extremely clear about what we’re asking of our audience. Instead of presenting options and hoping users will figure out what matters, we must make hard decisions before creating an interface. Two simple questions will help you do this: What do you want the thing you are making to achieve? What does your audience need to do to make that happen? The simpler the answers to those questions are, the better. But, the simpler the answers, the smaller and more focused your thing is likely to be. I think that’s a good thing, but sometimes it takes some getting used to. The bigger the answer to Question 1 is, the bigger the ask of Question 2 is going to be. So you may find yourself going back and forth a bit before settling upon something achievable. The answer(s) to Question 2 are the red pen of UX. They will be your tool to remove anything unnecessary from your pages and screens. This is something you must do. I always recommend identifying and prioritizing ONE thing you want a person to do on every single page or screen your interface contains. Now here’s where the “editing” metaphor breaks down slightly, because this doesn’t mean removing every link, button, or call to action, but using the visual language to clearly communicate the priority of one over everything else. I call this the Primary Action. If a person looking at your interface scans it, they will ask and answer three questions within seconds of it loading: What is this? Is it for me? What do I do next? Complexity interferes with answering each of these questions. The answer to Question 3 will depend entirely upon your ability to identify your Primary Action and use visual language to make it obvious to your audience. When every screen has a clear Primary Action, users don’t have to guess. They don’t have to add cognitive load by weighing options. The path forward becomes obvious, not through limitation but through intentional hierarchy. It’s also worth pointing out that when every screen has a Primary Action, you don’t have to guess either. It doesn’t matter what a “user might want to do” if you’ve already identified what you need them to do in order to deliver on the promise of your interface. When you’ve done that, every other possible option on the page becomes a hostile distraction to its purpose. And by the way, every time I have ever seen a design team put several “maybe-level” doors on a page in the hopes of measuring which one is used most later, they come to find out that they were all used nearly equally. If you get one thing out of this article, I hope it’s a strong warning to not waste your time doing that: Never kick the can of design on the promise of future data. The Reality of Limited Attention Even the most motivated person engaging with an interface is more distracted than they realize and has less cognitive bandwidth available than they’re aware of. We’re designing for humans who are juggling multiple tabs, notifications, and interruptions — even while actively trying to focus on our application. They know they’re distracted. They know they’re context-switching. They have no idea how little brain power that leaves them with. This means we have to consider information density as an obstruction to user experience. Each additional element doesn’t just take up space — it demands attention, evaluation, and decision. Simplifying content and interfaces isn’t just about aesthetics, it’s about creating breathing room for focused engagement. The Most Difficult Truth: Simplification Requires Courage Underlying everything I have written here so far is a simple truth: The most challenging aspect of designing for today’s overwhelming digital ecosystem is not technology, it’s psychology. And contrary to the millions of user studies out there – no shade — it’s not the psychology of the “user,” it’s the psychology of the maker. Simplification requires courage. It means asking hard questions about what something is, not what it could be. It means asking hard questions about who something is for. It means asking hard questions about what can be removed rather than what can be added. It means designing with white space and silence as active elements rather than voids to be filled. It means making decisions that might be questioned or criticized by stakeholders who want to ensure their priority isn’t left out. This courage manifests in several ways: The courage to let go of options and focus on singular, achievable goals The courage to focus on a small audience that will engage rather than a large one that won’t The courage to say no to feature requests that don’t serve the core purpose The courage to eliminate options even when each seems valuable on its own The courage to trust that users will discover secondary actions when needed The courage to leave breathing room when every pixel feels precious In a digital environment that constantly expands, the act of contraction — of thoughtful, intentional simplification — becomes not just a design skill but an act of conviction. It requires the confidence to believe that what you remove is as important as what you keep. And perhaps most challenging of all: it requires the courage to recognize that simplicity isn’t the absence of complexity, but rather complexity resolved.