1.
In last year’s essay at Tedium, Ernie Smith investigated the rise and fall of screensavers, those pieces of software that peaked in the 1990s, originally meant to prolong the life of your display by kicking in after a period of inactivity, but eventually becoming “self-contained art projects.”
As it always happens, what we thought was the first screensaver – Peter Socha’s SCRNSAVE – was far from the original idea:
The accepted answer is often the easy answer, and when doing a little research, you can bust past that to the point of truth. [… But] while Socha deserves credit for popularizing the technique with a broad audience, the idea wasn’t totally new. See, during the 1970s and early 1980s, numerous hardware and software developers attempted to build things in the same wheelhouse as Socha’s early screen saver. The difference was, they weren’t for the IBM PC or even for a computer at all. Rather, they were for dumb terminals or video game systems.
The prior art includes “attract mode” in arcade games, and is accompanied by the absolutely terrifying, jump-scare-adjacent photo of CRT burn-in you wouldn’t want to miss.
2.
This is an enthralling 1-hour-long video by Savvy Sage that talks about the immense popularity of After Dark, a collection of screensavers for Macs and PCs, of the “flying toasters” fame:
This video absolutely blew my mind. I had no idea the screensavers were so popular that they had their own (official) merch and (unofficial) guidebooks, and that the company that made them employed over 100 people – half of them artists – and had tens of millions of dollars in revenue.
There’s tons of inevitable scope creep – screensaver remixers! screensavers with sound! interactive screensavers! licensed screensavers? – but also attempts to branch out to new ideas.
The video is great in documenting everything so you actually see all that’s talked about, in copious detail. And since this is a blog about craft, obligatory caveat: most of these screensavers are absolutely garish, although one also has to account for state of the art of computer graphics at that time.
3.
After Dark had a fish aquarium and so did competing products from Microsoft and Fifth Generation Systems – but in a moment likely recognizable to many people reading this blog, one person got fed up with how bad they all looked and created his own screensaver that became as well known as the flying toasters.
But it’s the first comment there that steals the show:
These were mesmerizing, but quite often IT folks would enable these on Windows Servers, and they would essentially “bring down the system.” See, they were CPU intensive and would take a tax on the system essentially stealing CPU time away from the business application running. […]
I can recall the first time getting a call on this – and back then things were remote, etc. sometimes using PCAnywhere – and then I saw 3D Pipes running. Just told them to turn it off – and done. From that point forward the first question asked of our customers was “are you running any screen savers?”
A customer complained that they were losing productivity because employees were spending too much time running the 3D Pipes screen saver and waiting for teapots to appear. They requested an option to increase the likelihood of a teapot, so the employees would be placated more quickly and get back to their work.
5.
In Smith’s essay, he posts Socha’s recounting of the exact logic of his early screensaver:
How does Scrnsave do all this? The clock inside your PC ticks 18.2 times per second. Scrnsave contains a three-minute counter that starts at 3276—the number of clock ticks for three minutes. On each tick of the clock, Scrnsave subtracts one from this count, and it turns off the screen when it reaches zero. […]
Each time you push or release a key, the keyboard sends an interrupt signal to the PC. Scrnsave intercepts this interrupt; each time you push or release a key, Scrnsave resets its counter to 3276 (three minutes) before passing control to the ROM BIOS routines that read keystrokes. Scrnsave also resets its counter to 3276 every time a program sends characters to the screen. By intercepting these last two interrupts, Scrnsave can tell when you need to have the screen active, so it won’t shut out the lights unless you sit back or walk away for three minutes or more.
It’s a very simple algorithm, but I was amazed by it, because that’s exactly the same algorithm you would use – in reverse – for any sort of debouncing that’s crucial in good front-end engineering; there is something kind of beautiful about these universal algorithms floating around, kind of like math quietly ruling the world around us.
This wasn’t as much a “prevent CRT burn in” screensaver as it was “a piece of standalone, repeating, interactive art” screensaver. It graced many an Atari ST display.
Well, in April, a YouTuber Techmoan unpacked sort of a “prior art” to that, too – a picture frame that simulates a waterfall (the relevant video segment starts at 6:04):
The art is (again) garish, and there is no screen to save here, but also curiously – there are no electronics at all, either. How was it made? I’ll let you click through to find out.
It was fun for me to revisit this strange moment in time and learn more. It’s not just that there were tons of shared ideas, repeated algorithms, independent reinventions, and one-upping each other. What stood out to me was also how many people engaged here did other things I used and admired – SCRNSAVE’s Peter Socha created the absolute 🐐 Norton Commander, Jim Sachs of the marine aquarium screensaver fame did graphics for the legendary Defender of the Crown game, a few people at After Dark also made the original zoom peek gesture before that, and the incredible The Incredible Machine after.
It seems like a fascinating time that attracted people equally interested in tech as they were in its creative uses.
This is an 11-minute video from gruz talking about the fascinating world of South Korean bootleg Marios, such as Super Boy, Super Bros World, and Super Bio Man – existing solely because of Korea’s subpar copyright law of that era:
In short: The code was copyrighted, but the IP was not, so many companies rebuilt Mario for the dominant game console of the region, in the process stripping it of all of the original game’s actual craft – with “levels feeling assembled rather than built” and “getting the [visuals] right and missing almost everything underneath” – and as such become interesting as a reflection of the details that actually made Mario great.
However, as the time moves on, some of the bootleg games actually get better and better, and come into their own. It’s interesting to compare this to Nintendo’s own “clone” I mentioned before.
What I wouldn’t give for some oral history of what looks like an absolutely fascinating time and place for software.
In 2021 and 2022, product manager Steven Sinofsky wrote a…
…first-person account of what I saw at the PC revolution from the perspective of joining Microsoft as a newly hired software design engineer fresh from graduate school working on developer tools, through my time as a program manager and ultimately leading Office, and then moving to Windows, and everything in between.
The first part covers the challenge of the team in 2007, taking stock of Office after almost 25 years of its evolution. (Number of toolbars in 1983: one. Number of toolbars in 2003: 31.) The second part shows great screenshots of all the Office versions from 1.0 until then, and the remaining four cover the Ribbon redesign process.
Regardless of how you feel about Microsoft Office today, and whether you consider the Ribbon interface a success, it’s a perfect weekend read as it covers universal challenges of software complexity and change management.
It’s such a potent series I’m sure we’ll come back to it. It covers a lot, including – in the first part – wrestling with a definition of bloat or complexity, which in the context of Office was less about the number of functions available, and more about mastery:
[…] In practice, bloat comes from the fact […] that Office does so many things that customers just assume the product can do whatever they need it to do. Despite that fact, customers have no idea how to make the product do what they need. This feeling of helplessness that leads to frustration. […]
Bloat is owning a product that you cannot master.
This below is a great observation about the perils of an idea of a “simple mode,” which Sinofsky argues is always a leaky abstraction:
We tried reducing bloat by hiding features […], but that only added to the mystery of the product. Mac, Windows, and Office all went through periods of “simple means fewer” and tried mechanisms such as short menus, simple mode, or adaptive toolbars. But that frustrated or confused people. No one really wanted to use a simple mode and there was always one command missing that was needed, so simple mode became a complicated way to do that one thing that made someone’s work unique.
It was great to see this argument for a broad definition of a bug, as it slides exactly into my post from a while back:
Ages ago in ancient Microsoft history there was a debate on the original apps team about what it means for something to be a bug. Is it a crash? Is it data loss? Is it a typo in an error message and so on? Out of that was created a notion of bug severity, a measure for how serious a bug might be from losing all data all the way to simple cosmetic issues. However, when it came to talking about bugs with product support or ultimately customers the definition of a bug was very simple “a bug is any time the software does not do what a customer expects”. This definition created a discipline of documenting everything reported about the product and always making sure every issue was looked at, even if a code change did not result. The key lesson was how helpful an expansive definition was.
There are also observations and research about how users “debug” the product to make it achieve something they know is possible, but they don’t know how:
We called the futzing document debugging, and it created a frustration that the product was powerful yet overwhelming. People believed a specific result was achievable but getting from point A to B seemed impossible or unlearnable.
And some about the challenges of figuring out what features people use:
[…] Most people didn’t know or care what buttons they clicked on or menus they chose so long as it was working for them—and that meant when asked, “Did you use X?” most people couldn’t recall. To a skeptical press or IT manager (and they all were) that meant unused features.
I should stop quoting and let you read in peace. But, check this out. Lisa wasn’t the only one having linguistic fun:
Early keyboard shortcuts were simple, like using Ins(ert) key to copy text from the scrap (clipboard).
I love looking at origins of obvious things, because of two things:
They help me get unstuck. If you go far enough, you will find out that even the most ossified conventions that are older than you haven’t always been this way.
They put me in the mood of “what of the things that feel normal today that deserve to feel dated, obsolete, or awkward?”
I’ve been emulating the Apple Lisa recently, and I was struck by how many of its UI strings were slightly or wholly different than what we’re used to.
It makes sense. Lisa came out in 1983 as Mac’s predecessor and really the first GUI that is directly linked to what we’re using today. Even though it borrowed things from work done at Xerox, tons of conventions were not established yet.
So, I thought it would be fun to actually take a closer look.
For context, Lisa was as slow as it was expensive, and generally considered a failure. It was basically abandoned by 1985. Not much third-party software has ever been written, but Lisa shipped with 7 impressive office apps with fantastic names: LisaWrite, LisaCalc, LisaDraw, LisaGraph, LisaList, LisaProject, and LisaTerminal.
The screenshots below come from an emulator and from manuals (this links to the 1984 version, but each manual also includes a link to the original 1983 edition). The emulator is pretty harrowing; please upvote the idea of Lisa in Infinite Mac if you would want to see it!
As Lisa powers up, we see the appearance of the “wait” dialog box. We’ll encounter more symbols like this triangle, inspired by traditional flowcharts.
Let’s start with menus, as these really were the treasure map to the whole system.
The Desk menu is basically the equivalent of the dock today.
The File menu has Print appended to it, indicating how important printing was still then; a truly “paperless office” won’t really be possible for two more decades (and seemingly still hasn’t fully arrived).
There is no Window menu yet, so the menu also contains some of that burgeoning functionality. Set Aside is what we would call Minimize today. Save & Continue is basically a contemporary Save, and Save & Put Away a hypothetical Save & Close. Revert to Previous Version is the same as today’s Revert. By the way, in the Revert dialog I appreciated the nice gesture of telling the user how much time passed since the last save, and a warning about undo (we’ll get back to this):
Print Current Selection would today be just Print Selection. Print As Is is basically Print… but skipping the setup dialog with number of copies, etc. It was added later in Lisa’s life, and today, we’d probably call it Print Again?
If you’re noticing a pattern already, it is more wordiness compared to what we see these days. It makes sense. Our growing familiarity with these concepts is what will allow these strings to become tighter over time.
This is that Print… dialog, by the way, with beautiful “while you wait” and “while you work” verbiage (although usually I do not condone strings getting so close to each other). The manual explains: “You can have the Lisa use most of its attention to print your document while you wait. A document will print more quickly if you choose While You Wait, but you won’t be able to use the Lisa for any other tasks.”
The other strings feel less typical. Format For Printer… is Page Setup, but with a lot of quirks. Printers were not usually yet WYSIWYG, able to mirror stuff exactly on the screen. They often came with their own fonts, so some matching was necessary:
The manual had an entire section called “When Settings Don’t Match a Printer,” and there were I imagine god knows how many error cases that had to be covered, including:
And Monitor The Printer… is today’s Print Center: a way to see the real-time printing status. Note a lot of writing here elaborates further on the “while you wait/while you work” dichotomy:
Monitor The Printer was important, by the way, since the manual warned you your printer might occasionally become haunted:
But, let’s go back to the File/Print menu. I actually found a version of this menu that comes from a 1982 pre-release Lisa, never launched to the public. Let me show them side by side:
It’s fun to see designers figuring it all out. You will notice the lack of dividers and ellipses actually touching the work-in-progress strings. 1983’s Set Aside is 1982’s very modern Close. Save & Put Away is Put Back. And, at the bottom, it seems the team didn’t yet figure out that the menu options need to consistently use verbs for commands, and adjectives or nouns for toggles – so we see Intended for Printer… (rather than Format For Printer…) and Printing in Progress… (rather than Monitor The Printer…).
Lastly, in a released version of LisaList, this menu would come bearing a harrowing Fix Damaged Document command. Not only it doesn’t even have an ellipsis, but the manual also says “there is always the chance that the recovery process will make things worse instead of better.” Vaya con dios, I suppose.
Let’s move on to the Edit menu.
Today’s Select All is a verbose Select All Of Document, and since this is the first public appearance of undo, that feature is also more descriptive, appearing as Undo Last Change. But otherwise the menu feels surprisingly modern, shortcuts and all.
Unsurprisingly, the first undo wasn’t as developed. We saw earlier in this post “Once you click OK, you will not be able to change your mind, even with Undo,” which today would probably say “This is not undoable.” You could also see a frightening error message arriving without any further clarification, like above.
Sometimes, the app would warn you undo doesn’t have your back. We’ve seen this before, and here’s another example.
Since undo only had one step, LisaCalc and LisaList also had Restore Previous Entry for when you changed your mind after editing a cell in the spreadsheet. You had to employ this strategically, as you did the already-mentioned Revert to Previous Version.
“You can even undo Undo!” bragged the manual, and I imagine there must have been interfaces where undo came without a matching redo. But the eventual solution, of course, was bidirectional undo/redo with many steps. This basically only needed more memory, still very expensive in 1983.
Above we also see Clear Entries that would just be called Clear today.
Elsewhere in Edit menu, Clear Lines Off Top would appear in LisaTerminal only, and was a charming (and I would argue better) way of saying Clear Scrollback.
The next menu, Type Style, would be called Font today. “Type” is typewriter nomenclature – Lisa was meant to be a typewriter replacement. The point/pitch convention for font sizes and letter spacing also comes from typewriters, and in an older version of that menu even font names arrive from that universe (PS = Proportionally Spaced!):
Otherwise, notable is the deterministic Plain Text reset with a P shortcut that would in time lose to printing. I miss this sometimes, this “reset” idea, as I think it would nicely compliment Paste And Match Style.
While Type Style is for selection, Format ¶ is all about paragraphs – HTML people know this distinction as “inline vs. block.” (The pilcrow symbol means “paragraph,” although I did not expect it to be common use even then.) The flyout menus with their convoluted mechanics weren’t invented yet, but in some sense there was no need for them as the options were very limited.
It is interesting to see Margin/Tab Ruler as two options with deterministic shortcuts ([ and ]). But the most unbelievable shortcut must be Same As On Clipboard. It reformats the current selection to match what you have in the clipboard – an early salvo in an endless battle that later brought us Paste Special, Paste And Match Style, Paste And Retain Style, Copy/Paste Properties, Paint Format and so on, and so on. And it was given S, rather than spending it on Save (& Continue).
Otherwise Left Flush and Right Flush would be called aligning today, and the ¶ pilcrow symbol would be replaced by a simple Paragraph Spacing.
In LisaCalc, Format is missing the ¶ because, well, there are no paragraphs in spreadsheets! I love Words Left/Nos. Right, and empathize with trying to align the digits. But it wasn’t even close, was it.
Page Layout shows that we’ve had UI boolean problems from day one. Show Page Ruler and Hide Page Ruler do it deterministically, with one always disabled, and without checkmarks. Preview Pages and Don’t Preview Pages do the checkmark, but introduce a dreaded double negative. (These last options, by the way, is the “pages/pageless format” showing page margins and dividers, that bother us so much about Google Docs.) Today, these would all be in the View menu that doesn’t exist yet.
And speaking of boolean challenges, here are some top-level menus from LisaList with even more conventions:
But, back to the Page Layout Menu. Insert Page Mark would be Insert Page Break today. I really love Allow To Cross Pages as the opposite of Keep On Same Page, and the incredible O and Q shortcuts.
In LisaCalc, this particular menu comes with a beautifully named For Your Information (sentence capped, for some reason)…
…throwing up a sheet-like window showing basic stats. Today, that window would have a more boring name and probably land in the File menu:
The Search menu is fascinating – why wasn’t it called Find like its items are? I am particularly enjoying W keyed off of Find What (today: Find), while F is taken by Find Next Occurrence (today: Find Again). There is some mnemonic sense to it all, but I like today’s proximity of ⌘F/G better.
What we know as Replace is Change here, and I am particularly loving Cases Must Agree and Cases Need Not Agree (today usually called “case sensitivity.”)
Hide Dialog Box is a string with surprising to me amount of UI jargon. The H shortcut was added later in Lisa’s life, presumably at users’ behest. It’s strange today to see a shortcut like this to hide one specific floating dialog box.
Similarly, Insert Wild Card with a confusing ellipsis allows you to insert a symbol in your find dialog that stands for “match anything here” – top-level menu options reaching inside specific dialog boxes were not uncommon in early years of GUIs, but I think fell out of favor over time as the idea can be conceptually confusing.
The menu below is from LisaWrite, and I like how comparing it with other apps makes us see the team trying to settle on a convention. In LisaList there are no ellipsis, but question marks!
And in LisaCalc, there are… both:
You can notice that it wasn’t clear where one would put Find-related commands and their today’s presence in Edit menu doesn’t really make a lot of sense, either. We just got used to it. (Also note the “occurence” typo.)
Spelling menu has a bunch of fun options and conventions, and an extremely generous use of keyboard shortcuts:
Find Next Misspelling (you don’t often see that word!)
Suggest Corrections + Paste Guess (this is just replacing the word with the suggestion – interesting use of the clipboard metaphor)
Put In Dictionary (today: Learn Spelling)
LisaDraw sports the Arrangement menu, which will look very familiar to anyone using Illustrator, Sketch, Figma, and so on. This is where Bring To Front and Send To Back started! With a tiny bit of editing (Arrangement is now Arrange, and some of the Objects nouns would be omitted), this would feel pretty modern.
I love these visual menus, and I think we lost that kind of stuff along the way:
Okay, let’s move on from menus. The system also relied a lot of dialogs. Let’s look at some of them:
This wordy dialog would become a small loading state today. The verbose “To terminate the operation, hold down the Apple key while you type a period” probably felt necessary because other than Shift on a typewriter, people were not familiar with modifier keys. Lisa doesn’t have the Esc key, and Mac still respects the ⌘. convention in many places in 2026.
(By the way, why would you want to stop saving? Presumably because it could take quite a while.)
In this similar dialog, you can see a reference to a “micro diskette.” Even though Lisa’s “Twiggy” disks seem gargantuan today, they were smaller compared to the original, 8″ floppy disk. (In a similar way, Lisa and other machines of the era were called “microcomputers.”)
Lisa had some proprioception: In this dialog, the disk put in the first drive is called an “upper diskette.” (Also note: more undo education.)
Disks were not large, so sometimes you had to deal with this kind of horror. It’s interesting how the dialog plain sends you to the manual – an early equivalent to eventual Learn More links.
This is another example of a rather verbose set of instructions. On one hand, this is better than “Error 456” and nothing else. On the other hand, it feels like a lot of stuff to memorize.
Also of note, the beautiful Housekeeping menu. I actually forgot about the Finder (or, in Lisa’s parlance, Desktop), so here’s a screenshot of it also:
Housekeeping was basically the junk drawer – on the Mac a year later, this will be named Special. It also has some stuff that today would be in the View menu. (This later version of Lisa calls Trash the same as the Mac. Earlier on, you would see it named a Wastebasket instead.)
Of note elsewhere in Desktop is the use of the term Stationery, roughly meaning “template,” but with extra sprinkling of desktop-metaphor skeuomorphism. Also, Attributes Of is an early version of Get Info.
Another verbose dialog (compare with Abort/Retry/Ignore from around the same time). This is before we invented hint text that we’d just put under the buttons themselves.
In case you haven’t noticed by now, Lisa’s strings all have two spaces after a full stop!
There was lot of “you cannot” dialogs, walking you through some recovery steps.
Plug and play didn’t yet exist (this would all happen in the 1990s), so that had to be explained also.
I also love the anthropomorphic phrasing “Preferences has been told,” which I don’t believe you see anywhere today.
And I think we can round up this post with a few small delightful language details like this one.
As a huge fan of the slightly pretentious “presently” over “currently,” I smiled seeing this next to the printing status.
“Just a moment, please…” feels so old-fashioned, somehow.
And I want to end on a pre-release version of the Edit menu we’ve already seen. You can spot here Select Entire Document (instead of eventual Select All Of Document), but of course the best thing is the Copy, Cut, & Paste with an ampersand! I find it so, so charming.
I hope you enjoyed this tour. It was interesting to me to see how many of these became the standard back there and then, how many were tweaked a little bit, and which ones had to be redone more thoroughly.
Now, excuse me as I have to go deal with my whistling printer.
Software should be as small as it can be. Not as a gimmick, but as a discipline. The floppy disk is the measuring stick: 1.44 MB. If the software that ran entire businesses could fit in that space, then a modern, focused, single-purpose tool certainly can.
In my own work, I have mostly focused on the web side of this equation, as this is where the situation feels the most dire: tens of megabytes dedicated to heavy frameworks, unnecessary tracking scripts, and video ads have a real negative effect on experiencing websites. Progressive loading challenges also make it harder to offer a great experience.
But space considerations are starting to feel more pertinent to local software too, in an era where SSD and hard drive prices are going up, and where local LLM models start taking up more room.
Also, this passage feels very Unsung, and is exactly why the tag #history exists on this blog:
I don’t miss floppy disks. I miss the mindset they demanded—that every byte matters, that constraints breed creativity, and that software should be light on its footprint.
If you reduce tech history to just nostalgia, it won’t be that useful. But if you look at it as inspiration, you might find some truly wonderful and meaningful stuff in there.
On that note: Bonus for a nice classic domain, and a nod toward Mac’s most famous screensaver.
In his latest video, Shelby from Tech Tangents unpacked, installed, and put to use a truly forgotten product: IBM 3119, one of the first consumer flatbed scanners.
The setup was a small nightmare, needing a rare hardware card installed in a specific computer, an ultra-particular combination of two operating systems working in lockstep, and even some careful memory balancing.
Even after all that, a 300dpi page scanner in the late 1980s was still a force to be reckoned with. It’s hard to remember how enormous scanned files were compared to anything else then, even on a black-and-white scanner like this one. The video shows a simple 90-degree image rotation in highest quality requiring over 9 hours, and I believe it.
But deep inside the video, at precisely 19:31, for only ten seconds, something appears that is absolutely worth celebrating. The nascent scanner software has a “curves” feature that allows you to redraw the shades of gray to capture shadows, highlights, and midtones exactly how you want them. Today, the feature would look something like this, with a real-time preview:
There would be absolutely no way to do something like this in the late 1980s, when just rotating an image is an overnight operation, right? And yet:
How was this accomplished? Absolutely brilliantly. Remember the palette swapping technique? Here, the entire screen’s palette is 256 shades of gray. It’s a very particular kind of a linear palette, and so you can easily take that line and… well, turn it into a curve. Since palette swapping happens on the graphic card, it takes as little as one frame of time, allowing for it to react to mouse movements as they happen.
This must have been mind blowing to experience in the moment. Sure, it’s only a preview, and actually applying curves to the image would take many minut—
No. This is a wrong frame of mind. Here’s my hot take: There are moments in software where the preview is more important than the feature following it. That’s because the preview making things faster isn’t just the difference between finishing something sooner or later. It’s a difference of doing something or not doing it at all. Would you even attempt to use curves if each adjustment took minutes or hours, especially in a land without undo?
I love this preview that hints at what the future will be. I like this clever use of extremely limited technology and tight collaboration between engineering and design. It must have been nice to be in the room whenever someone had the flash of insight to use palette swapping this way.
The Pixar animated short Lifted was released in front of Ratatouille in 2006:
I’ve always been amused by this imaginary interface, which is so clearly not how any sort of computer would work.
Or so I thought. These are photos I took in Melbourne in 2024 of CSIRAC, Australia’s first digital computer from about 1949:
This is a “console” of the computer, used to tactically probe or input specific memory addresses (in binary), and to control functions like stopping and starting the program. Any proper programming and eventually inputting data would happen using gentler I/O devices like typewriter keyboards, paper tape, and magnetic storage.
Physical consoles like this one were last seen in the 1970s on hobbyist home computers such as the Altair 8800, and the Console app on your Mac diligently spitting out logs is its spiritual and virtual successor. But even if a CSIRAC console feels hostile today, 75 years ago it was quite the opposite:
And [CSIRAC] helped there too. It could display all its working registers and the last 16 instructions executed. It could be given an address at which to stop (a “breakpoint”), and be stepped by one instruction at a time. It even had lights to show the computer’s internal states. This was a user-friendly computer.
CSIRAC stood for Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Automatic Computer, a typical naming scheme of the era. We also got ENIAC (Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer) in 1945, BINAC (Binary Automatic Computer) in 1949, EDVAC (Electronic Discrete Variable Automatic Computer) in 1946, ILLIAC (Illinois Automatic Computer) in 1952, and then SEAC, SWAC, ORDVAC, TREAC, AVIDAC, FLAC, WEIZAC, BIZMAC, RAMAC, and UNIVAC.
The story goes that the name of 1952’s MANIAC (Mathematical Analyzer Numerical Integrator and Automatic Computer) was chosen to highlight and put a stop to the goofy naming practice. Did it work? I am not sure. Not only two more MANIACs were produced, but we also got 1953’s JOHNNIAC (nicknamed “pneumoniac” since it needed a lot of air conditioning), and SILLIAC (Sydney ILLIAC) in 1956. The last computer I can find using that naming scheme was TIFRAC, operating in India between 1960 and 1965.
CSIRAC had real work to do, but today it is known chiefly for being the first computer to play music in real time. The quality is… I’ll let you judge, with links below pointing to short MP3s preserved by Paul Doornbusch and subsequently Internet Archive:
Engineers working on other room-sized computers of that era did similarthings; whether this was solely one of the first attempts to humanize the big scary machines, or a distraction from the computers’s typically military uses is left as an exercise for the listener.
Today, one of the 1960s machines still plays music, headlining a fascinating annual tradition – every December, the PDP-1 restoration crew at the Computer History Museum in California invites visitors to sing carols with the computer older than most of them.
The last photo takes us back to where we started. Neither CSIRAC nor PDP-1 might be user-friendly by today’s standards but damn, wouldn’t you want some of your computer’s interface to feel this way?
The original 2004 Gmail iteration of the now-ubiquitous modern status bar (here presenting undo send) was internally nicknamed a butter bar because… well, just look at it:
(I believe at least Google today calls this a snackbar.)
The UI pop-up element hosting Google Talk inside Gmail – the very same thing that’s more commonly called a “toast” these days – was originally termed a mole:
The column view in NeXTSTEP was called a browser, but a few years later someone put together a different kind of a browser on that very same machine, and the original term has been sunset – after NeXTSTEP became Mac OS, the view was renamed to “column view”:
These three are off the top of my head. Please send in more!
A 19-minute video from Tantacrul about a parallel universe that’s right next to ours, but most of us don’t get to think about – typography of fonts for music notation:
The video has some nice things going on besides specific details and conventions: there is a glimps of an obsolete app with a fascinatingly obtuse interface, a mention of modern standardization developments, and even a little (sad?) story of perfectionism and legacy.
I’m also kind of mesmerized by this shot of what music typesetting used to be:
Did you catch one interesting bit in the last post? The undo shortcut in Paint and other apps in Windows 1.0 used to be Shift+Esc:
This reminded me that the classic Ctrl+Alt+Del shortcut was initially Ctrl+Alt+Esc. Except, people apparently invoked it a bit too often by accident, so it was split to require two hands for extra safety.
When you look at the keyboard for the original PC, it all makes sense. Esc is at the edge of the main typing block, and in line with all the modifier keys. It would make sense to build a system around this, and it’s interesting to imagine the Esc Kinematic Universe that never happened.
Don’t get me wrong: I think it’s good that it didn’t. ⌘Z or Ctrl+Z are much easier to get to than Shift+Esc, especially in concert with cut/copy/paste next door – that system introduced by Apple Lisa and Mac teams deserves endless trophies and infinite accolades. (In case you are curious, Windows 1.0 used Delete for Cut, Insert for Paste, and… F2 for Copy.)
But it has always been peculiar to me that Esc isn’t seeing more use. I see Backspace tasked with all sorts of modifier key combinations in various apps, but Esc – equally available on the other side, and even easier to target on some keyboards – is often left alone.
Poetically, given the beginning of this story, it was Mac that grabbed ⌘⌥Esc for force quit:
There is a nice thoughtful design element in that window that’s worth calling out: the hint line the bottom.
Why, of all places, would this window go out of its way to announce its own shortcut after you already figured out how to open it? I think this might be for a similar reason airlines repeat the safety announcements before every takeoff. If your computer goes haywire, if one of your apps starts hogging resources, if the UI slows down so much any action takes forever, it might benefit you if somewhere in the back of your head exists one small bit of information: “ah yeah, I don’t know how I know this, but I think I’m supposed to press ⌘⌥Esc now.”
What Version History, a YouTube show from The Verge, does really well is revisiting older tech products from today’s perspective without allowing nostalgia to take over.
This episode about the Western Electric 500 – the canonical American landline rotary phone – is worth watching by all UX designers. There is no software here, as the phone is entirely electromechanical. But there are a whole lot of details to admire and be inspired by: the shape of the handset, the interface to change the volume, the iconic ring, the balanced and improved rotary dial, the behaviour of the cable, even the weight and balance of the whole device.
It’s not only that phone calls should all sound as good as they did in the 1950s – in my experience FaceTime Audio comes close, sometimes, but it’s so unreliable – it’s that you should try to play with a Western Electric 500 because you want your modern interface to feel like that.
The hosts – David Pierce and Nilay Patel, helped by Tim Wu, author of the excellent The Master Switch – also weave into it an entirely different angle, of how that phone fit into (and reflected) a specific period of American tech history, and how it related to AT&T’s then monopoly, including the phone jack and third-party access we just discussed re: John Deere. Even the discussion whether this is or isn’t a “hall of fame” object is good fodder for thought.
The episode – and the entire show – is also just a really enjoyable watch. If you like this ep, it pairs nicely with the one about the iPhone 4, another phone that transcended its origins through good industrial design, exactly sixty years later.
It’s a fun (as always) watch, but as a UX designer, it’s also interesting to try to figure out what are the underpinnings of the things Staecker lists as strange from today’s perspective.
I believe that “CE/T” (clearing and totaling) coexisting on one key is a nod to professional accounting use of adding machines where you wouldn’t want to accidentally enter something into the record twice – so totaling also automatically resets the value and prevents you from making a mistake.
I also believe the strange [+=] rule is only because the keypad has to look forward at the same time it is looking back: it needs to serve as a universal computer keypad where [+] and [=] are separate key, but it also needs to pretend to be an adding machine where one key served both purposes.
(You can spot that the back of the box just allows you to swap the [+] key to be something else.)
Overall, the video is a fascinating tale of an “in-betweener” product that was stuck not just in the middle of a transition from physical devices into apps, but also at the intersection of calculators and adding machines (once two very different lines of products), themselves trying to learn from each other. It also serves as a great reminder that skeuomorphism is not just about visuals and sounds, but also behaviours: tearing off the tape, details of specific keys, nuances of rounding.
It’s not a thing of the past, either. In my post about determinism I linked to Apple’s recent travails with the deterministic Clear button (part one, two, and three). A few years ago, Apple also changed the built-in iPhone calculator from its “desktop calculator” roots to a more modern model where you get to input the entire equation before you see the result. But that change had bigger consequences; for example the [=] key could no longer repeat an addition. People complained, and Apple added it back – but the change feels incompatible with the new system and potentially confusing:
Elsewhere, the entire iPhone is an in-betweener, as the keypad coming from calculators is incompatible with the keypad coming from phones.
At this point it seems the calculator keypad will win, but transition has been over a century in the making. Staecker’s video is a good reminder how important, but also hard it is when you try to make these transitions happen faster.
As far as I can tell, no truly huge world-shifting software product has ever existed in only one version (even Flappy Bird had updates). Just about every global software product of longevity grows, changes, adapts, and reacts to other software over time.
So I set myself the task of picking five great works of software. The criteria were simple: How long had it been around? Did people directly interact with it every day? Did people use it to do something meaningful?
I came up with:
the office suite Microsoft Office,
the image editor Photoshop,
the videogame Pac-Man,
the operating system Unix,
and the text editor Emacs.
Ford’s criteria felt more interesting than those of the other similar lists:
I propose a different kind of software canon: Not about specific moments in time, or about a specific product, but rather about works of technology that transcend the upgrade cycle, adapting to changing rhythms and new ideas, often over decades.
This – about Unix – also caught my attention:
There’s a sad tendency in most manuals and programming guides to congratulate people simply for thinking. Not here; you’re expected to think. That can be very exciting when you’re used to being patronized, and it’s one of the best things about Unix.
I understand that the best way to compare two things visually is to switch between them promptly in situ; our visual system is really good at spotting even small changes when aided this way.
I thought it would be fun to talk about it briefly, because it gives me a chance to show you a really fun device:
This is a blink comparator, an apparatus built for astronomers to easily flip between two images of the night sky, taken at the exact same position some time apart.
It makes it easy to spot a moving asteroid, like in this set of two photos:
(Pluto is the blinking dot a bit to the top and to the right from to the center – that dot moves to the left in the other frame. The fact that it moved at all made it an object of interest, but it didn’t traverse the sky like an asteroid or space debris would.)
This is why the “spot 10 differences” puzzles are always shown side by side…
…otherwise everything would be much, much easier to spot:
Today, this kind of stuff doesn’t require complex devices, but it’s useful to know the principle.
If you’re comparing a reference design with its implementation, instead of measuring things on both sides it can help to align them in two windows, and then switch between them using ⌘Tab.
If you’re working on an interface for users to see differences between two images – don’t (just) show them side by side, but also allow your users to flip between them this way. And, resist the very natural urge to add any transitions that would seem to be nicer and friendlier; it is sharply switching between images that is the most effective.
The first Macintosh font was designed to be a bold system font with no jagged diagonals, and was originally called “Elefont”. There were going to be lots of fonts, so we were looking for a set of attractive, related names. Andy Hertzfeld and I had met in high school in suburban Philadelphia, so we started naming the other fonts after stops on the Paoli Local commuter train: Overbrook, Merion, Ardmore, and Rosemont. (Ransom was the only one that broke that convention; it was a font of mismatched letters intended to evoke messages from kidnapers made from cut-out letters).
One day Steve Jobs stopped by the software group, as he often did at the end of the day. He frowned as he looked at the font names on a menu. “What are those names?”, he asked, and we explained about the Paoli Local.
“Well”, he said, “cities are OK, but not little cities that nobody’s ever heard of. They ought to be WORLD CLASS cities!”
So that is how Chicago (Elefont), New York, Geneva, London, San Francisco (Ransom), Toronto, and Venice […] got their names.
If you check out the actual Philly stops and witness all their provinciality, you can understand what Jobs was after:
Go to first Macintosh via Infinite Mac, open Infinite HD and MacWrite within, and you can examine the nine eventual fonts in their pixellated, cosmopolitan glory:
The list goes in this order: New York, Geneva, Toronto, Monaco, Chicago, Venice, London, Athens, San Francisco.
But: How about some hard evidence for the original anecdote? Turns out, the March 1984 issue of Popular Computing used pre-release Mac software and printed a screenshot of the names rejected by Jobs:
Since on the facing page we see the output in the same order, coming up with the correct mapping is not hard:
Cursive → Venice
Old English → London
City → Athens
Ransom → San Francisco
Overbrook → Toronto
System → Chicago
Rosemont → New York
Ardmore → Geneva
Merion → Monaco
One has to admire the final order of the Mac fonts that went from dependable and utilitarian at the top, to progressively more weird; this earlier list is all over the place.
In later releases of Mac OS, three other world-city fonts – Boston, Los Angeles, and Cairo – joined the party, so let’s show them here for completeness’s sake:
(Cairo is the classic icon font and in a way a predecessor of modern emoji, with inside jokes like Clarus The Dogcow.)
But that’s not the end of the story of the original Mac fonts. Let’s get back to 1983. On yet another page of the magazine, we see this list from MacPaint:
You can tell this screenshot is even older than the previous one, because it is itself set in an earlier version of Chicago, with a single-storey lowercase “a,” and many letterforms being works in progress. (I talked about the history of Chicago in my 2024 talk about pixel fonts.)
And it is old enough that this isn’t just interim names for surviving fonts – it’s actually quite a few old fonts that didn’t make it to the release day.
Unfortunately, this particular version of Macintosh software remains unknown, but one similar pre-release version of the first Mac software leaked, and so we can take a look at some of these fonts, too:
(You can download a lot of these fonts thanks to the hard work of John Duncan. They are still bitmap fonts and might not work in all the places in modern macOS, but they seem to work in TextEdit at least.)
Here’s what I learned from looking at this list:
You can definitely see how unpolished some of these fonts are in terms of spacing, letterforms, and available sizes – kudos to the team for holding a high quality bar even though there was little precedent for proportional fonts on home computers at that time.
Even the fonts that shipped – London (née Old English), Venice (née Cursive), and Chicago (née System) – have had their letterforms tweaked and improved.
Chicago is not named Elefont, but simply System. Had the System name persisted, this Medium snafu from 2015 would have been even more hilarious.
Cream came all the way from Xerox’s Smalltalk and was the original system font for Macintosh-in-progress, before Susan Kare created Elefont/Chicago.
PaintFont was a symbol/icon font, but distinct from Cairo and emoji in that it seems it was meant to be used only by the app to draw its interface. (Today, SF Symbols serve a similar purpose.)
Apple originally planned to use Times Roman and Helvetica, but this hasn’t happened presumably because of licensing issues. Only years later, the proper Times and Helvetica fonts were introduced. Here’s a comparison:
But the most interesting thing I haven’t noticed before are two fonts called “Marie Osmond” and “Patti.”
I am reaching outside of my well of knowledge here, but from context clues I’ll assume the latter means Patti LaBelle. And so, pulling on that thread, it’s kind of cool to imagine an alternate universe where the original Mac fonts are neither suburban Philly stations, nor well known cities, but something like this:
Some of the technical details inside are obsolete, but the story might still be fun. (Plus, it seems like at every job I have, I eventually stumble upon a bug that brings back something from the annals of history. Here’s one from 2019.)
The Parc mouse cursor appearance was done (actually by me) because in a 16x16 grid of one-bit pixels (what the Alto at Parc used for a cursor) this gives you a nice arrowhead if you have one side of the arrow vertical and the other angled (along with other things there, I designed and made many of the initial bitmap fonts).
Then it stuck, as so many things in computing do.
And boy, did it stick.
But let’s rewind slightly. The first mouse pointer during the Doug Engelbart’s 1968 Mother Of All Demos was an arrow faced straight up, which was the obvious symmetrical choice:
(You can see two of them, because Engelbart didn’t just invent a mouse – he also thought of a few steps after that, including multiple people collaborating via mice.)
But Kay’s argument was that on a pixelated screen, it’s impossible to do this shape justice, as both slopes of the arrow will be jagged and imprecise. (A second unvoiced argument is that the tip of the arrow needs to be a sharp solitary pixel, but that makes it hard to design a matching tail of the cursor since it limits your options to 1 or 3 or 5 pixels, and the number you want is probably 2.)
Kay’s solution was straightening the left edge rather than the tail, and that shape landed in Xerox Alto in the 1970s:
Interestingly enough, the top facing cursor returned as one of the variants in Xerox Star, the 1981 commercialized version of Alto…
…but Star failed, and Apple’s Lisa in 1983 and Mac in 1984 followed in Alto’s footsteps instead. Then, 1985’s Windows 1.0 grabbed a similar shape – only with inverted colors – and the cursor has looked the same ever since.
That’s not to say there weren’t innovations since (mouse trails useful on slow LCD displays of the 1990s, shake to locate that Apple added in 2015), or the more recent battles with the hand mouse pointer popularized by the web.
But the only substantial attempt at redesigning the mouse pointer that I am aware of came from Apple in 2020, during the introduction of trackpad and mousing to the iPad. The mouse pointer a) was now a circle, b) morphed into other shapes, and c) occasionally morphed into the hovered objects themselves, too:
The 40-minute deep dive video is, today, a fascinating artifact. On one hand, it’s genuinely exciting to see someone take a stab at something that’s been around forever. Evolving some of the physics first tried in Apple TV’s interface feels smart, and the new inertia and magnetism mechanics are fun to think about.
But the high production value and Apple’s detached style robs the video of some authenticity. This is “Capital D Design” and one always has to remain slightly suspicious of highly polished design videos and the inherent propensity for bullshit that comes with the territory. Strip away the budget and the arguments don’t fully coalesce (why would the same principles that made text pointer snap vertically not extend to its horizontal movement?), and one has to wonder about things left unsaid (wouldn’t the pointer transitions be distracting and slow people down?).
Yet, I am speaking with the immense benefit of hindsight. Actually using that edition of the mouse pointer on my iPad didn’t feel like the revolution suggested, and barely even like an evolution. (Seeing Apple TV’s tilting buttons for the first time was a lot more enthralling.) And, Apple ended up undoing a bunch of the changes five years later anyway. The pointer went back to a familiar Alan Kay-esque shape…
We looked at just bringing the traditional arrow pointer over from the Mac, but that didn’t feel quite right on iPadOS. […] There’s an inconsistency between the precision of the pointer and the precision required by the app. So, while people generally think about the pointer in terms of giving you increased precision compared to touch, in this case, it’s helpful to actually reduce the precision of the pointer to match the user interface.
2025:
Everything on iPad was designed for touch. So the original pointer was circular in shape, to best approximate your finger in both size and accuracy. But under the hood, the pointer is actually capable of being much more precise than your finger. So in iPadOS 26, the pointer is getting a new shape, unlocking its true potential. The new pointer somehow feels more precise and responsive because it always tracks your input directly 1 to 1.
(That “somehow” in the second video is an interesting slip up.)
I hope this doesn’t come across as making fun of the presenters, or even of the to-me-overdesigned 2020 approach. We try things, sometimes they don’t work, and we go back to what worked before.
I just wish Apple opened itself up a bit more; there are limits to the “we’ve always been at war with Eastasia” PR approach they practice in these moments, and I would genuinely be curious what happened here: Did people hate the circular pointer? Was it hard to adopt by app developers? Was it just a random casualty of Liquid Glass’s visual style, or perhaps the person who was the biggest proponent of it simply left Apple? We could all learn from this.
But the most interesting part to me is the resilience of the slanted mouse pointer shape. In a post-retina world, one could imagine a sharp edge at any angle, and yet we’re stuck with Kay’s original sketch – refined to be sure, but still sporting its slightly uncomfortable asymmetry.
But specifically one comment under that video caught my attention:
Honestly, I’ve never thought of the mouse cursor as an arrow, but rather its own shape. My mind was blown when I realized that it was just an arrow the whole time.
…because maybe this is actually the answer. Maybe the mouse pointer went on the same journey floppy disk icon did, and transcended its origins. It’s not an arrow shape anymore. It’s the mouse pointer shape,and it forever will be.
Many of you have probably heard the repeated story of the first Moon landing in 1969 almost getting undone by a bunch of onboard computer glitches:
There could not be a worse time in the flight to have computer problems. At, the time the press gleefully reported how Armstrong seized manual control from a crippled and failing onboard computer and managed to heroically and single-handedly land the spaceship on the surface of the Moon against all odds.
Robert Wills argues against this narrative in this 2020 talk, wanting to shine a spotlight away from Neil Armstrong and toward people who designed the software (among them Margaret Hamilton), and the mission control’s Steve Bales, who made a decision not to abort the launch as the 1201 and 1202 errors were piling up.
The argument: the computer was working as intended, it fixed itself over and over again owing to its clever software, and it actually helped Buzz Aldrin understand (at least subconsciously) what led to the seemingly random and distracting computer errors.
The above is more of a traditional talk than the videos I usually share – a bit more technical, taking up an entire hour, and with generic slides – but it’s buoyed by Wills’s enthusiasm and knowledge.
Besides, it’s lunar landing! Did you know about DSKY and its fascinating keyboard and UI? Did you know the spacecraft’s window was part of the interface, too? Or that its software was woven into the hardware? Or that the Apollo 11 had a… guillotine in it?
An unsung hero of the decision not to abort the landing is Richard Koos, a NASA simulation supervisor who […] 11 days before the launch of Apollo 11, put the team of controllers including Bales […] through a simulation that intentionally triggered a 1201 alarm. […] Unable to figure out what the 1201 was, Bales aborted that simulated landing. He and Flight Director Gene Kranz were dressed down for it by Koos, who put the team through four more hours of training the next day specifically on program alarms. When the 1202 and 1201 alarms occurred during the actual landing, Garman, Bales, and even Duke recognized them immediately.
I mentioned VisiCalc not long ago and Lotus 1-2-3 just this week. Yesterday, a new issue of Stone Tools came out, nicely tying the story together.
Stone Tools is a project by Christopher Drum where he grabs old productivityapps, spools up the correct emulator, and writes a review from today’s perspective. I like the emulation part – Drum even provides specific instructions so you could do it, too – and the fact he’s actually putting the tools through their paces.
The reviews can probably be a bit intense if you are unfamiliar with the territory, but you will be rewarded with a lot more detail than just casual understanding of these apps. Reading about VisiCalc first and 1-2-3 second really drives home how “VisiCalc walked so 1-2-3 could run” and it’s fun to see the beginnings of spreadsheet conventions that we take for granted today, for example $ absolute addressing:
In VisiCalcI’m prompted for a “relative or fixed?” decision for every cell reference in every target cell. Replicate a formula with 5 cell references across a column of 100 cells and be ready to answer 5 x 100 prompts. Unfortunate and unavoidable.
Like always, one can find inspiration in surprising places. In the review of Lotus 1-2-3, there’s this interesting tidbit:
The more I encounter [the horizontal menu-bar], the more I wonder if we gave up on it too soon. This could be “blogger overly immersed in their subject matter” brain, but I’m growing to oftentimes prefer two-line horizontal menus over modern GUI menus. […]
It also provides something GUI menus don’t: an immediate explanation of a menu item before committing its action to the document. If a menu item is not a sub-menu, line two describes it. It’s easy to audit features in an unknown program.
I have just been pondering that maybe we moved away from status bars and question mark (Windows)/balloon (Mac) help too soon – pretty much everything these days relies on tooltips – and this slotted right into that.
Anyway. Drum seems to be having fun with the project, and I appreciate that. There are little custom visuals and jokes in every post. Also, as an example, you can download an absolutely delightful recreation of VisiCalc called PicoCalc and run it on your Mac. I have never expected a spreadsheet to be so cute:
And it’s not just most well-known tools. What astonished me in the review of Scala Multimedia in January is how absolutely gorgeous the software (which I’ve never seen before) looked:
It’s hard to imagine it now, but during iPhone’s first year, no emoji were available at all. It took four years until 2011’s iOS 5 gave everyone an emoji keyboard.
But in between 2008 and 2011, there existed a peculiar interregnum where emoji were only available on Japanese iPhones. The situation had to be carefully explained and caveated:
Eventually, an enterprising developer realized that emoji outside Japan was as easy as toggling a UI-less preference with a great name KeyboardEmojiEverywhere, hiding inside the innards of the iPhone:
Except, “easy” is in the eye of the beholder. This was still a few too many hoops to jump for an average iPhone user. So, developers figured out that there could be an app for that: the above preference incantation wrapped inside an application with an easy UI, and put in the burgeoning App Store.
The interesting part is that Apple initially fought some of these efforts, by rejecting a Freemoji app and likely a few others. (Not sure if this was about emoji specifically, or more principally about losing control.)
The developers had to get sneaky, and started hiding emoji enablers inside other apps. A $0.99 “RSS reader for a Chinese Macintosh news site” called FrostyPlace unlocked emoji by “simply pok[ing] around in it for a minute or so by tapping in and out of an article and playing with the two buttons at the bottom of its screen. That part is important, so be sure to do some genuine tapping.”
The author called it an “easter egg” and even wrote candidly at the end of instructions that “you can also delete Spell Number if you don’t want it, the setting will still be here.” (The number also had to change from 9876543.21 to 91929394.59 at some point, perhaps to evade… something?)
Eventually, Apple seemingly gave up – Ars Technica has a fun interview from 2009 from someone who renamed their app from Typing Genius to “Typing Genius – Get Emoji” and got away with it:
Ars: As the screenshot at the start of this post shows, you haven’t been shy about advertising the Emoji support over at App Store. Are you worried that adding Emoji to your application might have negative consequences? Are you worried about Apple pulling it from App Store?
Fung: I’m obviously taking a risk here by advertising Emoji directly on iTunes. That being said, I’m not the first. Worst case scenario, I’ll update the application with Emoji support removed. I’m hoping that Apple will turn a blind eye to this because I can’t see any harm done in allowing users to use Emoji.
Not quite “I am ready to do some time for the good cause,” but close enough.
Yet, it still took until 2011 for emoji support to be universally available with iOS 5, and even then you had to enable the keyboard in settings.
I like this little story of a mysterious latent cool new thing hiding inside your device, a thing that you could unlock only if you followed some seemingly nefarious instructions that never fully made sense but that actually worked.
An interesting tidbit: At least early on in 2008, for emoji to work both the sender and the recipient had to follow the instructions. So the toggle wasn’t just about adding a keyboard, but also enabling the decoding and rendering. (And complicating things further, iPhone’s Japanese keyboard had emoticons, and that keyboard was widely available without any hacks. The difference between emoji and emoticons was not obvious to many people, leading to a lot of extra confusion.)
Lastly, a fun sidebar: I asked about all this an old internet buddy, Steven Troughton-Smith, whom I remembered back from my GUIdebook days, and who still routinely posts fun hacks and discoveries about Apple platforms on Mastodon. I thought “Steven might remember that story; he seems like the kind of person who’d at least know how to find an answer.” Turns out, my hunch was better than I thought: Steven was the enterprising developer who actually discovered how to give emoji to any iPhone, all the way back in 2008.
The year is 1981. Your IBM PC is equipped with a tragic speaker that sounds awful for anything except occasional beeps. (Those beeps sound awful, too.)
You can’t afford a sound card and besides, sound cards for your PC have not been invented yet. You can’t even afford a floppy drive, so you’re one of the rare people who actually uses an audio cassette player as a storage device – a technique usually reserved for more primitive machines that have half the bits your new PC does.
But there’s a silver lining. Your cassette player has a little relay that controls its motor. You can engage and disengage the relay at will.
So, someone figured out that toggling the relay kind of sounds like a metronome. Like percussion. It’s a hack, but in the sonic landscape inhabited solely by your sorry speaker, it’s a breath of fresh air (scroll to 7:26 if you don’t land there automatically):
The year is 2026. Your computer itself is the size of an audio cassette, fits in your pocket, has better storage, graphics, sound, pretty much everything compared to a 1981 PC. It even has a special haptic motor. Except, that motor can only be controlled by native apps, and there is no official API to do it from a browser.
But there’s a silver lining. Tapping any checkbox on a site generates a haptic pulse. And that apparently works even if the checkbox is hidden and if thecomputer is doing the tapping.
I love these kinds of hacks, and I wonder what’s going to happen to this one. Will it fly under a radar, or will some websites start abusing it? If so, will Safari clamp it down, or will it actually give people a proper API for haptics?
One of the most mysterious keys on the PC keyboard has always been Scroll Lock, joining Caps Lock and Num Lock to create the instantly recognizable LED triumvirate:
Scroll Lock was reportedly specifically added for spreadsheets, and it solved a very specific problem: before mice and trackpads, and before fast graphic cards, moving through a spreadsheet was a nightmare. Just like Caps Lock flipped the meaning of letter keys, and Num Lock that of the numeric keypad keys, Scroll Lock attempted to fix scrolling by changing the nature of the arrow keys.
This is normal arrow key usage in Lotus 1-2-3, doing what you’d expect, if likely a bit slower:
And this is Lotus 1-2-3 with Scroll Lock enabled. Here, the arrows do not move the cursor, but move the spreadsheet:
In time, scrollbars helped with the problem, then mice with wheels solved it in one direction, and then trackpads in both. (Although even though my 2025 Windows laptop doesn’t have a Scroll Lock key, its onscreen keyboard does, and the key still works in Excel.)
But, I grew to believe that UI problems never fully die, and often come back dressed up in new clothes.
This is the TV app on my Apple TV, doing movement as you’d expect:
But Netflix a while back picked a different approach – scrolling almost as if Scroll Lock was on:
More recently, I saw that approach spread to HBO Max and YouTube apps as well:
Is this good? To me personally, the Scroll Lock-esque approach feels strange and claustrophobic. I see the (hypothetical) value of keeping the selection in one place, but the downsides are more pronounced: things feel lopsided, going back in this universe is flying blind, and the system creates strange situations at the edges, where Scroll Lock struggled as well.
And yet, given I just dated myself by reminiscing Lotus 1-2-3, I’m curious how it feels to others.
Beagle Bros was a 1980s software company making apps for Apple II that is still remembered fondly for their personality.
The company had a hobbyist slant, selling various small tools and collections with fun names like Beagle Bag (in the “Indoor Sports” collection) and DOS Boss and Utility City – similar perhaps to Norton Utilities on the PC side, but with a lot more fun and charisma. This is one of their loading screens, also showing both their recognizable logo and their endearing quirkiness:
How do you understand a man who has three clocks on his wall, showing the time in three different cities-San Diego, Fresno, and Seattle-all, of course, showing the same time (″If anything changes in those cities, we’ll know about it”)?
(I find the anachronistic combination of hedcuts and dot matrix printer typography particularly fascinating.)
Some of their software was more serious; Beagle Bros released many useful tools and even text editing and presentation apps. They also made practical posters:
But other stuff…? It was just goofing off:
How does this relate to craft and quality?
There is this interesting question about how much product and marketing and vibes and lorecorrelate. Did we forgive Sierra On-Line the numerous flaws of their games because we liked the company? Do we love Panic because we like what they do, or because of how they do it? Did Google put doodles on its homepage to distract people from more nefarious things, or because it just felt like a fun way to celebrate things? Is there such a thing as pure selflessness? What is the nature of free will?
Those are, perhaps, topics for future posts.
But Beagle Bros must have been doing something right if there is still a living, elaborate catalog of their works online, 40+ years later. Jeff Atwood also argued in 2015 that it was more than just fun – or that “fun” itself can give back in great ways:
Here were a bunch of goofballs writing terrible AppleSoft BASIC code like me, but doing it for a living – and clearly having fun in the process. Apparently, the best way to create fun programs for users is to make sure you had fun writing them in the first place.
But more than that, they taught me how much more fun it was to learn by playing with an interactive, dynamic program instead of passively reading about concepts in a book. […]
One of the programs on these Beagle Bros floppies, and I can’t for the life of me remember which one, or in what context this happened, printed the following on the screen: “One day, all books will be interactive and animated.”
I thought, wow. That’s it. That’s what these floppies were trying to be! Interactive, animated textbooks that taught you about programming and the Apple II! Incredible.
Steven Frank, the co-founder of Panic, wrote this in 1999, with similar themes:
You never knew exactly what you were going to get. I remember one program listing printed on the side of a bird that, when run, produced a series of wild chirping noises from the Apple’s speaker. And this was from a program that was only five to ten lines long. As a neophyte BASIC programmer myself, I was stunned and amazed. How could you make something this cool with this small amount of code? […]
Beagle Bros’ tools were fantastic. They literally let you do the (allegedly) impossible, like change the names of operating system commands. And they always packed the disks full with extra stuff. Demos of their other products, and strange graphics hacks that existed for no reason other than the fact that they were cool, and because there was spare room on the disk. Beagle Bros. had a lot to do with why I ever wanted to learn programming in the first place. […]
I’ll never forget the book. […] The book was a huge compilation of all around interesting stuff. Weird Apple II tricks that were pointless, but endlessly fascinating. Like the fact that there were extra offscreen pixels of lo-res graphics memory that you could write to, that never got displayed. Or how to put “impossible” inverted or flashing characters into your disk directory listing. Or how to modify system error messages. Not very useful, but really fun to know and really, really cool to mess with. My dad was convinced I was going to somehow break the computer with all this hacking, but a simple reboot always fixed everything.
(I swear I did think of Panic above as a spiritual successor to Beagle Bros without knowing that their work literally inspired one of the Panic’s founders!)
The subtlety: They had utilities which would produced formatted Basic listings and they would give example output of these utlities in their ads and catalogs. It was quite a while before I realized that most of those examples were not program excerpts, but complete programs which of course contained the Beagle Bros signature weirdness. And then there were the seemingly innocent hex dumps. My favorite was from the cover of one of their catalogs, which had a classic picture of this fellow sitting in a chair. On the floor next to him is a handbag with a piece of tractor paper sticking out. On the paper is a hex dump: 48 45 4C 50 21 20 and so on, which are ASCII codes that spell out the message: “HELP! GET ME OUT! I’M TRAPPED IN HERE!----SOPHIE”
After the work the company had done on AppleWorks 3.0, Simonsen felt ready to jump into the Macintosh market with a “Mac AppleWorks” of their own – they called it Beagle Works. Unfortunately, other companies – giants in the Mac market such as Microsoft, Claris, and Symantec – had the same idea. Their resources were far greater than Beagle Bros had imagined, and the race was costly.
The gamble killed the company. It’s likely that the changing software market would anyway.
But the years before seem to still inspire some people. Check out the Beagle Bros Repository – the homepage is a bit confusing (I think it prominently shows last-updated or last-added things for some reason?), but just use the nav at the top. Maybe it will inspire you, too.
When you start a new game in SimCity 2000 (you can try it in the browser yourself), as the city is generated, you see a few messages fly by: Creating Hills, Tracing Rivers, Smoothing. Among them, for a bit, one can see “Reticulating Splines”:
“Reticulating splines” is a giant pulling of our legs. Will and some others made up the phrase because they thought it looks and sounds as if it means something. It might: the word “reticulate” means to divide something so that it looks like, or appears to be, a net or a network generating, perhaps, from a single point; a “spline” can be an irregular curve or the approximation of a curve. Individually the terms have meaning. Together – in the case of SimCity 2000 – they don’t. It’s just a prank and a joke.
In some versions of the game, there was also a seductive woman’s voice saying the phrase out loud, which presumably made it even more memorable.
The phrase moved to other Maxis games, notably The Sims…
I’ve heard the argument that it wasn’t just Reticulating Splines – that Will Wright’s joke was the beginning of the habit of putting “cute” loading messages in apps, including actual not-game and definitely-not-cute applications. I am 100% sure there are some earlier examples of “funny” loading or error states, but I also see how this one attained a certain critical mass and influence.
I hate these cute loading strings with passion. I think I’m in the minority. It’s a topic for a future time, but it was fun at least to trace some part of its history, sifting through hundreds of pages earnestly explaining the concept of “reticulating splines” to people. Whether they’re in on the joke, I am not sure.
Also, okay. Fair enough. I chuckled just now when I saw this:
The breathing light – officially “Sleep Indicator Light” – debuted in the iconic iBook G3 in 1999.
It was originally placed in the hinge, but soon was moved to the other side for laptops, and eventually put in desktop computers too: Power Mac, the Cube, and the iMac.
The green LED was replaced by a white one, but “pulsating light indicates that the computer is sleeping” buried the nicest part of it – the animation was designed to mimic human breathing at 12 breaths per minute, and feel comforting and soothing:
Living through that era, it was interesting to see improvements to this small detail.
The iMac G5 gained a light sensor under the edge of the display in part so that the sleep indicator light wouldn’t be too bright in a dark room (and for older iMacs, the light would just get dimmer during the night based on the internal clock).
In later MacBooks, the light didn’t even have an opening. The aluminum was thinned and perforated so it felt like the sleep light was shining through the metal:
And, for a while, Apple promoted their own display connector that bundled data and power – but also bundled a bit of data, which allowed to do this:
Back when I had a Powermac G4 plugged into an Apple Cinema Display, I noticed something that was never advertised. When the Mac went to sleep, the pulsing sleep light came on, of course, but the sleep light on the display did too... in sync with the light on the Mac. I’ve tested that so many times, and it was always the same; in sync.
Just a little detail that wouldn’t sell anything, but just because.
To do this I shifted the first gaussian curve to that its domain starts at 0 and remains positive. Since the time domain is 5 seconds total and the I:E ratio is known, it was trivial to pick the split point and therefore the mean. By manipulating sigma I was able to get the desired up-take and fall-off curves; by manipulating factor “c” I was able to control for peak intensity.
But at that point, in the first half of 2010s, the breathing light was gone, victim to the same forces that removed the battery indicator and the illuminated logo on the lid.
I know each person would find themselves elsewhere on the line from “the light was overkill to begin with” to “I wished to see what they would do after they introduced that invisible metal variant.”
I know where I would place myself.
This blog is all about celebrating functional and meaningful details, and there were practical reasons for the light to be there. This was in the era where laptops often died in their sleep – so knowing your computer was actually sleeping safe and sound was important – and the first appearance of the light after closing the lid meant that the hard drives were parked and the laptop could be moved safely.
The breathing itself, however, was purely a humanistic touch, and I miss that quirkiness of this little feature. If a save icon can survive, surely so could the breathing light.
Palette cycling is an interesting technique borne out of limitations of old graphic cards. Today, any pixel can have any color it wants. In the 1970s and 1980s, you were limited to just a few fixed colors: as few as 2 for monochrome displays, or 4, or 8, or – if you were lucky – 16. Some of those fixed palettes, like CGA’s, became iconic:
But there was an interesting hybrid period in between then and now where you still were only allowed 4 or 8 or 16 or 256 color choices in total, but you could assign any of these at will from a much bigger palette.
So, as an example, each one of these three is made out of 16 colors, but each one is 16 different colors:
Moving pixels was slow. But palette swaps were so fast and easy, that it led to a technique known as palette cycling. This is probably the best-known example, from an Atari ST program called NEOchrome.
Despite so much apparent movement, no pixels are changing location, as that’d be prohibitively slow in 1985. Only the palette is changing. If you watch the same animation with the UI visible, you can clearly see which colors are “static,” and which are moving around:
But this was 1985, so why I am mentioning it 40 years later?
I like looking at old computers for a few reasons. Some of these seeminly-ancient techniques are inspiring and remind me that the limitations are often in the eye of the beholder. Seeing someone really good pushing a platform to its limits is just a good thing to load into your neurons – this could be you next time! And, believe it or not, some tips and tricks can still be relevant.
For example, this is a 9-minute video by Steffest from just earlier this year that walks through a modern attempt to make a palette cycling animation, including starting on an iPad:
The end result goes much harder than I expected. It was interesting to see again the technique of dithering to simulate transparency (we’ve seen it before, but this one is more advanced). But what particularly stood out to me here was the artist making his own little tools to aid in the creative process; I’ve always loved the notion that a computer is really just meant to be an accelerant, making it easy for you to avoid drudgery.
I was randomly checking the Wikipedia entry for killer apps – apps that were so good that they single-handedly made people buy a particular hardware platform just to run them (Wii Sports for Nintendo Wii, Super Mario 64 for Nintendo 64, and so on).
There are some interesting nuggets in there I didn’t know, like Sibelius (music software) being a system seller for the British computer Acorn Archimedes, Xevious doing the same for Famicom (I had no idea Xevious, as beautiful as it is, was so huge!), and Steve Jobs focusing so much on making calls on the first iPhone. How quickly we started taking visual voicemail for granted…
But I was surprised not to see killer apps for Fortnite, Minecraft, Roblox, or even Mac OS X. Does the concept of killer apps not work anymore? Is iMessage a killer app for those who want blue bubbles, but it’s much harder for us to know that?
(I’m also curious about a parallel list of botched updates: Digg in 2010, Sonos in 2024, the “simplified” iMovie ’08 and Final Cut Pro X, Liquid Glass, as some of them ended up being anti-killer apps. I don’t immediately see anything like this online, but it could be an interesting series of posts to analyze those more carefully, going past schadenfreude or ridicule.)
Also, it made me think of one of my favourite ads. It’s for VisiCalc, the first computer spreadsheet, and the first-ever killer app. The ad was unassuming, small, in a corner of a 1979 computer magazine. But, in hindsight, what a prescient and brilliant question: How did you ever do without it?
We take spreadsheets for granted, too, but chills. Literal chills.
I’m slightly suspicious of this story (and the video inside) that Unix commands were made so short (cp instead of copy, mv instead of move, ls instead of list, and so on) because the console keyboard had really unpleasant keys.
I imagine it must be a confluence of many things, not just this one. Shorter means faster even with amazing keyboards. Shorter also means the commands travel quicker over the slow modems of the era. The downsides were limited: the early nerdy user base of Unix could handle the extra confusion.
On the other hand – no pun intended – I typed on the keyboard on the picture and I can confirm it is absolutely, positively atrocious, with the tallest keys you have possibly seen:
At any rate, it’s a good a reminder of the power of motor memory, and the difficulty of change management. Even the worst keyboards imaginable are so much better now, and the modems so much faster. And yet, the short and confusing commands remain to this day.
83% of participants associated the floppy disk icon with saving. […] Another 13% described this object literally with responses such as “disk,” “disc,” or “this is an SD card for storing information.” These responses were not coded as “save,” but still suggest familiarity with the image.
What a fascinating journey! The icon didn’t change at all, but its perception went from being a literal representation of a familiar object, to a skeuomorph once floppies were replaced by hard drives, to then a symbolic representation of physical media in general (a lot of people think it’s an SD card – or perhaps even that floppy disks and SD cards are one and the same), to increasingly just an abstract symbol that represents saving as a concept, registering similarly to the circular arrows for syncing, and an arrow pointing south for downloading.
NN/Group is itself kind of a floppy disk, trying to walk a fine line between their legacy and reinventing themselves. They’re dismissed by many as old-school, academic, boring enterprise software aficionados, relics of a different era. I see some of that and often disagree with them, but I also sometimes appreciate their rigor, reliance on user studies, and outright dismissal of fashion in UI design. I want to revisit their site in more detail and see how I feel about it today, 30 years after Jakob Nielsen’s books rocked my world.
Everybody who routinely takes screenshots on a Mac knows very well the motor memory heaven and hell that are the screenshotting shortcuts: ⌘⇧3 to grab the whole screen, ⌘⇧4 to grab part of it, hold ⌃ ahead of time to put the result in the clipboard, press space at the right moment to select a window, hold ⌥ at a different time to remove a shadow, and so on. (Yes, there’s more.)
It’s strange to talk about those shortcuts, because the world is divided into two groups: people who have never used any of these because they are the scariest shortcuts that induce RSI if you just think about them, and people who have used them for so long that their fingers do all the work. Either group would struggle with writing the above paragraph – as did I, needing to watch my hands first, and then take notes.
But: why do the shortcuts start with 3? After all, ⌘⇧1 and ⌘⇧2 don’t seem to do anything.
That wasn’t always the case. Turns out that once upon a time Apple was trying to create a larger universe of nerdy shortcuts for your Mac. The effort is so old – they were introduced in 1986 – that ⌘⇧1 was added as a quick shortcut to… eject the floppy disk. And, since you could also have an external floppy drive, ⌘⇧2 was assigned to eject that, and the shortcuts for screenshots followed in sequence: ⌘⇧3 to save the screen, and ⌘⇧4 to send it straight to your printer. (Even then, there was already Caps Lock thrown into the mix, too, switching between the entire screen and the current window.)
Early BASIC programmers knew to separate their line numbers by 10 because there will always be a line you want to insert in between, but keyboard shortcut designers do not have that luxury.
And so the nice system backfired immediately. Some Macs started coming with two built-in floppy drives, but still allowed you to plug in an external one. What would you press to eject that?
Well, of course it had to be ⌘⇧0, since ⌘⇧3 was already taken.
(In an absolutely delicious bit of rhyming, the 0 key itself is on the “wrong” side of most keyboards – except Hungarian – because it was added to keyboards before the 1 key was! It felt more natural to put it after 9 than right before 2.)
Things were quiet for a while. Floppies disappeared over time. Only in 2018, Apple evolved the old Grab app that it inherited from NeXT into a Screenshot app, and assigned it a new shortcut, ⌘⇧5. That was a nice improvement – video recording, a very helpful timer, a few smaller options, and a bit of a GUI thrown atop for convenience.
There are a bunch of system and change management lessons in here, but I want to talk about something else I just learned about.
Acorn 8, a graphic app, has a delightful screenshotting feature parked under ⌘⇧7 that does something incredible: it takes a screenshot, but does so in a way where windows are separate layers, grouped by app. It’s amazing; you can re-compose stuff afterwards, reveal covered stuff, remove windows, even change the wallpaper. A mouse cursor arrives too in its own tiny layer, like a cherry on top.
I’m sharing this both because I gather people who read this blog take a lot of screenshots – but also because this is software craft. I know “delightful” is (mis—? ab—?)used to refer to beautiful but slow transitions, and cute but distracting UI copy, but this is the stuff of true delight: using newly abundant technology to actually do something useful, and rewrite the rules of something that hasn’t been touched for ages, in a way that feels magical. There is still room for improvement – notably, you cannot just fire and forget a screenshot straight into your filesystem – but I find this kind of stuff inspiring.
I also know what you’re thinking: hey, what happened to ⌘⇧6? I’m not going to tell you. It’s probably not that hard to google it, but maybe you’ll enjoy trying to guess like I did. What was a feature of Macs that arrived after 2018 that Apple would want you to forget about even more so than the floppy disks?
It taught me many things and it clarified that things were more complicated than they seemed. Windows Vista (widely seen as failure) perhaps wasn’t so bad, and 7 (quoted by many as the best Windows ever) was not that far away from Vista, down to its internal version number being 6.1 to Vista’s 6.0.
It’s also interesting to reflect on this today, when macOS is having its own Vista moment.
There is also a follow-up video on Windows 8, the possibly most consequential Windows release of that era, with product decisions that reverberate still today.
Main takeaway: An entire book could be written and a lifetime of lessons learned from Microsoft’s “.1” releases.
A 6-minute video from JHR about the 1980s British game Jet Set Willy, a big prize for its completion, the bug that made it unplayable, the copy protection, the hackers, and the mess of it all.
I have been wondering the other day why aren’t there more mouse pointer museums and here’s one – Amiga Pointer Archive! (Amiga was a 16-bit home computer especially popular in Europe.)
Doesn’t work so well on mobile, but it’s fun on desktop. I recommend zooming the page to 200%.
Every so often, a wonderful thing happens: someone young enough to have missed out on using computers in the early 1990s is introduced to the Windows 3.1 “Hot Dog Stand” color scheme.
I can’t figure out whether Gruber’s take (“That’s Microsoft.”) is also a subtle jab at Apple in the year of Liquid Glass.
Also, great first comment under the original post:
I assume “Plasma Power Saver” served an actual purpose - it was intended for users of “portable” machines having a gas plasma display. Early ones were monochrome (orange) and I guess the actual color hue didn’t matter so much as the intensity.
It used to be that when you dragged an item off the Dock and dropped it, the icon would disappear in a puff of smoke and make a satisfying noise. The animation was strangely primitive against the backdrop of the slick user interface of what used to called Mac OS X.
I too wondered why that animation was weirdly amateurish, almost like a placeholder. Well,
One of the most talented engineers on the team took out a piece of paper. I wish I could say it was a napkin to make the story better. ¶ On the piece of paper, he drew a series of five frames. The intention of the designer was that these drawings would stoke further discussion. That it would get cleaned up and refined later. ¶ But that never happened. It shipped as is. And the rest is history.
VisiOn loves to beep at the user. It beeps every time a menu option is chosen or an on-screen button is clicked.
If you are tired of the noise, you’d appreciate that Application Manager has an option to replace the sound with a “visual beep”. It is implemented as a flashing area of 32x16 pixels around the mouse cursor. Every time the flashing is about to happen, an image “below” the cursor is preserved in RAM to be restored after the “visual beep” is over. However, the memory allocated for this bitmap is never freed. It takes between 200 and 1000 clicks to fill the RAM with useless copies of the mouse cursor, and then the system crashes.
If you have never heard of VisiOn, The Digital Antiquarian has a fun walkthrough that also happens to be the first chapter of an excellent series about the history of graphical user interfaces.
