The video is just 45 seconds, and the following short thread is filled with a few other fun details of Conde’s app Hand Mirror. Particularly this one caught my attention – an about page mimicking software coming in physical boxes:
There’s a lot more delight and perhaps even sugar in these than I usually link to – but hey, it’s Monday.
I mentioned Atari’s Pong recently, a game often considered to be the first videogame ever. It wasn’t, and as a matter of fact, it was a clone of one of the games from the first home console Magnavox Odyssey, released earlier in 1972:
I found it a very interesting case study. The Odyssey had a version of Pong before Pong – but it also had many other games that could be charitably described as “Pongs in disguise.”
It all feels very, very convoluted for such a simple concept. You have to insert the right cart, tape an overlay to your TV of a certain size (the roll of tape is included), and understand the complex and poorly written instructions in the manual. Then, during the play time, you’d have to master the very strange controllers (left dial – horizontal movement, right dial – vertical movement), often do a lot of work that the console didn’t do (keeping track of collisions, or even scoring!), and deal will all sorts of accessories in the real world, like included cards, dice, stickers, and so on.
You can admire the scope of this all – when life gives you Pong, you make a pongolade – but it all feels so clunky and convoluted, which the video catalogs in detail. But, in hindsight, it doesn’t matter if the included Pong (here, called Table Tennis) is good, right?
Reader, Table Tennis wasn’t good at all. It wasn’t just the strange controllers, but also the really weird logic where you could twist the ball already in flight:
Only looking at this made me realize, some 50+ years too late, the true power of Pong.
Pong didn’t bother with many games, with complicated rules, with the breadth of it all. It just did one thing really, really well.
For the Odyssey, it seemed like a lot of games were about mastering the controller. For Pong, it was only ever about mastering the game. The interface was simple: you have one dial, so rotate it. The game was fun to play, with its logic both challenging and predictable. The instructions were sparse and barely needed anyway. There was automatic scoring, which Odyssey didn’t have. There were also sounds – turns out, people really liked sounds.
The Odyssey was clearly an in-betweener, a complicated hybrid device weighed down by its well-intentioned maximalism. Pong was simple, attractive, optimized to the bone. I feel that it offers universal lessons, feeling eerily similar to iPod’s release in 2001 – focusing on just the few things that mattered, and doing them really, really well.
It’s a human story whose beats might be familiar to some of you: a long software project that ultimately failed despite the enormous effort. And it did so in an industry – high-budget videogames – where failures might feel particularly brutal: the projects take multiple years but the defeat can be swift, the servers get shut down and the game instantly evaporates, and instead of employees being reallocated to other games, the studio gets disbanded and people let go.
There are some nice moments in the podcast’s interviews with about a dozen people, hearing about personal pride and responsibility, working together with others, and a certain camaraderie not just with other people, but with their software that develops:
I think the best part about it was being able to play with my coworkers and then cutting loose, and being silly, and really enjoying what we made together, as a unit. That experience alone made it worth it.
There are also questions about the management’s role in all of this – this part we might never get to know fully – and the worry about game preservation.
This is not mentioned in the podcast, but it seems widely understood the story is about Concord, a AAA live-service game that is rumored to have cost a staggering $400 million dollars and taken 8 years to develop, only to be shut down mere 12 days after its launch in the late 2024. (AAA means a blockbuster with highest budgets seen by the industry, and live service means a game like Fortnite, which is expected to make money over time from add-ons and upgrades.)
Learning about Concord’s macro view adds a lot of color to the boots-on-the-ground podcast above, but one has to be careful exploring it; the online discourse about the game felt similar to the 2016 reboot of the movie Ghostbusters where sure, the product might have been subpar, but also a lot of commenters seemed eager to arrive to the conversation carrying truckloads of bad faith, gatekeeping, and misogyny.
Some good articles? Keza MacDonald in the Guardian has a nice summary of the whole situation:
This is a brutal sequence of events. Sony bought the makers of Concord, Firewalk Studios, in 2023. Concord had been in development for eight years, and it was an expensive game, with bespoke cinematics and a long-term plan that would have cost $100m or more to develop. In its two weeks on the market, it sold fewer than 25,000 copies, according to estimates. This is a shocker, even compared with the year’s other bad news for developers and studios.
MacDonald also adds:
Speaking personally, I do not want a game that takes years to play. I want one with something to say, an experience to impart, and one that eventually ends. A game whose artistry comes before its business model.
This is partly a matter of taste. Self-evidently, there is an enormous market for live-service multiplayer games; it’s just that most of those people are already playing one. I highly doubt that there are untapped millions of players desperate for a hero shooter or battle royale game who just haven’t found the right one yet. It’s time that publishers try something new instead.
With so many games now taking close to a decade from the beginning of development to release, we’re starting to see the financial and creative consequences of an overlong development cycle. Spend too much time in development and ideas that were once novel are no longer in vogue. Furthermore, the time and money spent over those years has to be recouped somehow, which leads to decisions like the $40 cost of entry for Concord when many of its peers are free to play.
The cost of coming late to the party means you must bring something new to the table. Unfortunately, Concord is neither particularly innovative nor content-heavy. That said, it does have a level of polish at launch that was often absent from its hero shooter peers when they were first released. Indeed, Concord’s weekly animation story drops are fully motion-capture, and Firewalk’s time spent on crafting its lore has helped secure Concord an episode of this winter’s video game animation anthology series, Secret Level.
But well-established hero shooters like EA’s Apex Legends launched almost bare bones and still managed to make a splash thanks to its intriguing central concept which combined hero loadouts with a battle royale match format. Valve’s Deadlock doesn’t even have finalized assets or art but has still caused a huge burst of excitement among the PC community, thanks to the way it changes up the classic 6v6 hero formula with its heavy lane-and-minions MOBA [Multiplayer Online Battle Arena—ed.] mechanics. By contrast Concord appeared with an all-too-familiar offering and, frankly, the time spent on finessing its presentation – the graphics, motion capture, performance, and so on – likely lead to a later release date which in turn meant it lost valuable time establishing itself among its peers. If it had been released four or five years ago, when the PS5 first came out, maybe its launch would have been an entirely different story.
I think this is important to quote on this blog that often talks about “finessing” and implicitly – or sometimes explicitly – about the value of taking time to get the details right. We can’t forget that there are such things as overdesigning and overproducing, and that ultimately there is no way to polish your way out of something that lacks a soul.
Some years ago, the inimitable channel Technology Connections posted a 17-minute video about the peculiar design quirk of ceiling and room fans – they usually order their options Off → High → Medium → Low rather than the more natural Off → Low → Medium → High. The video is a bit off topic for this channel, but check it out if you’re interested how sometimes weird physics considerations influence design in the real world:
In the video, the host also talks about the more natural order that typically looked like this:
I wonder if you recognize this kind of an interface. I have a distinct memory of it from radios (where “zero volume” would mean “off”) and from TVs/early computer displays (where “zero brightness” meant “off,” too). There was something special about these controls that stuck in my memory, motor and otherwise: this tangible, heavy click when you ventured outside or back into “off,” almost as if you had to break the interface itself.
I thought this, too, was a convention from an old analog time. Yet, I keep occasionally finding the “the first notch is special” interfaces on screen.
Sometimes, they are pretty literal translations of the concept, like when you adjust the key repeat rate in macOS:
Or, similarly, when you choose the dock magnification:
But sometimes they are a bit more conceptual. Here, Nova treats the first notch of the zoom scale as a “list” option:
Or: The new horizontal tabs in Chrome allow you to resize to whatever width you want. Below 125px, however, they snap directly to the minimum 55px width, a one-off “column view” with streamlined and purely iconographic controls:
These all have pros and cons, too.
On the con side, just like the fan or volume controls, they miss any memory since turning them off physically moves the knob away from any “value”; if on/off was a separate button, you could just leave the radio at your preferred volume and never touch it again. They also won’t be as discoverable as a separate onscreen toggle would be. (Here’s an example of a more classic treatment from the Nothing Phone.)
Pros? They are compact. They allow you to change from “off” to a value in one quick gesture, skipping an explicit “on” step. You could even argue they are simpler also in a visual sense.
But also, they are a bit… magical. I don’t know. That’s what to me unifies those old physical controls and their newer digital equivalents – they’re a little extra, a little different, a little special. They break the monotony of a predictable interface built out of boring, identical components. (Although, sadly, not a single onscreen example above uses haptics!)
And I think that’s kind of nice. Not just in the very functional sense of breaking up the UI through shape coding etc., but also in a sense of making UIs more interesting.
Speaking of volume, macOS used to show it as a sort of a HUD, using a treatment that borrowed from both the “first notch is special” radio knobs, and from early onscreen interfaces in TVs:
But after 20+ years, macOS Tahoe changed it so it now looks this way:
I can understand the argument that this is more consistent, and that it even teaches you – by proximity – that Control Center is what these controls call home. Yet I can’t help but think (and it seems I am not alone) that this is so boring and exactly how Windows would approach things – and that this change, just like the squared icons, is how macOS lost one more bit of magic.
Yet we should never forget that the product of work isn’t only the work — it’s also the worker. Doing the work changes you; the up-close experience transforms your capabilities and even your desires. Insights and ideas emerge from that interface, and I believe the agent maestros lose a lot — too much — when they take their big step back.
But I suppose this is just my temperament, which I’ve written about before. I don’t merely want things done; I want to do them.
I still don’t use any AI code in my work, but I have to review more and more of it these days. One of the things bothering me about that these days is just how lacking in personality that code is.
RenderMan is a code base which is now over forty years old. It is a collection of idiosyncratic styles written by equally idiosyncratic people.
I’ve been in this code base for 26+ years and I can recognize the author of many chunks simply by looking at indentation, comments, or coding style. And I can often map style to personality quirks of the author.
Dan McCoy’s code for converting general polyhedra from 1990 still survives today. Probably one of the few pieces of code left that actually has a for ( ; l; l = l->next) loop for linked lists. Dan is also the only person I’ve ever seen use the abbreviation R.N.G in comments.
Tom Duff is the inventor of the Duff Device, so you can imagine what kind of code he might write. But he also left a comment in the implicit field code which was a quote from the Preface to Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary, from 1755. That’s just who he is.
(In a fit of hubris, many years later when I refactored the code, I left an answering comment which was a quote from the Preface to Noah Webster’s “An American Dictionary of the English Language. I’m not sure Tom ever noticed this.)
I could go on and on about all of our recognizable quirks, but living in a code base with that history is like living in a Berkeley Craftsman home. It’s old, it’s creaky, okay, it’s missing AC and you’re probably going to die when it hits 100 in the summer (which happens all too often these days), but dammit, it’s charming and it’s artsy. […]
[With Claude-generated code] there’s no typo or quirk that immediately recalls an interesting whiteboard discussion in the author’s office. It’s just code and comments repeating what the code does.
Code is art. I work at a studio full of ungodly talented artists, but I will still die on this hill. Code is often messy and dirty and it’s a pain to create and get right but the results reflect the personality of the creator and the pain of the creation. Just like the rest of art. Sometimes you have to look at the source code to see that, but it’s there if you look for it, hidden beneath the surface.
In the era of the telegraph, a century ago, you could listen to the dits and the dahs and decode the literal message, but you could also pay attention to the rhythm and the timing and the quirks of someone’s particular finger on someone’s particular Morse key – and learn to recognize not just a particular person, but also, sometimes, even their mood. There are stories of Allied spies knowing exactly which of the German operators they surveilled (but never met in person) was sending messages at a given moment, just by learning their tapping style, known as “fist.”
I found it delightful to read Fong’s stories of his coworker programming fists.
In early 2023, Dan Olson at Folding Ideas made a scathing, smart, almost two-hour-long video essay about Decentraland, the metaverse that was one of the poster children of the web3 era:
Most of what Decentraland does, and what it fails to do, are things that would be considered forgivable or quaint in a Kickstarter MMO that had clearly bitten off more than the creators could ever chew, but given that this is a project founded on cryptocurrency, all of those foibles are laced with the language of finance and landlordism. Strolling down Decentraland’s spacious boulevards at 5 frames per second rewards the user with a seemingly endless parade of virtual billboards brightly proclaiming that the space you see is all available to rent.
In May this year, Nick Heer at Pixel Envy wrote a copiously annotated birds-eye overview of Meta’s metaverse attempts thus far, in an essay called The Metaverse Fever Dream:
Officially, Meta is still all-in on the concept around which it pivoted the entire company in 2021. It still has a whole marketing page proclaiming its belief “in the future of connection in the metaverse”. You can go shop its lineup of Quest headsets which Meta says represent the best and most immersive metaverse experience, though its flagship model is now two-and-a-half years old. It has awkwardly promoted its Ray-Bans as “A.I. glasses” despite them becoming the company’s most successful line of mixed reality products, and it is desperately trying to connect its newest muse of A.I. with its last one. The single mention of “metaverse” on its Q1 2026 earnings call (PDF) is when Zuckerberg claimed to be “excited for more of our metaverse efforts to be powered by the A.I. models we’re training as well”.
I linked to Meta’s metaverse reviewsbefore, but I thought these two (very) deep dives are great to invest in, side by side. Both of the failed metaverses look similar only on the surface. They were spun by very different organizations, started with different goals and premises, and their creative and maybe even ethical bankruptcies have a very different dimensionality.
In the context of this blog, it’s also interesting to reflect on how poorly they’re both made, which is extra fascinating given the disparity of budgets of the efforts. My guess would be something like this:
Mark Zuckerberg and Meta’s leadership do not understand design, so even though there might be a lot of talented designers at Meta, their efforts do not end up mattering as much.
Decentraland is ostensibly “open source” – or at least open-source-flavoured – and open source generally struggles with attracting talented designers.
These are two interesting and distinct failure modes – although, as the essays make abundantly clear, no amount of design talent, execution, or craft could turn successful an idea whose entire premise is a house of cards made out of newsprint-grade paper and magical thinking.
A computer science professor Paul Cantrell, on Mastodon:
Creative work keeps taking roughly the same amount of human labor / attention / care, even as new technologies accelerate or remove things that used to take time.
This is because creativity is fundamentally not an efficiency problem; process is not just the means of producing output, but rather a labor vessel that holds the near-invisible work that is truly important.
One can feel the care that goes into creative work without being aware of that work, or even being aware that work of that type exists at all. This feeling is approximate, loose, vague, but cumulative and eventually all-important; work with no care behind it wears thin and tends to fade as people live with it over time.
I constantly see some people praise it not for what actually makes it good, but by taking the things it’s bad at and turning them into a puzzle to have “fun” solving.
I’ve had people tell me how “fun” it was to build a macro to handle some one-off text-refactoring problem. But when I looked at what they were doing and how long it took, my honest reaction was: I could have done that in Sublime in a minute with multiple cursors, or just written a quick script. […]
That’s what I mean by “invisible tools”. When you’re proficient with your editor of choice—whatever it is—it disappears into the background. But the moment it cannot handle something easily, it stops being invisible. What baffles me is that so many people treat that friction—the effort of working around a tool’s limitations—as the “fun” part, and then advertise it as evidence that the tool is great. […]
The text-editor-macro anecdote I mentioned is really about a gap between feeling productive versus being productive. There’s a sensation of cleverness that comes from solving a fiddly problem, and it’s easy to mistake that feeling for actual output. A tool that makes hard things feel heroic and clever feel like an achievement can register as “powerful” while quietly being slow. The honest test isn’t how engaged or clever you felt, it’s wall-clock time and how many mistakes you made getting there.
This I had more of a mixed reaction to.
I think it’s necessary to expect from tools to get out of the way, but there’s also nothing wrong with having fun with them.
My simple go-to example is this: When writing code, I sometimes use Find & Replace All, and am done within a few keystrokes. But sometimes, I press Find and then replace one at a time, jumping methodically through the file, and seeing each string in situ before changing it. I know the tool could do it all for me. I know I could be more efficient. But this intentional slowing down allows me to refamiliarize myself with the code, visit its forgotten nooks and crannies, and make sure I understand where and how the thing I’m changing is actually used.
The editor I use allows me to not be efficient when I choose not to be. In my work, flow operates at different speeds; a good tool understands that and doesn’t force me into a particular one.
I think ultimately indeed, the tool does need to disappear, and make you be in charge of whatever speed you want to operate at, and how much friction or difficulty you choose to face (do you bump the lamp or not?). But it’s not as simple as always “reducing wall-clock time and mistakes.” Like Cantrell says above: Creativity is fundamentally not an efficiency problem.
My favourite was Shakespeare, in which the whole program resembles a play. Believe it or not, but this code outputs “HI”:
A New Beginning.
Hamlet, a literary/storage device.
Juliet, an orator.
Act I: The Only Act.
Scene I: The Prince's Speech.
[Enter Hamlet and Juliet]
Juliet: Thou art the sum of an amazing healthy honest noble peaceful
fine Lord and a lovely sweet golden summer's day. Speak your
mind!
[A pause]
Juliet: Thou art the sum of thyself and a King. Speak your mind!
Thou art the sum of an amazing healthy honest hamster and a golden
chihuahua. Speak your mind!
[Exeunt]
It was interesting for me to see programming languages that intentionally remove some of the niceties and affordances we learned to take for granted. My guess is most of them are just art, or jokes, or a certain one-upmanship. But I couldn’t help but think of Arika Okrent’s excellent book In The Land Of Invented Languages. The book is about “human” languages like Esperanto and Klingon, but it’s much more interesting than I imagined, and maybe even quite a bit sadder: a story of people afflicted with a certain perfectionism who are not willing to accept languages simply cannot be perfect.
In this 7-minute video, kaptainkristian talks about the fascinating process of making Who Framed Roger Rabbit, the pre-CGI hybrid animation/live action movie from 1988:
This is called “bumping the lamp” – a phrase coined by Disney during the production of Roger Rabbit to describe going above and beyond what was expected of the animators.
It would’ve been perfectly feasible if Roger stayed flatly illuminated throughout this scene like a cartoon normally would, but instead the animators put in the time to shade every cell uniquely so that the practical light would bounce off from the same way it would a physical object.
And they had to account for that dynamically shifting lighting with every contour in Roger’s limbs, his clothes, his face, the cast shadow he creates on the environment as well as the texture of the light, the slightest difference in color temperatures, the lamp sways… even Roger’s ears have a slight translucency, since they’re much thinner than the rest of his body. They thought of that.
Audiences had no expectation for this level of realism in 1988, but all these seemingly-superfluous details help sell the effect at a subconscious level.
“Bumping the lamp” can be seen on two interlocking levels: one that focuses on the quality of the output (as above), and one that focuses on process toward personal mastery of craft.
On that second level, here’s an anecdote from the original Mac team, a few years earlier:
One day Burrell started doing something radical. Andy came by my cube and said “You’ve got to come see what Burrell’s doing with Defender.” “How can you innovate with a video game?” I wondered. I’d seen Burrell and Andy innovate on all kinds of things, but I couldn’t image how he could somehow step outside the box of a video game - the machine controlled the flow and dictated the goals. How could you gain some control in that environment?
We started up a new competition, and when Burrell’s turn came up, he did something that stunned me. He immediately shot all his humans! This was completely against the goal of the game! He didn’t even go after the aliens, and when he shot the last human, they all turned to mutants and attacked him from all sides. He glanced in my direction with a grin on his face and said “Make a mess, clean it up!” and proceeded to dodge the swarm of angry mutants noisily chasing after him.
I am neither a good visual/motion person, nor a great gamer. But I recognize this desire to once in a while walk up to a pool and throw yourself into a deep end of it, out of principle. Sometimes when I start a new project, I choose a different framework or method I haven’t used before, just so things are harder. On Aresluna and here on Unsung, I very deliberately chose “no centering” as an arbitrary principle, just to push myself to embrace the – harder, but more rewarding – asymmetry, and see where that takes me.
I am sharing this just after I shared the other maxim because I believe in those more that I believe in style guides or design principles coming “from above.” I see craft blossom when it can flow from individuals, and when the organization and attendant processes recognize that. Let people bump the lamp, make a mess, feel certain way about weird things, and do other things – and then let others observe, learn from that, and share the strange rituals and arbitrary rules that make them try harder when no one’s asking for that.
Thanks to Jon Wiley for sharing the original video.
When I was at Medium, over a decade ago, I really enjoyed going deep on typography.
People seemed to generally enjoy what we did. Writers really loved automatic em dashes and range dashes, discovered the beauty of hanging punctuation, and as funny as it might sound today, the smart quotes were a huge hit, too. I was proud of the tight drop caps, the underlines brought me some notoriety, and we even supported ligatures at a time when not only this wasn’t the default, but it also had some mildly scary performance consequences.
But for every two things that worked well, there was also something that in retrospect proved to be me trying too hard, and had to be quickly undone.
I was really excited about resurrecting pilcrows, but many users saw them as rendering or escaping errors.
I briefly added vulgar fractions to all the places where Medium rounded numbers, but that made those numbers confusing and weird in practice.
It was an interesting calibration process. And somewhere in between successes and failures was one thing that I have never mentioned before, and one nobody ever brought up.
I recently shared the story of 2015’s typographical redesign of Medium. As we were exploring the candidate typefaces, we fell in love with one in particular: Charter, a font designed by the industry legend Matthew Carter – and no, this is not a bug, Google Search switches to using Carter’s own Verdana to honor him.
Charter had this perfect balance of “casual” and “refined” we wanted for Medium at the time. Unsurprisingly, it also came with a bunch of typographical niceties – among them lowercase (old-style) digits, which I really wanted:
But there was a problem. Those lowercase numerals came with a “medieval 1,” a particular style of a lowercase digit 1 that resembled an uppercase I. People hated it and were confused by it, thinking indeed that a bug caused a letter I to make its way to the numbers.
No amount of pleading would get us to push that digit through. The backup plan was going with uppercase numerals, but I hated the idea; those digits felt so ugly and pedestrian to me – they were not just uppercase, but also monospace! It was a frustrating situation, being so close and yet separated from a warm Charter embrace by one glyph that it didn’t happen to have.
And so… I drew one.
I, someone who has never ever designed a typeface, decided to vandalize Matthew “The Most Widely Read Man In The World” Carter’s typeface and plop in a new digit 1 of my own creation.
The internal complaints stopped. Weeks later, we launched the new fonts, Charter front and center, my fresh non-medieval 1 attached. I don’t remember the exact details, but we found a way to do this that was compatible with the font’s licensing – and yet I never talked about it because… well, I think you can understand why.
I believe my rogue 1 lasted until a subsequent redesign in 2022, long after I left the company. A decade in, I still don’t know how to feel about it. Did I save Charter as a candidate for Medium by mutilating it a bit, am I writing this post just to launder my own ego, or is this the equivalent of a perp coming back to the scene of the crime? Was I ambitious (laudatory) or ambitious (derogatory)? Maybe you can tell me. But I hope either way it makes for a fun story.
From Jakub Krehel, a new blog post about self constraint in the era when AI makes it easy to ignore constraints altogether.
My caveat is that the post doesn’t fully come together for me – jumping from AI to animations and then back to AI the way the author did does not feel cohesive.
At the same time, in the middle of the post, there are some nice examples of animating juxtaposed with overanimating that caught my attention. We talked about sugar and juice before, and this adds to that conversation. Here’s one example:
Not all animations need to be wholly meaningful and functional – just like not all graphic design, iconography, and typography have to be – but part of growth as a designer is knowing how to limit your budget of “superfluous” stuff even if no one else tells you to, and then how to spend that budget really, really well.
On his blog, Jim Nielsen writes how Apple filed away so much expression by forcing rigid icon bureaucracy in macOS. Nielsen focuses mostly on distinctiveness; previously, you could make the icon unique by its general shape or the shape of its contents, but one of these two levers has now been taken away:
This over-emphasis on “systems” design seems endemic to modern software. Systems prescribe rules because they are the easiest attributes to document, enforce, and automate — “All icons must use this shape, this lighting, this stroke.” Excellence, by contrast, is harder to systematize. It requires judgment, taste, care, experience, and a sensitivity to context — all in service of meaning and purpose, not superficial similarity.
However, one also can’t help but notice how ugly and amateurish the Creator Studio icons are, so it all feels absolutely like a net negative – the new system took something away and the proposed replacement feels low quality:
Elsewhere, on Rogue Amoeba’s blog, Paul Kafasis straight up asks Apple to undo the 2025 decision to contain macOS icons inside squircles:
Apple’s prohibition on shapes is a step backward for both usability and creativity in app icons. Icons are now harder to distinguish because they’re no longer allowed to be distinctive. But there’s no technical reason for it. Apple could, and should, once again allow icons to take on a wide variety of shapes.
Both these prompted me to think a bit of Apple’s app iconography as a system.
Let’s start with iOS:
I believe the rigid squircle shape of app icons starting with the first iPhone was to make them look like a grid of buttons, and also to establish apps as a new primitive, particularly with the subsequent arrival of the App Store. (Similarly how over time “a face in a circle” became recognizable as a “personal avatar,” a user proxy primitive.)
Soon, the rigid shape also helped when custom Springboard wallpapers arrived in 2010 – it reduced the likelihood of apps blending with the background.
Recently, a new option has been added to remove names of apps, which is another way to disambiguate them.
Also recently, Apple’s generally unpleasant-looking theming options (color tinting and glassification) reduced color coding as a way to recognize a particular icon.
At the same time, iOS is still highly spatial. Most apps have a specific physical place on a specific page of the Springboard, or inside a specific folder. I believe that this helps a lot even if shape coding, color coding, and name disambiguation are failing or turned off to begin with.
Now, for MacOS:
The original Mac OS X followed in the footsteps of the classic Mac OS and allowed arbitrary shapes, allowing for more flexible shape coding, although with some guidance on angles and styling:
However, more recently, the iOS squircle shape has been first strongly suggested (in 2020) and then rigidly enforced (in 2025) for macOS as well.
But then, the usage of app icons in macOS is different than in iOS.
First of all, macOS isn’t nearly as spatial as it used to be, and I would say not as spatial as iOS. Even Dock is more malleable compared to the memory palace rigidity of the Springboard, and its overflow section with suggestions and hand-off is very fluid. ⌘Tab is completely non-spatial and just like the Dock doesn’t upfront identify apps by their names. App icons also appear in more fluid contexts like Spotlight, Finder, and the right side of the menubar (I know iOS has some of those as well, but I would imagine they’re getting much less use overall). This all increases the pressure on icons to be easily distinguishable.
At the same time, there are fewer issues with custom backgrounds on macOS. Most icon surfaces have opaque backgrounds and while you can keep your apps on the desktop or put backgrounds in Finder windows, I don’t think that’s very common.
I’m probably missing some other aspects, but this would be my summary of where we’re at:
Apple has not done a good job shepherding their app iconography system. The system feels too rigid, and some of its ostensible benefits (dark mode, color tinting, glassification) have been executed poorly. You could imagine a better tinting system that doesn’t feel like a cheap CSS filter applied to the icon, or (my dream!) a way to tint individual app icons. I personally love when apps – here Raindrop, Bear, and Retro – give you a lot of icon options in various colors, so I can invest in color coding:
People’s trust in Apple’s skillset has deteriorated after the unveiling of horrendous icon redesigns in 2025’s Tahoe, and more recently in the abovementioned Creator Studio (the 2026 updates are nice, but very minor). This is in some contrast with other controversial visually-motivated changes appearing at the same time. Say what you want about Liquid Glass, but there are moments it looks absolutely gorgeous (see the video below for perhaps my favourite Liquid Glass surface). Forced menu icons felt similar: embarrassingly naïve as a system, but with icons themselves executed well (which you can still appreciate when perusing SF Symbols). But the app icon changes seem to have been assigned to the team that delivered on neither good visual craft, nor good systems thinking.
I think it’s fair to look at Creator Studio specifically, and fear Apple is following in Microsoft’s and especially Adobe’s unforgivable footsteps in prioritizing abstract corporate identity goals over both functional and visual aspects of app iconography. Adobe’s product icons used to be beautiful and distinct before they got all shoved into the same “uppercase + lowercase letter” framework that became a canonical example of a system that took something away from the user but didn’t really give anything in return:
I also feel this feeds right into another fear of Apple’s actions steamrolling over particularly indie app developers where being able to express one’s identity via the app icon feels much more important than it would be for a huge company.
I don’t see Apple abandoning their stance on the rigid, distinctive app icon squircle shape. It’s possible that iOS apps will start appearing on touchscreen Macs outside of screen mirroring. Even without that, it just simplifies things for them, even if the jobs for macOS app icons are not the same as those for iOS app icons.
At the same time, I could see Apple allowing the app icons to stick out of the basic squircle shape, like some macOS apps did in between 2020 and 2025; I believe it would even be possible to detect programmatically if the basic squircle shape is still there in the background. This would improve shape coding, and give icon designers some clearly much-desired flexibility. The icons below still register as squircles to me – why not allow this as an option? (For both macOS and iOS.)
I wish Apple standardized app icon changing UI on iOS. Right now, each app offers their own interface in a different place – you could see that above – and rarely links to that place from the Springboard’s long-press menu. But imagine if you could nicely change app icons in situ in the same flow when you’re customizing the Springboard itself! (And then, the same for Dock and macOS.)
I think it would also be a nice gesture to allow to rename iOS Springboard apps to whatever you want the same way you can rename folders, to give some users an opportunity to disambiguate by that if everything else fails.
Before I say anything, I’d recommend you just visit the site of a new little app called Liquid Radius, click around, and see how you feel (don’t install it, though!):
So. One of the design memes surrounding macOS 26 Tahoe from last year – the one with Liquid Glass – was this screenshotted quagmire of mismatched rounded corners:
The tool, Liquid Radius, promises a solution, and then goes to strange lengths to accomplish it.
Fixing the mismatched radii is, apparently, much harder than for example something like Lickable Menu Bar, which many of you have spotted me using via various Unsung screenshots. To get Liquid Radius to work, you have to take a pickaxe to deep recesses of your operating system in order to disable some of Apple’s protective measures – stuff like FileVault (which you have to turn off momentarily) and System Integrity Protection (which you are never allowed to turn back on). The installation requires friendliness with command line and a stomach for multiple reboots, including some of a kind you might have never actually done before.
Then, there’s the website you’ve just seen: elaborate, with nice “before and after” animations, and a fun landing page. I thought the installation steps, given the complexity of the effort, were exemplary and even educational. There’s also a page listing all the apps confirmed to work, and a “How Liquid Radius limits its blast radius” (ha) section, revealing the author is clear-eyed about their work being a hack, and even the dimensionality of its hackiness. Even within the tool there are nice design details.
But, as I was exploring the site, I kept switching between “this is ridiculous!” (laudatory) and “this is ridiculous!” (derogatory) in my head.
At some point it all started feeling like… overkill. Is this really worth all this effort? Are there people who pay for and install this, lowering their system’s overall security and installing unknown code by unnamed developers? Do the ends justify the means? How much do rounded corners matter?
I’ve also seen many products that were a lot more complex, but came with smaller landing pages and fewer snappy taglines. At some point I even had this thought that if you wanted to make The Onion-style joke describing how designers can get incredibly self-serious and obsessed about some teensy detail, the site is exactly what you would do. You’d just never build the actual app.
(Caveat: I didn’t buy or install Liquid Radius for reasons that are probably obvious – nor would I recommend you do so – so I cannot fully discount this actually being an incredibly sophisticated practical joke.)
Maybe it’s my reaction to rounded corners in particular being its own exhausting thing in the design world – a shiny, shallow distraction of product designers in lieu of focusing on more important issues of utility, ethics, privacy, and so on. Maybe it’s the fact I’ve always been suspicious of the oft-told Steve Jobs round rect story: sure, round rects are everywhere in the world, but then so are regular straight corners. Or maybe it’s my own frustration that conversations about macOS and Liquid Glass still feel largely surface-level, on terms established by Apple at WWDC last year.
Speaking of this: timing-wise, Liquid Radius is peculiar, too. This effort was only launched in May, and graduated to 1.0 on the first day of WWDC, the same moment Apple announced they will fix this problem in the upcoming macOS Golden Gate – to audience’s applause – which renders Liquid Radius obsolete, and was an absolutely predictable outcome.
The Liquid Radius creator seemed perhaps surprised by it, and promised to keep the tool running, allowing people to continue customizing their border radii even after Golden Gate makes them all match – but that makes the product an even trickier proposition given the frightening installation steps and the very notion of anonymous, closed-source code being allowed straight into your system’s bloodstream. Besides, if you judge the tool on its own, visual-design terms…
…I don’t think you can simply straighten the corners like they’re showing in the bottom row without rebalancing it with other design changes I’m not sure the tool can make en masse for all the apps.
I know this is navel-gazing, so I will stop. I linked to some third-party fixes before, but this one is newly fascinating. I’m sharing this in part because I don’t know how to feel about it. It reminded me of the mixed feelings I had after watching Jiro Dreams Of Sushi: is Jiro a hero or a villain of this story? I couldn’t say then, and I still don’t know today.
It has been an interesting few weeks to ponder the relationship of style and substance. macOS Golden Gate announcements made me wonder: if you strip Liquid Glass of a lot of its original style via all the reactionary fixes, is what remains even worth the name? The controversial Ferrari Luce reveal not long ago was another rich entry point, especially as for Ferrari the style is a large part of substance.
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.
This is not italics. This is not even oblique. This is a side effect of how those displays work. Instead of a whole rectangle of pixels being changed at once, the display is updated line by line, starting from the top one. As it’s moving towards the bottom, the internal horizontal position might have already advanced, the subsequent lines will be drawn slightly to the left, and it all leads to a slanted appearance. (This is in effect the same problem as rolling shutter in photography.)
The interesting thing is that it could’ve gone the other way. Twice. In English or German, we treat scrolling left to be natural, and we consider only one direction of italic slant appropriate. The first has to do with the direction of reading. I believe the second is, like many things in typography, customary; there’s nothing inherently better than right-leaning letters, except we’re used to them since those are the only ones we ever see.
But, the person putting it all together could’ve just as well done it the other way: scrolling to the right, or slanting to the left (by updating the display bottom to top – not as unusual as you might think!). Were those intentional choices, or was it a default? I’m not sure, but it points to the value of knowing this stuff, or creating a culture where this stuff is treasured. Often, more craft will require more work. Sometimes, however, you will get it for free – but only if you choose the right fork in the road.
While we’re here, how about a few other examples of delightful moments in typography where I did not expect them? These, I believe, will be all intentional. But whether you consider them craft, or even good, I don’t know.
Here are some surprising small caps:
Here’s a cute depiction of a train carriage, somewhat hampered by the limitations of a similar workhorse 5×7 pixel font display:
But here’s something even better. This icon of a stadium cleverly leaned into the same limitations. It’s so delightful. These are, I believe, four characters side by side:
Here, someone added nice decoration to fill out the space:
Here, someone removed all the line height to create a fascinating vertical ligature. This is Gorton and the letters are carved into the plastic, so this required some effort!
Speaking of obliques, this NOT is too thick, and slightly too large, but you have to appreciate someone actually slanting the text rather than underlining it, or decorating in a simpler way:
Even if you underline, you can go a little… well, below and beyond:
Or, here, with maybe the most impressive, three-dimensional underline I’ve ever seen:
This I spotted on an old typesetting machine, and I would like to believe this is an intentional easter egg:
This was on a computer keyboard. You don’t expect hyphenation in this context…
…and you definitely don’t expect an old-fashioned contraction:
In last week’s post, I made an off-hand comment about Vercel’s Geist Pixel announcement, and I thought it might be interesting to turn this into more of a full-fledged critique.
I don’t think it’s a good announcement, but its flaws are pretty universal, so I want to put words to these flaws. This will extend to a lot of other writing about design, not even necessary even just about typography.
Here’s my advice that I believe would make announcements like this better:
Write like a human being would. This is famously hard, and takes practice. Here, we see stuff like “unapologetically digital,” “a functional tool within a broader typographical system,” “the result feels both nostalgic and contemporary,” and “constraints weren’t a limitation, they were the design tool.” No one talks like this. I think people believe font releases have to use these kinds of words and phrases, as a way to bring legitimacy to the project. I do not subscribe to that way of thinking. I think it leads to writing that’s optimized only for admiration, which is not as much fun for anyone.
Show a specific example of a problem you solved. This page hints at some things – “They don’t scale properly across viewports, their metrics conflict with existing typography, or they’re purely decorative.” – but that feels altogether too vague to be useful or even interesting. These are actually fascinating and hard challenges, yet I know as much at the bottom of the page as I did at the top.
Show details you are proud of. Zoom in literally or figuratively. “Each glyph was manually refined to avoid visual noise, uneven weight distribution, and awkward diagonals.” I would love to see a few examples.
Show work in progress! Show stuff you discarded. This will be hard, but why not? It’s good practice and I believe this, more than anything else, will have people appreciate what you did. Plus, everybody loves a blooper reel.
Related: talk about struggle. But don’t just motion in the direction of challenges, or performatively announce that this was the hardest project of your life. Actually talk about something that was hard, and why. Be vulnerable. Be honest. People didn’t care that Rocky lost in the first movie, because people cared about Rocky.
Talk about your inspiration or history. What we all do here is part of something much bigger. Why a pixel font to begin with? Why is this interesting to you? Is that because Vercel is filled with nerds, or because you got bored with bold and italic, or because it just seems visually interesting in a new way?
Let me type! Immediately and on every relevant page. I don’t think any modern font announcement/tester can exist without this. This is the easiest way to getting to know the font and explore specific things that matter to you. (To do this here, you have to go to the font page, switch to Geist Pixel at the top, and then scroll all the way to the bottom. This feels entirely too far away.)
Show, don’t tell, generally. The Geist Pixel announcement feels rife for an avalanche of “show,” but has so little. I mentioned above wishing to see examples of manual refinements. There is a visual for “seamless mixing,” but it’s really a marketing photo, not a real-use example – it visualizes what, but you want to visualize what and why at the same time. I would love to see the spread of variants, specific examples of how the font is not “breaking in production” and “scaling properly across viewports.” I don’t know what is a “semi-mono approach” and I would like to learn.
Motion is okay, but it has zero nutritional value. If you have limited resources, don’t spend it on motion. Anything interactive is better. (But again, the best interactive thing is letting you type.)
The “Already shaping what’s next” is a narratively unsatisfying section, as it promises stuff that you cannot see yet. Either show those, or skip the tease altogether.
I know the elephant in the room here is “how big companies do things.” A lot of redesign announcements and font unveils exist chiefly to make the execs who championed them happy, and perhaps as fodder for future promotion – I bet the whole “Already shaping what’s next” section isn’t really written for external audience – and they get chewed by the big PR machine that often files away whatever personality and quirkiness might have been there. Your job is to fight that machine! But I acknowledge that it might be hard.
However, I’ve also seen all this seeping into personal font announcements, which is unfortunate. (I don’t want to link to specific examples, since that’d be punching down.)
Also, this is not just about the joy of reading or some general notion of “craft” – although they are important, too. This is also purely informational. I feel I haven’t learned enough from the Geist Pixel announcement for the amount of time I spent with it. I don’t understand “multiple variants for different densities and use cases” or “semi-mono approach” or what stylistic sets are included. (My general goal is to write in a way that people can learn something new from any design announcement, even if they don’t have any prior context, and if they never actually use the font.)
It‘s a shame, because the work itself seems thoughtful and excellent, deserves a better intro, and could help others interested in typography as a jumping off point, particularly because this feels like a typeface off the beaten path.
Just to round up this post, some recent counterexamples:
Fran Sans announcement post by Emily Sneddon (complements the font page) – personal, distinctive, talks about the process, shows interesting artifacts.
I feel that every small essay from David Jonathan Ross’s Font Of The Month Club teaches me something new – pick a font you like on that page, then click Notes next to it.
I generally avoid think pieces about AI because a) a lot of them are boring, and b) they rarely match the pragmatic posture of this blog.
But this essay on a new No One’s Happy blog was really interesting to read, and feels different in a few ways.
First, it examines what happens as AI slop spreads in the context that is less discussed – in a workplace:
This is a new form of slop, and it is more expensive than the public kind, because the people producing it are being paid a salary to do so. […]
The cost of producing a document has fallen to nearly zero; the cost of reading one has not, and is in fact rising, because the reader must now sift the synthetic context for whatever the document was originally about.
A lot in the essay feels pertinent to Unsung as real craft is not feelings or fluffiness. Real craft is deep expertise:
Generative AI can produce work that looks expert without being expert, and the failure arrives in two shapes. The first is when novices in a field are able to produce work that resembles what their seniors produce, faster or more advanced than their judgment. The second is when people generate artifacts in disciplines they were never trained in. The two failures look similar from a distance and are not the same. Research has mostly measured the first. The second is what it is missing, and in my experience it is the riskier of the two.
The term for this new challenge is, apparently, “output-competence decoupling.”
Other parts of the essay come back to a topic – toxic velocity – we coveredbefore:
The current generation of agentic systems is built around the premise that the human is the bottleneck — that the loop runs faster and cleaner without the awkward delay of someone reading what is about to happen and deciding whether it should. This is, in a great many cases, exactly backwards. The human in the loop is not a vestige of an earlier era; the human is the only part of the loop with skin in the game. Removing the H from HITL [Human In The Loop – eds. note] is not an efficiency. It is the abandonment of the only mechanism the system has for catching itself.
And one last thing that differentiates this essay from many others is the last “what to do about it” section.
It follows that every design presentation is inevitably, at least in part, an exercise in bullshit. The design process always combines the pursuit of functional goals with countless intuitive, even irrational decisions. The functional requirements — the house needs a bathroom, the headlines have to be legible, the toothbrush has to fit in your mouth — are concrete and often measurable. The intuitive decisions, on the other hand, are more or less beyond honest explanation. These might be: I just like to set my headlines in Bodoni, or I just like to make my products blobby, or I just like to cover my buildings in gridded white porcelain panels. In discussing design work with their clients, designers are direct about the functional parts of their solutions and obfuscate like mad about the intuitive parts, having learned early on that telling the simple truth — “I don’t know, I just like it that way” — simply won’t do.
So into this vacuum rushes the bullshit: theories about the symbolic qualities of colors or typefaces; unprovable claims about the historical inevitability of certain shapes, fanciful forced marriages of arbitrary design elements to hard-headed business goals. As [Harry G.] Frankfurt points out, it’s beside the point whether bullshit is true or false: “It is impossible for someone to lie unless he thinks he knows the truth. Producing bullshit requires no such conviction.” There must only be the desire to conceal one’s private intentions in the service of a larger goal: getting your client it to do it the way you like it.
“I don’t know, I just like it that way” is such a tricky part of craft.
Another good post from Roger Wong thinking through Anthropic’s findings on how offloading coding effort leads to understanding less:
So the AI group didn’t finish meaningfully faster, but they understood meaningfully less. And the biggest gap was in debugging—the ability to recognize when code is wrong and figure out why. That’s the exact skill you need most when your job is to oversee AI-generated output.
Inside it, a quote from the Anthropic post that resonated with me:
Cognitive effort—and even getting painfully stuck—is likely important for fostering mastery.
I wonder if part of the appeal of AI tools is the promise of “exercise without exercise,” like the vibrating belt machines of the 1950s.
Writing at speed privileges what arrives first. The obvious phrasing, the familiar structure, a thought that you heard somewhere before.
Also this:
A book is not retrieved fully formed from memory, or pulled up in a full bucket from some deep creative well in your body.
The old saying goes “everyone dreams about having written a book, not about writing one.” Now we’re building software that allows people to “have written a book” and “have designed something.”
I am open (I think!) to the idea that the nature of the effort will change as tools change. But I can’t see mastery arriving without effort. And I’m worried people will start mistaking prompting mastery for material mastery.
I read Mike Monteiro’s book of pre-pandemic essays called The collected angers. The book has less to do with the subject of this blog, but I grabbed a few quotes that resonated with me and seemed relevant.
In order not to make it too reductive, I’m also linking to the original essays for those who want to follow up:
The worst feedback you can get from a client is “Wow. It looks like you worked really hard on this!” Stop using your work like a time card. If you did it right, it looks like it was effortless. It looks like it’s always existed. And the client will probably be irritated that they paid you for 30 hours of work to do something that looks like it took an hour. Which it did. They’re just not seeing the 29 hours of bad design that got you to that one hour of good design. And for the love of god, please don’t show them those 29 hours of bad design. A presentation is a shitty place for a sausage-making demonstration, and you’ll just come across as a defensive, unsure person needing validation.
Learn how to steal. Be aware of your history. Design is the oldest profession in the world. You’re not the first person to tackle whatever design problem you’re tackling. See how others tackled it. Take the best solutions you find and improve on them. Don’t burn time solving things from scratch. Make use of what others have learned.
Sensitivity is how finely you perceive—noticing friction, asking why a screen exists, catching the moment something feels wrong. Standards are your internal reference system for what “good” actually looks like. Both can be trained.
The post is great and I nodded all the way through. But I found the linked Medium post very hard to parse – like it was written by AI for LinkedIn – and I haven’t yet opened Rick Rubin’s relatively famous book quoted inside because I am worrying it might be too pretentious.
So, perhaps I can offer a rare caveated endorsement: click on Roger Wong’s post, but not sure it’s worth clicking further.
It reinforces my belief that teams need a culture that values attention to detail when building products. Tiny annoyances so often get neglected as we rush to ship, but the consequences accumulate, souring the whole brand. It’s not a long journey from “Ugh, these AirTags…” to “Apple has lost their way…”
But in my experience, those rough edges seldom go unnoticed by someone, somewhere, who was unable to stop the momentum of a product release for such an “insignificant” flaw. Or, even more consequentially, they did not feel it was safe to do so.
I want to quote so much of this essay, so I’m going to do just that.
I’ve always felt that culture is made of the accumulation of small acts of gracious leadership: acknowledging moments of bravery during a retro, teasing out a reticent comment during a product review, and on and on. It can come from other places too, but it is most effective when it comes from the top.
If you’re leading a team remember: Never criminalize pride in craft.
