But, often, complex problems demand simple solutions.
Simple tools are always the most useful. My kitchen knife is a peeler, chopper, gouger, stirrer, spatula, masher - all in one. Its simplicity means it can be turned to many uses. Whereas my lemon zester is far more interesting to look at, but it’s only good for zesting lemons.
The same is true of user interfaces: simple means useful.
Last year I was asked to design a trip planner for a tourism website. Trip planners are complicated - you have to let people save hotels, events, journeys and keep them organised in space and time. And during the planning process, people are constantly shuffling and re-arranging these relationships.
The first time I looked at the problem, I was tempted to do something very clever using maps.
You’d be able to see your hotel, your trip to the zoo, your flight on the map. You’d link items on the map to form a timeline. You’d be able to save and compare different itineraries. You’d see the total cost. You’d know whether you were getting enough culture or exercise or fun.
But the solution was complex. It bristled with buttons and sliders and menus. Only a lunatic would attempt to use it.
The clever solution was the web equivalent of a lemon zester: flashy, eye-catching and next to useless.
It was destined for the same fate as lemon zesters all over the world - bemused fascination, followed by a long, lonely retirement in a kitchen drawer.
My breakthrough came when I started to tackle the complexity of the users’ task with simple tools.
I realised that the real trip plan was in the users’ head.
The web site was just a shorthand, a reminder. Some people would work hard on their trip plan - shuffle, organise, sift, re-arrange. Others would just want to jog their memory.
The final tool was just a way of saving items and re-ordering them into a list of favourites.
It was very simple, very easy to understand, much cheaper to build. And it was something that could benefit everyone who used the website.
Like my kitchen knife, users could take it at face value or invent new ways of using it. They could use it to save favourites. Or they could swap travel ideas with their spouse, create lists of things that each family member wanted to do, arrange their trip by date - or by location, or by theme.
The design’s simplicity meant it was flexible. I’d not designed anything in. I’d not designed anything out.
The tool wasn’t really my tool. It belonged to the users.
The lesson I learned was that, if you want to create, simplicity, you must begin with trust.
We - designers - have to trust users to find their own ways of using sites. We have to trust their inventiveness, creativity and their ability to find what works best for them.
And we have to empower them by giving them tools that are so simple they are confident to approach, experiment and use them.
