There is often a huge gulf between the way in which a product was intended to be used and the way it actually is. Product designers need to experience first-hand how their creations work in the real world if they are to improve future designs.
If a consumer product doesn’t work well, it is likely to become the subject of online reviews, and any feedback will eventually find its way back to the designers one way or another. At the very least, the consumer experience is likely to (negatively) affect the prospects of repurchase. But for products or experiences which are not so obviously linked to consumer purchase, there are likely to be fewer repercussions. Who really cares if it doesn’t work?
Embedded dictionaries are those embedded into eBook readers such as the Kindle and Kobo.
In defining the original requirements for these dictionaries, it seems likely that only those features directly relating to the specific application were implemented (ie providing a definition for a selected word). Printed dictionaries do more than that though:
Printed dictionaries provide definitions of alphabetically adjacent words.
Printed dictionaries lend themselves to browsing.
Printed dictionaries reinforce the alphabet sequence.
Where online and embedded dictionaries clearly succeed is with their near-instant response times which cannot be matched by their printed versions. Their portability cannot be ignored either. Other enhancing features such as example uses and integration with online thesauri suggest that these dictionaries are here to stay.
I can’t understand how this happened. Surely the product wasn’t specified this way? Maybe pure laziness? I really don’t know, but I have my suspicions. Perhaps you’ve experienced the same?
Last week I found myself staying for 2 nights in an out-of-town hotel. The sort of boxy hotel which is cloned hundreds of times across the country, perfectly clean and functional but totally devoid of any personality. Fit for purpose, adjacent to a roundabout on an arterial road close to my destination – it was just the thing I was looking for.
These places always seem to be designed to the same specification – very much a “bare essentials” approach had been adopted, with everything in its place and nothing extra. Designed to meet, rather than exceed my expectations. With the exception of the TV remote, that is.
I spotted this notice attached to the underside of a toilet seat and couldn’t help stopping to read it in full. And having read it and wondered about it, I captured a picture to remind myself what I’d seen.
As if creating a great product isn’t hard enough in the first place, there’s (at least) one way of completely ruining it: poorly-conceived or badly implemented packaging. I despair whenever I see examples of great products where poor packaging has completely taken the focus away from the product itself. And by that I don’t mean the artwork, labelling or other such cosmetic element. I mean the mechanics, the physical barrier between the consumer and the experience of actually getting at the product.
There are many ways in the English language of describing something which is useless – “as useless as a chocolate teapot” is one of the more common terms, and needs no explanation. Perhaps it is surprising to find that many teapots are almost completely useless because they don’t pour properly, and splash tea everywhere. I’m not being picky or overly sensitive when I say this – they are utterly useless, and there is no way in which anyone would knowingly buy such a teapot.
[Image courtesy of Sophisticup.com. Note – no criticism of this particular teapot is implied by its appearance in this blog, nor should be inferred. It was selected as a “generic” teapot. Whilst I could reasonably expect it to function properly, I have no way of knowing whether or not it does – without trying it first…]