Albert Einstein is reported to have said:
Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler.
I find that the products and services I love using most are those that aspire to that rule. So by Einstein’s measure, as these products and services strive for—and just slightly miss—that just-right simplicity mark, they can have two kinds of “failures”: being still yet too complicated, or being a little too simple.
There’s no better company to look at for examples of this struggle than Apple, which pushes so hard toward simplicity that they occasionally overshoot. In 2009, they released an iPod Shuffle with a bold statement of simplicity: it had no buttons. But this simplicity in user interface (UI) actually led to increased complexity in user experience (UX). Apple comentator John Gruber wrote:
Double-click for next track, triple-click for previous; double-click-and-hold for fast-forward, triple-click and hold for rewind. Clever, but I don’t think most people will discover these shortcuts without reading about them, and most people won’t read about them.
The Onion even weighed in. The next iteration of the iPod Shuffle brought back the buttons.
The first writing software was so non-simple that it wasn’t even called writing software. “Word processors” could only show you plain, monospaced text on a monochrome screen. You couldn’t know how it would appear in print until you tried.
The first push toward simplicity in word processors was a focus on correcting this deficiency, with a concept called What You See Is What You Get, or WYSIWYG (pronounced whizzy-wig). It was a revolution to see on your screen an accurate preview of what you would ultimately print. The Macintosh’s unique ability to display proportional fonts put Apple at the forefront of bringing this power to the consumer.
This turned everyone with a computer into an aspiring graphic designer — and the results were terrible. Every newsletter, flyer, and lost dog sign was a cacophony of rounded rectangles and drop shadows. The most popular font choice became “one of each.”
When your text can float around in boxes and flow across columns, you, the writer, have a whole new playground of distractions. You’ll spend an afternoon picking fonts, because why wouldn’t you? The best writer in the world could have their manuscript evaluated based in part, if only subconsciously, on their abilities as an amateur typographer.
WYSIWYG also means that formatting and styling of text is rendered accurately on the screen. What a wonderful and seemingly unassailable innovation. Want some text bold? Select it and choose Bold from some menu somewhere. Or press a little B button. Or press a keyboard shortcut. The cues within the document that mark that text as bold are hidden from you, and all you see is the accurate preview of what your work will look like printed. Wonderful, right?
Is it?
Have you ever struggled to add or remove items from a numbered list in Microsoft Word? Or wondered why changing the margins of a paragraph right after a page break also affects the paragraph just before? Have you ever made some text bold at the end of a line, pressed Return, and then typed an entire bold paragraph before realizing your mistake? Or lost formatting when moving your writing from one application to another?
But WYSIWYG is also not simple enough. That menu with Bold in it? There are a dozen other options there too. And when you’re reaching sorting through them, you’re not writing. You’re mousing. That button bar with the little bold B? How many other buttons are there up there? Do you even know what they all do? Does one of them have a floppy disk on it? When was the last time you saw one of those?