Emotional Design

by Donald A. Norman

  The academic, research enterprise of design has not done a good job of studying fun and pleasure. Design is usually thought of as a practical skill, a profession rather than a discipline. In my research for this book, I found lots of literature on behavioral design, much discussion of aesthetics, image, and advertising. The book Emotional Branding is a treatment of advertising, for example. Academics have concentrated primarily upon the history of design, or the social history or societal implications, or if they are from the cognitive and computer sciences, upon the study of machine interfaces and usability.

  FIGURE 4.3 Google plays with their name and logo in a creative, inspiring way.

  Some searches return multiple pages, so Google modifies its logo accordingly: When I performed a search on the phrase “emotion and accordingly: When I performed a search on the phrase ”emotion and design” I got 10 pages of results. Google stretched its logo to put 10 “Os” in its name, providing some fun while also being informative and, best of all, non-intrusive. (Courtesy of Google.)

  In Designing Pleasurable Products, one of the few scientific studies of pleasure and design, the human factors expert and designer Patrick Jordan builds on the work of Lionel Tiger to identify four kinds of pleasure. Here is my interpretation:Physio-pleasure. Pleasures of the body. Sights, sounds, smells, taste, and touch. Physio-pleasure combines many aspects of the visceral level with some of the behavioral level.

  Socio-pleasure. Social pleasure derived from interaction with others. Jordan points out that many products play an important social role, either by design or by accident. All communication technologies—whether telephone, cell phone, email, instant messaging, or even regular mail—play important social roles by design. Sometimes the social pleasure derives serendipitously as a byproduct of usage. Thus, the office coffeemaker and mailroom serve as focal points for impromptu gatherings at the office. Similarly, the kitchen is the focal point for many social interactions in the home. Socio-pleasure, therefore, combines aspects of both behavioral and reflective design.

  Psycho-pleasure. This aspect of pleasure deals with people’s reactions and psychological state during the use of products. Psycho-pleasure resides at the behavioral level.

  Ideo-pleasure. Here lies the reflection on the experience. This is where one appreciates the aesthetics, or the quality, or perhaps the extent to which a product enhances life and respects the environment. As Jordan points out, the value of many products comes from the statement they make. When displayed so that others can see them, they provide ideo-pleasure to the extent that they signify the value judgments of their owner. Ideo-pleasure clearly lies at the reflective level.

  Take the Jordan/Tiger classification, mix with equal parts of the three design levels, and you have a fun and pleasurable end result. But fun and pleasure are elusive concepts. Thus, what is considered delightful depends a lot upon the context. The actions of a kitten or human baby may be judged fun and cute, but the very same actions performed by a cat or human adult can be judged irritating or disgusting. Moreover, what is fun at first can outwear its welcome.

  Consider the “Te ò” tea strainer (figure 4.4), designed by Stefano Pirovano for the Italian manufacturing firm Alessi. At first glance it is cute, childish even. As such, it doesn’t qualify as fun—not yet. It is a simple animate figure. The day I purchased it, I had lunch with Keiichi Sato, a professor of design at the Illinois Institute of Technology’s Institute of Design in Chicago. At the lunch table, I proudly displayed my new purchase. Sato’s first response was skeptical. “Yes,” he said, “it’s pleasant and cute, but to what purpose?” But when I placed the strainer on a cup, his eyes lit up, and he laughed (see figure 4.5).

  At first sight, the arms and legs of the figure are simply cute, but when it becomes apparent that the cuteness is also functional, then “cute” becomes transformed into “pleasure” and “fun,” and this, moreover, is long-lasting. Sato and I spent much of the next hour trying to understand what transforms an impression of shallow cuteness into one of deep, long-lasting pleasure. In the case of the Te ò strainer, the unexpected transformation is the key. Both of us noted that the essence of the surprise was the separation between the two viewings: first the tea strainer alone, then on the teacup. “If you publish this in your book,” Sato warned me, “make sure that you have only the picture of the strainer visible on one page, and make the reader turn the page to see the strainer on a teacup. If you don’t do that, the surprise—and the fun—will not be as strong.” As you see, I have followed that advice.

  What transforms the strainer from “cute” into “fun”? Is it surprise? Cleverness? Certainly both of those traits play a big role.

  Does familiarity breed contempt, as the old folk saying would have it? Many things are cute or fun at first, but over time diminish or even become tiresome. In my home the tea strainer is now permanently on display, perched on a teacup nestled among the three teapots on the window shelf of my kitchen. The charm of the tea strainer is that it retains its fun even after considerable use, even though I see it everyday.

  FIGURE 4.4 Stefano Pirovano’s Te ò tea strainer, made by Alessi.

  The figure is cute, the color and shapes attractive. Pleasureable?

  Yes, slightly. Fun? Not yet.

  (Author’s collection.)

  Now, the tea strainer is just a trifle, and I do not believe that even Pirovano, its designer, would disagree. But it passes the test of time. This is one of the hallmarks of good design. Great design—like great literature, music, or art—can be appreciated even after continual use, continued presence.

  People tend to pay less attention to familiar things, whether it’s a possession or even a spouse. On the whole, this adaptive behavior is biologically useful (for objects, events, and situations, not for spouses), because it is usually the novel, unexpected things in life that require the most attention. The brain naturally adapts to repeated experiences. If I were to show you a series of repeated images and measure your brain responses, the activity would diminish with the repetitions. Your brain would respond again only when something new was presented. Scientists have shown that the biggest responses always come with the least expected event. A simple sentence such as, “He picked up the hammer and nail” gives a tiny response; change the last few words, “He picked up the hammer and ate it,” and you’ll see a much larger one.

  FIGURE 4.5 Pirovano’s Te ò tea strainer, ready for use.

  Now it’s fun. (Photo by the author.)

  Human adaptation creates a challenge for design, but an opportunity for manufacturers: When people tire of an item, perhaps they will buy a new one. Indeed, the essence of fashion is to make the current trends obsolete and boring, turning them into yesterday’s favorites. The attractive appliance of yesterday no longer looks quite as attractive today. Some of the examples in this book may have already followed this trajectory: the Mini Cooper automobile, so charming and cute to the reviewers at the time of this book’s writing, may look dated, oldfashioned, and dull by the time you flip through these pages—so much so that you may wonder how I came to choose it as an example.

  The concern for the diminishing impact of familiarity has led some designers to propose hiding beautiful views, lest continual encounter might diminish their emotional impact. In the book A Pattern Language, the architect Christopher Alexander and his colleagues describe 253 different design patterns derived from their observations and analyses. These patterns provide the basis of their guidelines for “a timeless way of building,” which structures buildings in ways calculated to enhance the experience of the people living within them. Pattern number 134 deals with the problem of overexposure:Pattern 134: Zen View. If there is a beautiful view, don’t spoil it by building huge windows that gape incessantly at it. Instead, put the windows which look onto the view at places of transition—along paths, in hallways, in entry ways, on stairs, between rooms.

  If the view window is correctly placed, people will see a glimpse of the distant view as they
come up to the window or pass it: but the view is never visible from the places where people stay.

  The name “Zen View” comes from “the parable of a Buddhist monk who lived on a mountain with a beautiful view. The monk built a wall that obscured the view from every angle, except for a single fleeting glimpse along the walk up to his hut.” In this way, said Alexander and colleagues, “the view of the distant sea is so restrained that it stays alive forever. Who, that has ever seen that view, can ever forget it? Its power will never fade. Even for the man who lives there, coming past that view day after day, it will still be alive.”

  Most people, however, are not Buddhist monks. Most of us would be unable to resist the temptation to engulf ourselves in such beauty. Whether hiding beauty is appropriate for all of us is up for debate, and although the fable described as the rationale for the Zen view is interesting, it is opinion, not fact. Given the chance to experience beauty for some period of time, is the total enhancement greater if the beauty is always there to be appreciated, even if it does fade with time? Or is the enhancement greater when it can only be glimpsed now and then? I do not think anyone knows the answer to this query.

  I, for one, go straight for immediate enjoyment. I have always built my homes with large windows facing a view (ocean, when I lived in Southern California; pond with geese, ducks, and herons, when I lived in Northern Illinois), so I am not ready to endorse pattern 134, the Zen View, as a universal design principle.

  The issue, however, is a real one. How can we maintain excitement, interest, and aesthetic pleasure for a lifetime? I suspect that part of the answer will come from the study of those things that do stand the test of time, such as some music, literature, and art. In all these cases, the works are rich and deep, so that there is something different to be perceived on each experience. Consider classical music. For many it is boring and uninteresting, but for others it can indeed be listened to with enjoyment over a lifetime. I believe that this longevity derives from the richness and complexity of its structure. The music interleaves multiple themes and variations, some simultaneous, some sequential. Human conscious attention is limited by what it can attend to at any moment, which means that consciousness is restricted to a limited subset of the musical relationships. As a result, each new listening focuses upon a different aspect of the music. The music is never boring because it is never the same. I believe a similar analysis will reveal similar richness for all experiences that last: classical music, art, and literature. So, too, with views.

  The views I treasure are dynamic. Scenes are continually changing. The vegetation changes with the seasons, the lighting with the time of day. Different animals congregate at different times, and their interactions with one another and with the environment are ever-changing. In California, the waves rolling in from the ocean change continually, reflecting weather patterns from thousands of miles away. The various sea animals visible from my windows—brown pelicans, gray whales, the black-suited surfers, and dolphins—varied their activities according to the weather, the time, and the activities of those around them. Why wasn’t the Zen view just as rich, just as long lasting?

  Maybe the problem lies not in the object being viewed but in the viewer. It’s quite possible the Buddhist monk had never learned to look. For once you have learned how to look at, listen to, and analyze what is before you, you realize that the experience is ever changing. The pleasure is forever.

  This conclusion has two important implications. First, the object must be rich and complex, one that gives rise to a never-ending interplay among the elements. Second, the viewer must be able to take the time to study, analyze, and consider such rich interplay; otherwise, the scene becomes commonplace. If something is to give lifelong pleasure, two components are required: the skill of the designer in providing a powerful, rich experience, and the skill of the perceiver.

  How may a design maintain its effectiveness even after long acquaintance? The secret, say designers Julie Khaslavsky and Nathan Shedroff, is seduction.

  The seductive power of the design of certain material and virtual objects can transcend issues of price and performance for buyers and users alike. To many an engineer’s dismay, the appearance of a product can sometimes make or break the product’s market reaction. What they have in common is the ability to create an emotional bond with their audiences, almost a need for them.

  Seduction, Khaslavsky and Shedroff argue, is a process. It gives rise to a rich and compelling experience that lasts over time. Yes, there has to be an initial attraction. But the real trick—and where most products fail—is in maintaining the relationship after that initial burst of enthusiasm. Make something consciously cute where the cuteness is extraneous, irrelevant to the task, and you get frustration, irritation, and resentment. Think how many gadgets or items of furniture you have brought home excitedly and then, after the first use or two, banished to storage. How many survive the passage of time and are still in use, still giving joy? And what is the difference between these two experiences?

  FIGURE 4.6 Two items of seduction.

  Philippe Starck’s “Juicy Salif” citrus juicer alongside my Global kitchen knife. Rotate the orange half on the ribbed top of the juicer and the juice flows down the sides and drips from the point into the glass. Except this gold-plated version will be damaged by the acidic fluid. As Starck is rumored to have said, “My juicer is not meant to squeeze lemons; it is rumored to have said, “My juicer is not meant to squeeze lemons; it is meant to start conversations.” (Author’s collection.)

  Khaslavsky and Shedroff suggest that the three basic steps are enticement, relationship, and fulfillment: make an emotional promise, continually fulfill the promise, and end the experience in a memorable way. They illustrate their argument by examining the citrus juicer designed by Philippe Starck (figure 4.6). The juicer, whose full name is “Juicy Salif,” was designed on a napkin in a pizza parlor in Capraia, an island in Tuscany, Italy. Alberto Alessi, whose company manufacturers them, describes the design this way:On the napkin, along with some incomprehensible marks (tomato sauce, in all likelihood) there were some sketches. Sketches of squids. They started on the left and, as they worked their way over to the right, they took on the unmistakable shape of what was to become the most celebrated citrus-fruit squeezer of the century that has just come to a close. You can imagine what happened: while eating a dish of squid and squeezing a lemon over it, our man had finally received his inspiration! Juicy Salif was born, and with it some headaches for the champions of “Form follows function.”

  That juicer was indeed seductive. I saw it and immediately went through the sequence of responses so loved by merchants: “Wow, I want it,” I said to myself. Only then did I ask, “What is it? What does it do? How much does it cost?” concluding with “I’ll buy it,” which I did. That was pure visceral reaction. The juicer is indeed bizarre, but delightful. Why? Fortunately, Khaslavsky and Shedroff have done the analysis for me:Entices by diverting attention. It is unlike every other kitchen product by nature of its shape, form, and materials.

  Delivers surprising novelty. It is not immediately identifiable as a juicer, and its form is unusual enough to be intriguing, even surprising when its purpose first becomes clear.

  Goes beyond obvious needs and expectations. To satisfy these criteria—of being surprising and novel—it need only be bright orange or all wood. It goes so far beyond what is expected or required, it becomes something else entirely.

  Creates an instinctive response. At first, the shape creates curiosity, then the emotional response of confusion and, perhaps, fear, since it is so sharp and dangerous looking.

  Espouses values or connections to personal goals. It transforms the routine act of juicing an orange into a special experience. Its innovative approach, simplicity, and elegance in shape and performance creates an appreciation and the desire to possess not only the object but the values that helped create it, including innovation, originality, elegance, and sophistication. It speaks as much a
bout the person who owns it as it does about its designer.

  Promises to fulfill these goals. It promises to make an ordinary action extraordinary. It also promises to raise the status of the owner to a higher level of sophistication for recognizing its qualities.

  Leads the casual viewer to discover something deeper about the juicing experience. While the juicer doesn’t necessarily teach the user anything new about juice or juicing, it does teach the lesson that even ordinary things in life can be interesting and that design can enhance living. It also teaches to expect wonder where it is unexpected—all positive feelings about the future.

  Fulfills these promises. Every time it is used, it reminds the user of its elegance and approach to design. It fulfills these promises through its performance, reconjuring the emotions originally connected with the product. It also serves as a point of surprise and conversation by the associates of its owner—and is another chance to espouse its values and have them validated.

  However compelling this analysis of the juicer as an item of seduction, it leaves out one important component: the reflective joy of explanation. The juicer tells a story. Anyone who owns it has to show it off, to explain it, perhaps to demonstrate it. But mind you, the juicer is not really meant to be used to make juice. As Starck is rumored to have said, “My juicer is not meant to squeeze lemons; it is meant to start conversations.” Indeed, the version I own, the expensive, numbered, special anniversary edition (gold plated, no less), is explicit: “It is not intended to be used as a juice squeezer,” says the numbered card attached to the juicer. “The gold plating could be damaged if it comes into contact with anything acidic.”