Deva Corriveau, Creative Director at Brandpie, writing for The Subtext, asks what happens when the customer doesn’t choose at all.

Take something mundane, like ordering a takeaway. Consumers don’t feel a deep emotional connection to whether dinner arrives via Just Eat, Deliveroo or Uber Eats. They may have habits or interface preferences, but they don’t meaningfully care about the logo on the rider’s jacket or the tone of voice in their advertising. Yet these businesses still spend tens of millions each year trying to build precisely that sense of distinction.

Now imagine a step beyond this. Instead of opening an app at all, the consumer simply instructs an AI assistant to order a pizza. The system scans available providers, evaluates delivery times, compares pricing, reviews reliability data, and executes the transaction. The entire process takes place behind a seamless, invisible layer of automation. The user does not browse. They do not compare. They are not exposed to campaigns or nudged by distinctive brand assets. The decision is simply optimized.

From a consumer perspective, this is seamless and efficient. From a brand perspective, it’s an unsettling shift in how choice is made and where influence sits.

That distinction matters. In a browser or an app, brand can still interrupt the customer at the point of comparison. Inside an agent, the brand has to show up as criteria the agent can evaluate.

Corriveau on the shift:

For decades, we’ve treated awareness as the foundation of growth. Be famous. Be distinctive. Be top of mind. When the moment of choice arrives, ensure your brand is mentally available. That logic remains sound – but only if a human is making the decision.

An AI agent does not remember your jingle or favour your colour palette. It does not feel reassured by your heritage or inspired by your purpose. It simply calculates against a defined set of criteria.

This does not mean brand disappears, but its role shifts. Marketeers must move upstream from the moment of choice to defining the parameters of the choice itself.

If the agent is comparing delivery time, service ratings, return policies, privacy history, and price, then the promises a brand makes need to map to service behaviors, policies, and performance an agent can actually evaluate. A promise the company can’t prove becomes decoration.

I don’t read this as “branding is dead.” Corriveau is saying something narrower: people still define preferences; automation changes when and how those preferences get expressed.

Discussions about automation often miss a critical point: humans still define the criteria. A user may delegate comparison and selection to an AI, but they still decide what it optimises for. They might instruct it to prioritize companies with high customer service ratings, favour businesses with strong sustainability credentials, or exclude brands that have suffered data breaches. Human values, identity, and worldview remain central – they are simply expressed differently.

Trust, identity signalling, ethical alignment: these human drivers do not disappear just because a machine intermediates the transaction. In fact, they may become more explicit. Rather than being subconsciously influenced by advertising, consumers will consciously encode their preferences into the system.

In that world, the role of brand becomes less about capturing attention in the moment and more about establishing a presence so clear and widely understood that people choose to embed it into their decision rules. The brands that endure will be those that stand for something concrete enough to be deliberately included in the instructions given to machines.

That keeps Corriveau’s argument from becoming a pure optimization story. He isn’t replacing human values with machine logic; he is moving the expression of those values upstream. The shelf moment gets quieter because the proxy has already filtered the options. Brand becomes less about a burst of attention and more about operational consistency the customer can delegate with confidence.

For designers and brand teams, the practical consequence is simple: brand claims need proof a system can read and compare. The work doesn’t stop at making a company memorable; it has to make the company’s promises observable, consistent, and legible before a human sees the options. The artifact isn’t only the campaign anymore; it’s the evidence trail behind the campaign.

The biggest risk sits in the middle. The brands whose differentiation relies primarily on communication rather than capability. Agentic AI will expose decorative branding with uncomfortable clarity. If your distinctiveness lives in marketing but not in service, performance or trust, optimisation will reduce your value to price alone.

For branding professionals, this is not a minor adjustment; it is a structural reframing. The future will rely less on megaphones and more on architecture. We must move away from simply generating awareness toward establishing qualities so credible and so consistent that they influence how customers configure their digital proxies. The question is no longer just how to be noticed, but how to be retrievable, recommendable, and selectable inside AI-driven systems.

This is where Generative Engine Optimization (GEO) begins to matter. Brands will need to think less in terms of impressions and more in terms of machine-readable signals of trust, performance, and relevance – the inputs that shape whether an AI system even considers them in a ranked set of options. Practically, this means building brand equity in ways that can be consistently interpreted by both humans and machines: structured proof of service quality, transparent value signals, strong third-party validation, and behavioural consistency over time.

I don’t think the Ferrari Luce is ugly. It’s just off-brand. Way off-brand.

I was quoted in Fast Company recently on brand refreshes, and the advice that keeps coming back for me is that brand work has to carry what people already believe about the company. That’s why the Jaguar logo rebrand and the Cracker Barrel blowback had the same shape. The object can be fine in isolation; the reaction is to what it asks people to forget.

Abigail Bassett, writing for The Verge, gets at that with Ferrari’s first EV:

“The reaction illustrates how intrinsically the brand identity, expectations, and design are tied together,” Derek Jenkins, the SVP of Design and Brand at Lucid, told The Verge. “I can see a couple of things in the exterior design that still reference the brand. The taillights for one, the red color option, and finally, the logo. Everything else — proportions, lack of visual agility, even the expression of performance — is missing from the exterior. The face of the car isn’t identifiable… It’s a mismatch with the brand.”

Identity isn’t the badge at the end. It’s the set of expectations the badge has trained you to bring. Ferrari can make an EV. But if the only recognizable Ferrari parts are the color, taillights, and logo, then the product is borrowing equity it isn’t paying back.

Bassett also gets to the LoveFrom question: Ferrari hired LoveFrom, Jony Ive’s design firm, and the firm’s product-design strengths don’t automatically transfer to automotive design.

As Raphael Zammit, chair of transportation design at the College for Creative Studies in Michigan, explained, industrial design and automotive design are two very different disciplines, and the skills from one do not consistently translate to the other. Ive’s Apple iPhone design made the physical phone disappear, Zammit said, and was “100 percent appropriate for a digital communication device that you hold in your hand.” But a Ferrari is not an iPhone.

Ferrari’s decision to hire LoveFrom was a choice with a built-in logic, Zammit argued. “Ive is a brand,” he said. “When you hire Brad Pitt, you expect to get Brad Pitt.” The interior of the Luce has been praised for its blend of analog and digital touchpoints. But the interior language would likely be much more at home in a small premium city car, he added, such as a Fiat 500 or a Cinquecento, not a supercar that retails for half a million dollars.

I do love the interior, as it screams consideration on every surface. But Zammit’s distinction is right: the iPhone’s best trick was making the object recede behind the software. Ferrari is nearly the opposite problem. The object is the story.

Zammit again, on the exterior:

Among automotive designers, the criticism is no less blunt. “It is brutally bland, actually. It really does look as if it was designed by AI. It’s like a mathematical averaging of many different themes,” Zammit said, adding that, “it’s almost alarmingly vacant of identity.”

There’s a lot that critics hate about the Luce. The stance and proportions, for example, are all wrong for Ferrari, which is known for its lithe and aggressive lines. The front end of the vehicle is generic, even with the air vent over the front glass (a video of executives showing the car to Pope Leo demonstrates that you can pass your entire arm through it).

“It’s not a sports car, it’s not a city electric, and it’s not really luxury,” Zammit said. “It seems like they might have gotten a little bit snowed or oversold by LoveFrom… The strategy is very muddy, because of what they’re doing versus what they’re saying on different parts of the vehicle.”

“Alarmingly vacant of identity” is brutal because it separates competent surface from brand truth. There are plenty of bland cars in the world. There aren’t supposed to be bland Ferraris.

Bassett closes the loop in the piece’s final section:

Ferrari’s whole cultural function, as a signal, a provocation, an investment, depends on being unmistakably true to itself, its heritage, and, most importantly, its design.

When you remove the engine, the most emotionally resonant element in Ferrari’s history, you have to replace it with something compelling, Zammit points out, and the Luce’s design doesn’t do that.

Despite the design flop, Zammit was careful to separate it from the brand’s long-term health, calling it “a bit of a stumble, both in concept and in execution,” but said Ferrari had too strong a record to be permanently damaged.

One thing is clear in the face of all the negative coverage: In trying to signal a new era for Ferrari, the Luce has made everyone suddenly more interested in the old one.

That’s what makes the Luce a brand-design story, not just a car-design story. The Luce may turn out to be strategically useful for Ferrari. But the design problem is simple: it asks the bolted-on badge to do too much of the work.

Thirty-year veteran software engineer Christoph Mütze shipped a 25,000-parameter transformer that runs on a stock Commodore 64, complete with an exhaustive test harness and a stack of reference implementations that all have to agree before anything ships. He called it SoulPlayer. In return he got called a vibecoder. Same reflex as the Monet pile-on: label first, verdict next, evidence optional. His response is the takedown of the “vibecoded slop” accusation I’d been waiting for somebody to write, and it lands on a single question that nobody on the accusing side wants to answer:

If vibecoding is what you say it is, if AI does the hard part, if the human just prompts and ships, if expertise is no longer a moat, then the world should be drowning in proper software right now. Not slop. Real tools. The kind people pay for, depend on, use every day. Two years of access. Millions of people with the models. The barrier supposedly fell. …where is everything?

David Pierce, catalogued the bespoke micro-apps people are building for themselves: family budget trackers, fantasy baseball rank engines, migration logs with a total addressable market of one. That’s real, and it’s the right scale to celebrate. But Mütze is asking a different question: where is the vibecoded Photoshop? Where is the vibecoded Maya, the vibecoded Blender, the vibecoded compiler that compiles itself? If the prompt-and-ship cartoon were true, two years in we’d have an avalanche of sophisticated tools built by people who don’t know how to code. We don’t. The category is empty. Mütze’s diagnosis of why is the part I want every designer reading this to take in:

Level 1 is what the industry usually calls coding. The syntax, the loops, the years memorizing pointer arithmetic and which header file the function lives in. LeetCode-measurable. The job interview essence. The mechanical part. The typing.

Level 2 is flow. What you do with Level 1. Knowing the right data structure. Knowing which ugly pragmatic solution to ship instead of the beautiful academic one. Reading other people’s code. Taste and judgment. The reflex of rejecting solutions that almost work and shipping the ones that do. Debugging, unit testing, the quality-control part.

Level 3 is architecture. The macro decisions, made with full awareness of their consequences. What to build at all. Why this data structure and not that one. Why this trade-off and not the obvious one. Which design survives contact with the real world, and which one silently falls apart two years later. The deciding part.

The three have never been the same thing. The gate was never at Level 1. The gate was at Levels 2 and 3, where the work that holds together actually happens. AI lowered the cost of Level 1. It didn’t really touch Levels 2 or 3. The gate is exactly where it always was.

You can easily translate this framework from engineering to design. Level 1 in design is pushing pixels: the auto-layout setup, the icon nudging, the variant-matrix work in Figma that fills our days. Level 2 is the taste that picks which of the fifteen generated directions is actually worth shipping. Level 3 is deciding what to build at all, and for whom. AI is eating Level 1 in design the same way it has eaten Level 1 in code. The designers who panic about “vibecoded design” are panicking because Level 1 was the layer they could see, measure, and defend. The gate is somewhere else, and it always was.

The reason this gets so emotional is the part Christopher Butler has been pointing at for a while: AI doesn’t just replace tools, it renegotiates what made you worth hiring. Mütze says the same thing:

The accusers cannot see this. They are not at the gate. They were at Level 1. Level 1 was their identity, their hours, their proof of belonging, their reason to feel at home in this profession. When AI made Level 1 cheap, it did not threaten the gate. It threatened them. Because they bet their self-worth on the layer that just got rented out. So they call the work vibecoded. They have to.

Mütze could weaponize the accusation back. He has the receipts: the test harness, the reference implementations, thirty years on the demoscene. He refuses and ends with a call-to-action:

If you’ve been sitting on something you made with AI, ship it. Name your tools. Don’t apologize. The accusation is cheaper than the work. Yours is worth more.

David Pierce, writing for The Verge, dates the inflection precisely: late 2025, when an update to Claude Code crossed the line from “surprising when it worked” to “surprising when it didn’t.” That’s the moment vibe coding stopped being a demo and started being a tool ordinary people could actually use.

In late 2025, an update to Anthropic’s Claude model turned its Claude Code tool from a code generator that was surprising if it worked to one that was surprising when it didn’t. Suddenly, all you needed was $20 a month and a half-formed idea, and an AI model could build you functional software. If you could explain what wasn’t working, Claude Code could probably fix it. Andrej Karpathy, an educator and researcher who was on OpenAI’s founding team, had called this new behavior “vibe coding.” Suddenly the vibes were off the charts.

The reliability threshold matters more than the headline number. Twenty dollars a month was already true. What changed is that the output stopped breaking when you asked it to do something real. That’s what made the personal software lineage—from HyperCard in 1987 through Lee Robinson’s essay, the home-cooked-app idea, micro-apps, and fleeting apps—turn from a niche aesthetic into something a normal person could actually do over a weekend.

Pierce documents his own version of that weekend: building Timetable, abandoning it, building Spring and forgetting what it did, getting stuck on Twilio bills. The realization that pulls him out of the loop is the one that’s worth dwelling on:

What saved my efforts was the realization that personal software doesn’t have to be built from scratch. Knowledgeable developers might be newly capable home cooks, but the rest of us are more like customers at Chipotle. We don’t make the food, we don’t even really assemble it, but we get to decide what goes where and how it’s served to us. For most of us, the future of software is not building our own Excel from scratch, it’s using the models to build spreadsheets wildly more capable than we could create ourselves. It’s building the Chrome extension for your favorite app that is really only missing a Chrome extension. It’s tweaking the way things look to suit your exact taste and needs.

Most coverage of vibe coding implies the future is everyone becoming a one-person engineering team. Pierce’s actual claim is narrower and more useful: like ordering a Chipotle burrito, you’re picking ingredients and toppings, not running the kitchen. The point is not to replace Notion or Obsidian or Todoist. It’s to bend them an inch closer to how you actually work.

My whole publishing workflow for this blog switched from Payload CMS to a custom admin UI and now a custom Obsidian plugin.

Which brings the conversation to where Pierce lands it: taste.

In this new world, the most important thing you’ll need is taste. Not objectively good taste, necessarily, so much as a keen sense of your own. You need to be like Rick Rubin, the famous music producer, who once told 60 Minutes that what made him successful was not any particular technical ability, but “the confidence I have in my taste, and my ability to express what I feel.” Rubin practices that art with A-list celebrities; you need to be able to do it with AI. Otherwise, you’ll land in what Lovin calls “doom loops,” telling your chatbot only what you don’t like and counting on the model to be the creative one. That way lies madness — and bad software.

Yan Liu’s working definition of taste cites the same Rubin formula—sensitivity times standards—and that’s the part of Pierce’s argument that designers should sit with. The $20 vibe-coder has the tool. What they often don’t have is the trained eye to know when Claude’s purple gradient is wrong, or why the icon looks like a butthole instead of a planner. Pierce learned this the hard way and concluded, sensibly, that he didn’t have opinions about databases but did have opinions about typefaces. That’s the right diagnosis. It also undersells what designers actually do—Raj Nandan Sharma’s warning about taste-as-end-of-pipeline selection is the other half of this. If designers don’t show up as authors here—shaping what gets generated, not just thumbs-upping it after the fact—the personal software era will produce a lot of bespoke purple gradients and not much else.

An X user posted a painting from Claude Monet’s Water Lilies series, labeled it as AI-generated, and asked the timeline to explain what made it inferior to the real thing. Michael Zhang, writing for PetaPixel, collected what came back. Critics produced confident, formally-worded takedowns of an actual masterpiece:

“I’m disappointed I have to even point it out. There is no cohesion to the depth and color choices. The reflection of the tree bleeds into the lilypads with no regard for spatial depth or contrast. The background lilypad-algae amalgam is egregiously vague, like most AI art.”

The reflections are noise. The composition has no focal point. The lily pads look drawn on. Reply after reply, in vocabulary borrowed from art-school crit, explaining why a Monet is not a Monet.

The article ties the prank to research published in Nature in 2024 by Simone Grassini and Mika Koivisto:

“Participants were unable to consistently distinguish between human and AI-created images. Furthermore, despite generally preferring the AI-generated artworks over human-made ones, the participants displayed a negative bias against AI-generated artworks when subjective perception of source attribution was considered, thus rating as less preferable the artworks perceived more as AI-generated, independently on their true source.”

The finding lands the experiment: source attribution does the work, not vision. Tell people the image is AI and the same image becomes worse. The technical vocabulary arrives to justify a judgment that was already made.

Viewers don’t even need the prompt. They’ll supply the label themselves: parts of Lady Gaga’s Tim Burton-directed Dead Dance video struck people as AI because the imagery looked odd, and the slop critiques followed.

This is what Christopher Butler called the reactionary red-lining of AI—drawing hard lines against a category of work and then reverse-engineering the reasons. The Monet experiment is the same bias caught in the act, just running aesthetically instead of ethically.

Gess Puglielli, writing on LinkedIn, argues that the speed of AI interface generation has revealed something other than a new tool. It has revealed that a lot of companies were never working from a real definition of design:

But interfaces were never the real value of design. They were just the artefacts left behind. The output. The visible layer of a much deeper process involving human behaviour, systems thinking, psychology, usability, strategy, communication, emotion, culture and invention. Design was never about moving pixels around a canvas. Design is how humans shape the world around them.

Jakob Nielsen made an adjacent argument about the shift from artifact production to intent shaping. Puglielli is pointing at something sharper. Nielsen describes a shift in what designers do; Puglielli says the shift has exposed a category of companies that mistook the artifact for the work in the first place.

The diagnostic part is what stayed with me:

In many organisations, designers were already being treated like production software long before generative AI arrived. The process often looked something like this: Product defines requirements. Engineering defines constraints. Leadership defines strategy. Then design is invited in to “make it look good.” At that point, the designer has already been removed from the act of designing. They’ve become decorators of predetermined decisions.

This is what makes “AI replaced our designers” make sense inside certain rooms and sound absurd inside others. If your design function had already been narrowed to ticket-taking execution, AI can replicate execution. Karri Saarinen pointed at the same misunderstanding when he wrote that the hard part of design is understanding the problem well enough to know what should exist at all. Puglielli’s contribution is the corollary: the companies that don’t know that won’t notice it’s missing when it gets cut.

Puglielli argues what AI isn’t good at:

AI can generate screens. It cannot independently define meaningful problems worth solving. It cannot deeply understand cultural nuance, emotional context or human contradiction in the way experienced designers can. It cannot navigate organisational politics, align competing stakeholder priorities, recognise ethical implications or identify latent human needs before users themselves can articulate them.

Most importantly, it cannot care. And care matters more than the industry likes to admit.

Care is the right word for designers and a weak word for industry, because businesses don’t pay for care. They pay for the outputs care produces—taste, the ability to see a problem before it’s named, and the thing we call judgment.

The headline says it all: “Uber president says AI spending is getting ‘harder to justify.’”

Jess Weatherbed, writing in The Verge:

After reportedly exhausting its annual AI budget just four months into 2026, Uber is now questioning whether it’s actually seeing meaningful returns on its investments. In an interview with Rapid Response, Uber president and chief operating officer Andrew Macdonald said the company isn’t seeing a connection between rising token consumption for Claude Code and more useful features being delivered to consumers.

“That link is not there yet, right? I think maybe implicitly there is more that is getting shipped, but it’s very hard to draw a line between one of those stats and, ‘Okay, now we’re actually producing 25 percent more useful consumer features,’” said Macdonald. “I think over the coming quarters and years, maybe that will become clearer, but I think today it’s hard, even if some of the underlying metrics are trending in a really astronomical direction.”

Two quick thoughts. First, engineering—and by extension, product and design—velocity gains like 2x, 3x, or 10x show up in the output. They aren’t showing up directly in the outcomes. Getting to a design faster doesn’t mean you designed the right thing.

Second, we haven’t redesigned the factory floor yet. It’s a metaphor I’m borrowing from Tommy Geoco. When factories converted from steam power to electricity in the 1880s, they swapped out the engines and did nothing else. The floor plan and workflow didn’t change. For three decades, output barely moved. Only when companies redesigned their factories and process around the new technology did they see an increase in output.

We haven’t quite figured this out as an industry or discipline yet. As I’ve written previously, it’s foggy but the shape is unmistakable. The answer is out there.

Addy Osmani makes a clean separation that most of the “is AI making us dumber” discourse keeps glossing over. He reports on Anthropic’s randomized trial of engineers learning a new Python library:

Engineers who used AI to ask conceptual questions scored above 65%. Engineers who copy-pasted the generated code scored under 40%. The tool didn’t determine the outcome. The posture did.

Osmani is writing for engineers, but most of that translates to designers picking up Figma Make, Lovable, or v0. Ship-without-comprehension scales beautifully right up until the moment you have to debug, redesign, or defend a choice you didn’t really make.

He ends on a ritual any designer can adopt verbatim:

I’ve started ending coding sessions with a simple question: did I learn anything today, or did I just close tickets? Sometimes the honest answer is “I just closed issues” and that’s fine. If it becomes the answer for months in a row, cognitive debt is accumulating in the background. Ship and learn are two separate metrics.

Workslop is the companion failure mode: the cost goes to your coworkers, where skipped learning costs your future self.

The artifact-to-intent argument has been working its way through design writing for a while now. What Jakob Nielsen adds to it, writing in UX Tigers, is a name for the failure mode that comes with the territory:

We used to accumulate design debt when teams shipped inconsistent components or patched over poor flows. Now we will accumulate intent debt: undocumented assumptions, vague brand guidance, missing escalation rules, untested agent permissions, and research insights that never become usable by the systems doing the work. Intent debt will be harder to see than visual inconsistency, but it will be more damaging because it compounds invisibly through every generated output.

Nielsen’s prior writing on intent-based UX argued that evaluation has become the new bottleneck for the user. A chat completes the task in seconds, and you spend the next half hour checking whether it actually did what you meant. Intent debt extends that bottleneck to the organization. The team ships ten variants in an afternoon, and nobody can tell which ones violated a brand rule that was never written down, or bypassed an escalation path that only lived in a senior designer’s head.

Nielsen puts the failure plainly:

The new danger is that AI will produce many adequate screens that all seem defensible in isolation and incoherent in aggregate. Mediocrity will arrive well-dressed. The designer’s role is to prevent the organization from drowning in plausible options.

Which is why the design system has to grow up:

The design system thus stops being a component library and becomes an operating system for taste. Tokens, components, and usage rules are only the visible layer. Underneath must be a deeper set of instructions about brand behavior, interaction philosophy, accessibility standards, motion logic, content tone, escalation patterns, and product judgment. The system must know not only which button to use, but when not to add a button at all.

Developer Mark Anthony Cianfrani has argued that LLMs finally let us ship the reasoning behind a token alongside the token. Nielsen draws the consequence of skipping that work: a weak design system in the AI era becomes an active liability. Agents will faithfully build with whatever’s encoded, and faithfully invent the rest.

Dan Shipper, CEO of Every, has spent the last few years running his company as an early-adopter lab for AI tooling. The report from inside is that aggressive automation has not shrunk the team. The work has changed shape, but the volume of expert human work has gone up, not down. The reason, Shipper argues, is structural.

Slop is not any one particular mistake. It is not the use of em dashes, or a certain sentence rhythm, or purple accents on a landing page. Slop is visible sameness, repeated ad nauseam. It is what gets produced by default when humans in many different circumstances use the same tool, trained on the same corpus, without thinking too hard. It is what happens when everyone has access to an expert who has the same default tendencies. When someone in operations can issue a pull request, marketers can create YouTube thumbnails in seconds, or engineers are writing product guides, it’s easy to end up in a world where your output has gone up—but the quality, coherence, and differentiation of what you’re producing has dropped.

Sameness as the failure mode lines up with what BetterUp Labs researcher Kate Niederhoffer and her co-authors named workslop: AI-polished output that shifts the burden of judgment downstream onto whoever has to interpret, correct, or redo it. Shipper’s contribution is to follow the mechanism one more turn: once everyone is producing the same default output, the work that doesn’t look like the default becomes the scarce thing. Difference becomes the new status game, and difference has to come from a human who is alive to this moment, this customer, this codebase, this conversation.

The second half pushes the same logic up to AGI. Shipper on why even AGI doesn’t escape the loop:

In any hypothetical AGI built by any of the major labs, there is still going to be a framer—a human—directing the model to achieve a goal. And because the frame is not the framer, we’ll see the same pattern repeat: AI turns yesterday’s framed competence into something cheap; people use that cheap competence in more places; the results become abundant; experts move to the edge to decide what matters now; their judgment creates the next frame; and then the model climbs that, too.

At the end, Shipper drops the analytical voice and writes:

The race is over. You can almost feel your muscles beginning to atrophy, useless in the face of this mechanical copy of you and everyone you’ve ever met, of the whole of humanity. A ghost chasing a ghost, and winning. But then something strange happens. The model turns to you. Your cursor blinks, off and on, in the blank text box, expectantly. Waiting.

Michael Riddering brings Tommy Geoco on Dive Club fresh off field visits to Vercel, Perplexity, Metalab, Ramp, and Snowflake. Geoco and his team are making a documentary after roughly 200 conversations with designers and design leaders this year. The survey finding he leads with is the one I would have least expected: designers who have moved more of their work into AI-assisted prototyping are also more satisfied with their workflows. The hierarchy of who is actually doing that work is the part worth sitting with:

The number one thing that stood out to me was that designers who are currently vibe coding are more satisfied with their workflows. […] And I did not expect that. […] People seem to dig it in this survey. […] It’s the people who are currently doing the majority of their workflow on vibe coding activities. It’s design engineers. That makes sense. Lead principals. [After that] it’s non-designer roles, which might be students and researchers. Then it’s managers. And then it’s your general junior mid-level IC. And that part was fascinating that managers are doing more than junior and mid-level ICs. Either things are trickling down and people are experimenting and then they’re going to pass learnings down, which is kind of what we’ve seen on location. But it also might mean that like some managers or teams haven’t yet made room for the rest of the team.

Design engineers and leads at the top is unsurprising. Managers above juniors and mid-levels is the inversion, and remains basically unchanged from two years ago when Geoco’s 2024 survey found the same thing.

Leadership-IC Divide. Leaders adopt AI at a higher rate (29.0%) than ICs (19.9%)

So what’s the read? Geoco gives it the generous read first—learnings cascading down—and then concedes the other possibility: some teams haven’t made room for the rest of the team. Riddering puts it more bluntly: “I’m looking at a bunch of junior and mid designers that are getting cut out of the process.”

The other finding is that 59% of designers have built their own tool for their workflow. The example Geoco brings back from Vercel makes the builder-mode shift concrete:

When I went over to Vercel, they had this brand designer, who had never coded before. And now was vibe coding a tool. Their marketing team would put out blog posts. And they were like, “Why does the design team need to create the OG blog post cards for every page? That’s not a good use of [their time].” So he built a tool that just allowed them to insert any sort of images. And it just already had all of the branding and the sizing baked in. And they just roll these [tools] out quickly. And I’m like, that just became a tool, an internal tool. That’s cool. And so because it was really interesting that they started referring to him as a brand engineer… And I’m like, okay, that kind of qualifies it actually.

A designer who had never coded solves an actual marketing-team problem, ships the tool, and the role title arrives after the work. That is how the next batch of “blank engineer” titles is going to land. Riddering then describes how the orchestrator pattern works in his own day-to-day, offering a concrete account of the workflow I have been writing about as orchestration from a working designer:

Part of me is almost slightly self-conscious about it. But I do the vast, vast majority of my messy explorations with AI now. I feel like I have made the jump to the quote unquote creative director where I’m just working with AI to show me a certain thing 50 different ways. And then I’m pulling the pieces that I like and then combining them again. And finally I get to somewhere where I’m like, yep, that’s good. And then I take that from paper, run it through cloud code, and now it exists on localhost. And then I will sweat the details and actually do the precision designing in code, which is, that’s crazy, man. That’s a very, very different workflow than I’ve done at any point in my career.

The orchestrator gap is opening where I thought it would. What I did not account for is who is getting invited into that work first. The data Geoco surfaces points to leads, managers, and design engineers getting more chances to build with AI than junior and mid-level ICs.

Here’s a hypothesis I’ll put out there: leads are more used to directing. I’m personally comfortable with orchestrating, being the editor because I’ve been a creative director and leader for so long. The loop is right there: frame, review, direct.

After watching six agents design an app together in Pencil and spending a little time in Paper, I’ve been waiting for Figma to answer. Rodrigo Davies and Tammy Taabassum, writing on the Figma blog, finally announce it: a native design agent on the canvas, not bolted on through a separate app or a third-party MCP client.

Davies and Taabassum open with the pitch:

Designers need purpose-built tools that serve the essentials: exploration, experimentation, collaboration, and precision. Figma was built as a multiplayer canvas to make all of that possible. As teams adopt agentic tools to build products more quickly, false choices are emerging: Speed or precision? AI generation or direct manipulation? You shouldn’t have to choose.

Earlier this year Figma opened the canvas to third-party agents through its MCP server, letting Claude Code, Codex, and other agents push designs into a Figma file. That move covered the integration story. This one covers the in-app story:

That’s why we built the Figma agent. Our goal was to create an agent fluent in Figma and native to the way teams work. That meant making Figma itself legible to a model in ways that aren’t possible with third-party tools—with deep context on your components, tokens, standards, and best practices.

A third-party agent reaching in through MCP has to translate every request through a protocol; a native agent already speaks the file format. It knows your components, your tokens, your variables. That’s the gap between an agent that can edit a Figma file and an agent that lives in one.

The use cases Davies and Taabassum walk through—going wide on style explorations, bulk-updating variables across a design system, distilling comment threads into actionable plans—are the work designers were already paying the tax on. On exploration specifically:

The best designs rarely come from the first idea—or the first prompt. Exploring directions, comparing approaches, and iterating is already core to how designers work. Our agent will help you cover more ground in less time.

Renaming variables across a file, repeating padding changes through an entire flow, swapping one component for another across a dozen screens: that’s the busywork the agent is perfect for. The taste call on which direction to ship stays with the designer.

Davies and Taabassum close with:

Figma’s agent is embedded where the work already happens. There’s no toggle tax, no context switching, no learning curve. You stay in Figma and your team stays in the loop. We built this with one goal: to help you work faster without compromising on quality and craft.

That’s the competitive answer to Paper and Pencil. Agent-native canvases get a head start by not carrying any legacy assumptions; Figma carries millions of files and the design systems inside them. The bet is that the install base plus a fluent-in-Figma agent beats a greenfield canvas plus a generic one. We’ll see who’s right once the beta opens up.

Last week I linked Ravi Mehta on the three layers of context engineering for AI prototyping: functional spec, visual wireframe, structured data. Karo Zieminski, an AI PM writing Product with Attitude, makes the same case at the product scale and cites Mehta directly. Mehta wrote about prototyping one screen; Zieminski writes about designing the whole product around an agent.

Zieminski puts it in one line:

Prompt engineering is deciding what and how to ask the model. Context engineering is deciding what the model knows when it answers.

Then the asymmetry:

A well-crafted prompt in a poorly engineered context still fails. A poorly crafted prompt in a well-engineered context often succeeds.

That asymmetry is the argument for treating context as the underlying system.

If that asymmetry is real—and a year of using these tools tells me it is—then most teams are still optimizing the wrong layer. The visible artifact is the prompt. The work that actually decides the output is everything around it.

The piece I want to underline is who owns the work:

PMs define what goes in each context layer. Engineers build the infrastructure to fetch and store it… If the PM isn’t doing this, one of two things happens. Either an engineer makes the product decision by default, or nobody makes it and the agent gets every available signal dumped into the window.

Zieminski calls the alternative abdication. I think she’s right and I also think most PM job descriptions in 2026 haven’t caught up. The hiring filter still selects for ticket-shaping and roadmap maintenance, not for “decide what the model should know about the user, what should age out, what should never get re-fetched.” Those are product decisions about how memory is organized, and the people best positioned to make them—PMs who understand the product and the user—are often the ones least equipped to talk about retrieval and eviction. The gap is one of vocabulary and authority.

Both write for PMs, but the work is also design work. The context an agent sees is a designed surface: what gets included, what gets hidden, what should age out, what should persist between sessions. Mehta’s three-layer brief—spec, wireframe, JSON, twenty minutes in Figma, real data—is daily prototyping for designers working with agents now. Zieminski’s architecture is the system those prototypes live inside. If designers don’t show up here, PMs and engineers will design this surface for us.

My terminal setup these days is cmux layered on top of Ghostty, so I can run multiple workspaces side by side without losing my place. Most of my actual work happens there now, as the primary surface.

MC Dean spent real time building UIs for her designpowers agents, looked at what she’d made, and tore them down:

I’d taken something that was direct, alive in a particular way, that would show you its thinking if you let it, and I’d dressed it up. Made it presentable. Wrapped its reasoning inside a crisp ui. In doing that I’d introduced distance between the person using it and the thing they were actually talking to and trying to collaborate with. I’d made it more comfortable, predictable and less true. I killed the delight of using designpowers.

Dean on why she killed it:

The GUI was scaffolding. Brilliant, necessary, world-changing as an innovation, but nonetheless created around a fundamental limitation so invisibly useful that we forgot what it was for.

The scaffolding was for humans who couldn’t speak the machine’s language. When the machine starts speaking ours—even partially, even just inside certain conversations—the scaffolding becomes friction for anyone trying to learn how the underlying system actually thinks.

Dean then connects this back to design craft, instead of letting it become a “designers should learn the terminal” finger-wag:

Designers are really good at this important way of thinking already. Every time you decided how an error message should make a person feel. Every time you chose what to surface and what to hide. Every time you designed for the person who didn’t fit the assumed user, you were encoding values into a system. That work doesn’t go away when the interface does. It moves upstream, into the reasoning layer itself, and it has no canvas. That’s design literacy for the world that’s coming.

Dean’s argument pairs with the other end of the same expansion: designers gaining authorship downstream in the code. The easing curve and the hover state at one end; what the agent gets to surface and who counts as the assumed user at the other. The reasoning layer is the upstream end without a canvas to hide behind.

Nick Babich asks if the old surface still earns its place. Dean is pointing at where the new surface already is.

Dean closes with:

We are early enough that the agents are still legible. You can still watch one think. You can still feel the shape of how it reasons before it’s been wrapped in chrome and shipped with a logo.

That window is why I bother with cmux at all. Ghostty by itself is already a genuine pleasure to use; cmux lets me keep a Claude Code session running per project without losing context when I switch. Just enough plumbing to make watching agents think a habit rather than a stunt. Dean’s right that the legibility won’t last. Worth being here while it does.

Most agent-velocity hype rests on one premise: that writing code was the slow part. .txt, the team behind the structured-generation library, takes a saw to that assumption. The point goes back to two foundational software-engineering texts—Fred Brooks’s The Mythical Man-Month (1975) and Gerald Weinberg’s The Psychology of Computer Programming (1971)—and .txt puts it like this:

Software is what’s left over after a group of humans finishes negotiating with each other about what the system should do. The code matters, but it is the residue of the harder work, not the work itself.

Code as residue. That inversion reorganizes the whole conversation. The tools and processes we’ve built around software for fifty years—IDEs, wireframes, mockups, code review, even pair programming—have been about lowering the cost of producing the residue. Once that cost approaches zero, what’s left to slow you down is the negotiation underneath. And that negotiation has not gotten any cheaper.

What that layer actually consists of, in practice:

What slows down a team where agents do the implementation is the production of specifications precise enough for an agent to pick up and run. Roadmap, written down. Acceptance criteria, written down. The “what we actually want” forced into precision, be it via a test suite, a ticket, or a written design.

The bottleneck moves from people writing code to people deciding what code should exist. .txt calls that work management, and I’d put it a little wider; it’s also product, design, and anyone whose job description includes the phrase “what we’re building.” A spec precise enough for an agent is a falsifiable description of the outcome, with the trade-offs already made.

.txt on what runs underneath the spec:

Context is the commodity an organization runs on. It is the shared understanding of what we are building, why it matters, what has been tried, who decided what, what is load-bearing and what is vestigial. Humans on a team accrete it by osmosis. By being in the room, by reading the same Slack channel, by debugging the same outage at two in the morning. Most of it is never written down. When a senior engineer reviews a PR and says “this’ll break the migration,” they are drawing on context that has no document. Agents cannot do osmosis.

“Agents cannot do osmosis” is the line. Specs are the formal surface; context is what’s underneath, and teams absorb it without writing it down. The post closes here:

The companies that win the next decade will not necessarily have the best models or the best agent infrastructure. It will be the companies whose fifty people, then two hundred, then two thousand, can stay aligned on a shrinking set of decisions while shipping more output per head. They will be the ones that already knew, before agents arrived, that their hardest problem was coherence. That is a culture and management problem. Always has been.

Nick Babich, writing in UX Planet, takes inventory of where Figma still earns its place once teams stop treating the mockup as the deliverable:

One thing is clear: the conventional process in which UI and UX designers spend hours and days pushing pixels to create perfect layouts is no longer the reality for many organizations. The reason is simple: in the AI era, time-to-market has become a critical metric, and most companies would rather ship a “good enough” product quickly than spend extra time perfecting every detail.

The concept of Figma as a design tool originated from the conventional design process. You could say that Figma is an almost perfect design companion for designers who follow a traditional UI/UX workflow.

But the problem is that the conventional design process is no longer the reality for most organizations.

Organizations that embrace rapid prototyping are switching to tools that allow them to build and ship quickly. Instead of starting with static UI mockups in Figma, they jump straight into the prototyping phase using tools like Claude Code. In this phase, teams create coded prototypes that later evolve into fully functional products.

Figma’s role is narrowing from everything-tool to exploration-and-iteration tool, and narrowing is not the same as dying. Babich is now drawing the lines around what that specialized future actually looks like: design systems (especially the ones already living in Figma), complex enterprise workflows with real business logic, and the brand and visual-identity work where taste is the whole point.

On Figma Make, Babich is blunt:

But the problem is that Figma Make is still nowhere near tools like Codex or Claude Code in terms of output quality and overall user experience. Claude Code and Codex are significantly more capable, flexible, and comfortable for rapid product development workflows. Even for simple tasks like creating a prototype of design imported from Figma, Make tends to add a lot of visual defects.

I scored Figma Make 58 out of 100 at launch. It has improved since, but Babich is right about the gap. Make is competing against tools that were born for code generation against a working repo; Make was retrofitted onto a vector editor. That difference shows up in every prototype that looks fine until you zoom in.

On design systems, Babich:

In other words, you don’t necessarily need to maintain your design system in Figma; as long as you can provide access to a GitHub repository containing your design system, you’re in a good position to generate consistent interfaces.

If the design system can live in the repo and the agent can read it directly, the Figma library becomes a mirror rather than the source. That doesn’t kill the Figma file. It does change who has to maintain it and why.

Jess Eddy reaches back to the 19th-century pessimist Arthur Schopenhauer for the distinction senior creatives may worry about:

Talent is like the marksman who hits a target which others cannot reach; genius is like the marksman who hits a target which others cannot even see.

Eddy borrows a line from Jack Grapes, the poet and writing teacher: “Make me look good, and I’ll keep you on the payroll.” That’s the trap. The longer you’ve been at it, the more reliably your talent delivers, and the more expensive it gets to walk away from what works. Most career advice says lean into your strengths. Eddy says your strengths keep you aimed at targets you already know how to hit.

For experienced designers, those targets are getting harder to find. AI is changing what counts as design work and what tools do it, and the ground under the profession is moving with it. The reflex when the ground moves is to double down on the move you’ve already mastered. But the mastered move hits the visible target. The targets that come next won’t be visible yet.

Eddy doesn’t let anyone skip the mastery step. The 5–10-year window isn’t optional. But once you’ve put in the time, you have to walk away from the talent that made you reliable. Eddy closes with Grapes:

Talent does what it can, genius does what it must.

Nearly nine in ten organizations now use AI in at least one business function. Ninety-four percent aren’t seeing significant value from it. Gale Robins, writing for UX Collective, argues that the gap is a framing problem, not an adoption problem. Her earlier piece on discovery judgment made the same case; the new one sharpens it with an anecdote that shows the trap:

A team I spoke with recently had compressed their discovery cycle from six weeks to ten days using AI. They were proud, and the throughput was real. When I asked what the work had taught them that they did not already believe, the answer was: not much. Same questions, faster. Same answers, sooner.

Same questions, faster. Same answers, sooner. Her analogy for the wider pattern is the electric factory one I’ve used before:

When factories first installed electricity, productivity barely moved. Manufacturers replaced steam engines with electric motors and kept the line-shaft layout. The breakthrough came later, when they redesigned the factory around what electricity made possible. The technology was only part of the answer.

Robins maps McKinsey’s three waves of AI value—productivity, differentiation, transaction-cost reduction—and finds most teams stuck in the first one. Robins on where they have to go to get out:

These decisions are upstream of every artifact a team produces. They are also where AI productivity gains help least, and where human judgment compounds the most.

Robins’s evidence undersells her own thesis. She leans on Generative AI at Work—the Stanford-and-MIT customer-support study by economists Erik Brynjolfsson, Danielle Li, and Lindsey Raymond that became the canonical citation for “AI helps novices most”—to argue AI raises the floor, not the ceiling. Novices gained 34%; experienced workers, basically zero. That’s why so many designers who have never coded—like me—are now suddenly shipping with this newfound superpower. It’s the same finding behind the junior designer crisis. But LinkedIn’s Full Stack Builder rollout found the opposite: top performers adopted AI fastest and got the most out of it, because they had the judgment to know what to ask for. The floor-not-ceiling story is only true where the questions are fixed. Once the questions are the work, the pattern inverts. That’s exactly the territory Robins is mapping. If AI rewards the experienced most when the work is judgment-shaped, framing is where the gap between teams widens.

Open four agent windows at once and the day disappears in a way that feels productive but isn’t. David Hoang, writing in Proof of Concept, puts it plainly:

At times, HITL [human-in-the-loop] agent orchestration feels addictive like Candy Crush or scrolling social media. Every prompt shows a stream of tokens and visible progress being made. You sit and wait to hit the number 2 or continue prompting. Instead of doom scrolling, you’re doom building; a sense of productivity which leaves you not doing anything else.

To be abundantly clear, I’m not against HITL and it’s a great way to build. What I’m saying is the massive productivity gains take a toll on you. I’ve shipped real work this way; being locked in for entire afternoons and evenings to prompt sessions. Sometimes I get good outputs and other times I don’t get anything valuable.

The orchestration tax is like the coordination tax at work. I’m feeling like I’m building but really air traffic controlling in parallel. You are reading partial outputs, deciding which to merge, which to discard, which to re-prompt. It’s a job, and an important one, but it’s not the deep work in design, writing, or thinking I need to do. That is a real job. It is not, however, the same job as design or writing or thinking. It uses a different part of you and it depletes a different reservoir. By the time I sit down to actually draw something or write a paragraph that matters, the reservoir is empty.

I orchestrated my way out of having anything to say.

Hoang’s analogy to coordination tax—the meeting load that eats the day at any tech company—is exact. Watching a token stream and deciding what to keep is real work. It is not the work you sat down to do. Orchestration spends from the same reservoir or account that making spends from, and you do not feel the withdrawal until the end of the day when you go to write the paragraph and there is nothing in the tank. Hoang’s tactical answer is to switch defaults: human-in-the-loop for the few things that benefit from your synchronous attention, human-on-the-loop for everything else, with a real review block on the calendar.

The shift is from watching to bracketing. Agents need start conditions and end conditions, not a babysitter in between.

According to Harvard Law School, Eric Ries tells Lenny Rachitsky, only 20% of venture-backed founders are still CEO three years after going public. Every founder gets told by their lawyers, bankers, and VCs that they’re the exception. Statistically, they’re not. Ries, author of the Silicon Valley textbook The Lean Startup, treats this as a structural problem with a structural answer in his new book Incorruptible. The analogy he spins:

This is like you’re building a bridge. And if your bridge collapses, and Lenny, I say you’re an engineer, and I say, “Lenny, why did my bridge collapse?” If you’re like, “Well, ‘cause of gravity.” I’m gonna be like, “Dude, yeah. Thank you for that genius insight, right?” […] I call it financial gravity. […] Yeah, but I want to know why did this bridge collapse? And more importantly, how come other bridges didn’t collapse? And they say, “Oh, for that, we need to study the load, load factor, wind load, shearing tension.” And we go look up close. We say, “Oh, look, all the metal bolts have been corroded.” They’re rusted. No wonder it collapsed. And then if you say, “Well, I want to build a new bridge, but I don’t want this one to collapse. What can I do?” You won’t say, “Well, gravity, what can you do?” No. You say, “Why don’t we use stainless steel next time on the bolts so they don’t get corroded?” Oh, yeah, good idea. So this book is about what are the organizational equivalents of stainless steel?

This is the move that makes Incorruptible a design book. Most writing about founder ouster and mission drift treats those outcomes as moral failures: bad people taking shortcuts or unlucky breaks in the market. Ries refuses that. Corrosion is predictable. Stainless steel is a material choice. Your bolts are going to rust unless you specified otherwise before pouring the foundation. The governance documents a founder signs in year one are the structure of the company itself. And the people advising them on those documents (the lawyers, the bankers, the VCs) are not the people who will be standing on the bridge in year ten.

Ries on a related diagnosis:

I could tell that this restaurant got taken over by private equity. I could taste it. And I’ve told that story a bunch of times now. And so many different people have told me, “Oh yeah, I know what restaurant you’re talking about!” And then they name like 12 different restaurants. So what’s going on that like you can taste the ownership structure of a company in the food? How many people have had a famous brand that they love get ruined? […] all kinds of famous companies where the thing that destroyed them was not competition. It was not someone else came up with a better product. No, their very success became a liability because the more gold in the goose, the greater the temptation to butcher.

You can taste the ownership structure in the food. That’s a designer’s instinct, even if Ries doesn’t call it that. It’s the same thing that tells you, holding a product, whether the team that built it still cares, and whether anyone at the top is protecting the people who do. The Sonos app rewrite that wiped half a billion in market value came from decisions inside the company about what to ship and who got protected. The bridge was already corroding. Ries is arguing that the protection has to be installed early, before there’s anything worth butchering. That’s design work, in the most literal sense.

Ries is a captivating storyteller in this episode. I can’t wait to get my hands on his new book.

Nearly a thousand design studios across more than 50 countries, hand-picked by one person. Wences Sanz-Alonso runs Just a Design List, a directory that strips each entry down to a name, a city, a discipline, and a link. No hero image, no blurb, no star rating. The about page explains what it is:

Just a Design List is a personal reading list that grew too long to keep privately. It began in 2023 as a list of bookmarks, and is now a small, slow public archive — a place to point at studios whose work rewards close attention, without the obligation of a review.

It’s an excellent curated list full of inspo possibilities to close out the week.

I met Jennifer Jerde early in my career. She’s one of the nicest humans I’ve ever encountered in this business, and her firm Elixir Design has been quietly building brands out of San Francisco for 27 years.

Rachel Paese, writing for Design Observer, gets Jerde on the question the rest of the industry is trying to dodge:

We’re in a world right now where everything kind of looks the same. You can go to Canva, you can get Squarespace templates, and you basically just change out the messaging. And it looks pretty handsome. It’s a design of an ad. It’s a design of a website. It’s where the design is a noun. It looks pretty nice, but to make stuff that’s actually true, it looks like listening to a lot of different people.

The thing you ship is the artifact, and the artifact can be produced by anyone with a template and a logo file. What Jerde sells is the listening—27 years of it—and the specific verb that template work can’t perform.

She gives the verb a definition later in the piece:

We do have an observation practice. I would never refer to it that way. We listen like crazy. We’re observing what lives inside clients’ minds and hearts about things. And then we don’t just show them 3 directions, we show them fifteen. Then we observe what happens.

The difference between three directions and fifteen is the difference between a studio and a feed. Three directions is what you present when you already know which one you want the client to pick. Fifteen is what you present when you genuinely don’t know yet, and you’re willing to use the meeting as the instrument that tells you. That’s expensive and it doesn’t scale. It’s the entire reason Elixir has been doing this for 27 years and not 27 months.

Jerde on AI:

I’m both deeply impressed by AI and scared of it. But I feel like companies and brands get exactly what they deserve. They hang out there exactly who they are, in a way. […] And then there are the players who are like, no, no, we really want to reach this audience. We want to show how genuinely great we are in whatever way we are genuinely great. That takes effort.

There’s a caveat in there: the migration to AI is optional. You can opt out. The template will work for the audience that doesn’t require you to have listened. It’s good enough.

But the interesting brands are the ones that don’t accept good enough, that demand that extra effort.

Chip Kidd, in a Fast Company interview with Nicole Gull McElroy, says he is “the last of that breed.” He means the 40-year career at one publisher, which he is about to complete at Knopf in October. He says it plainly:

In October, if I live that long, I will have passed my 40th year at Alfred A. Knopf. I feel very fortunate. Frankly, I’m the last of that breed. I have peers who are also the last, but that’s going to be it. It’s not for me to say, but the age of a 40-year career at the same place used to be not that unusual, but going forward it will be. That’s just the way things have evolved.

Read the interview and the easy story is the celebrity arc: Pennsylvania kid joins Knopf in 1986, does Jurassic Park, ends up on the canon shelf with Cormac McCarthy, Donna Tartt, and John Updike. But Kidd points at the mechanism instead of the outcome. He points to two anonymous designs—the Tide box, the Coca-Cola wordmark—and then explains why his name is on his work and theirs is not.

A lot of graphic designers do not get credit for what they do. Who designed the Tide detergent box? We don’t know but it certainly is iconic. Even going back to Coca-Cola: Who designed that? […] Growing up in the ’70s, the only other area of graphic design where the designers got credit were record album covers. If you looked closely, you could see this one was done by Peter Saville. He was a huge influence on me. […] To this day, if I design a book cover and it gets put out into the world, it has my name on it. That is why we are even having this discussion right now. Not only did I get credit for what I was doing, but I piggybacked on these books that became iconic bestselling books.

Two structural facts are doing the work here, and neither is talent. The first is the medium: book jackets have a back flap, and the back flap has room for a designer credit. Record sleeves had the same affordance, which is how Peter Saville got known for Joy Division and New Order. Packaging does not: there’s no flap on a Tide box where the designer’s name goes. The second is duration: the credit on any single jacket is small, but Kidd got to put it on hundreds of jackets over forty years, several of which became permanent fixtures on the canon shelf. Stack enough of those and you become legible as a designer. None of the anonymous designers behind Coca-Cola or Tide got either accident — neither the flap nor the four decades to fill it.

This is what makes the Kidd interview useful, and why the celebrity reading misses it. He is the exception that demonstrates the rule. The credit crisis in design is structural: it turns on whether the artifact you make has a place for a name and whether your employment lets you stay long enough to accumulate names. Most design work fails one or both of those tests. The artifacts that fill a designer’s career now—apps, dashboards, marketing pages, packaging—don’t carry credits at all, and few roles last long enough to compound into a body of work the way Kidd’s did. The 40-year jacket-flap career was never the model. It was the unusual case where the structure happened to cooperate.

Brandon Harwood opens with Picasso’s Guernica. He asks you to look at the painting, then tells you the story behind it—the bombing of the Basque town, the civilian deaths, Picasso’s intention to communicate that horror—and asks you to look again.

If you didn’t know the story of this painting beforehand, now you do, and it might strike a different chord, if just slightly. The details of the painting now have the context that shows us what Picasso was thinking when he painted Guernica. […] It’s this kind of context that drives meaning in art. Guernica is not just a painting. It’s communication.

Harwood uses it to draw a line between what AI can generate (the aesthetics of a thing) and what humans build (the context that makes a thing communicate). His answer: instead of asking AI to make meaning, design around the fact that it can’t.

Meaning Machines are, at their core, “signifiers, randomized into a fixed grammar, and read for new meaning.” […] The randomized signifiers are the contextual data surrounding our creative pursuit, the data the AI is trained on, and the relationships built on that data through its training. These signifiers, the data, are then placed into a fixed grammar through agentive interaction and/or agentic actions, and the user can then interpret the result to stimulate their creativity, build new meaning, or explore ideas they might not have considered before.

Tarot doesn’t know what your week looks like. Oblique Strategies doesn’t know what song you’re stuck on. The cards work because they hand you raw material and you do the interpretation. Harwood’s claim is that an LLM, used right, can sit in that same chair. Provoke the human. Dr. Maya Ackerman calls this same arrangement “humble creative machines”: the AI is not the creator, it’s the prompt the creator responds to.

Harwood breaks co-creative AI into three roles:

The Puller: The AI system gathers information about the context the user is working in through active question generation and passive information collection on the works. […] The Pusher: The AI system uses some/none of this context to synthesize considerations for the user to employ throughout their creative journey. […] The Producer: The AI system creates artifacts for use as elements of the users’ larger creative output.

The Puller / Pusher / Producer vocabulary is what I wish more design teams had before they shipped their first AI feature. Each role is a constraint, a way to keep the human in the chair the work actually belongs in. Most AI tools for creatives flatten all three into one button that produces a finished thing. Harwood’s whole argument is that the finished thing is where the meaning has to originate; it can’t be the destination.

Peter Yang spent the last few months running OpenClaw, Hermes, Claude Code, Codex, and Gemini through ten capabilities he thinks a personal AI agent needs to handle. The headline is in his subtitle: nobody has won yet.

Yang on OpenClaw, an open-source personal-agent platform:

I estimate that 10% of my time with OpenClaw is spent fixing it instead of using it. Examples: It forgot it had access to edit Google Docs. It randomly started using a robot voice instead of the one I like. It breaks half the time after every update.

He switched to Hermes (a newer personal-agent platform from Nous Research) anyway:

If OpenClaw’s maintenance tax is wearing you down, give Hermes a try. A week in, it’s been more reliable for me.

Yang’s full comparison of Claude Code, Codex, and Gemini—plus the stack he ends up running—is in the post. His advice for the rest of us:

Pick one or two agents that work for you based on the pros and cons above and just commit.

His promise to anyone who picks one and stays:

Once you have an agent that’s available 24/7 and can actually get work done for you, you’ll never go back to a regular AI chat interface again.