Back in September, when Trump announced America by Design and appointed Joe Gebbia as Chief Design Officer, I wrote that it was “yet another illustration of this administration’s incompetence.” The executive order came months after DOGE gutted 18F and the US Digital Service, the agencies that had spent a decade building the expertise Gebbia now claims to be inventing.

Mark Wilson, writing for Fast Company, spoke to a dozen government designers about how Gebbia’s tenure has played out. When Wilson asked Gebbia about USDS and 18F—whether he thought these groups were overrated and needed to be rebuilt—here’s what he said:

“Without knowing too much about the groups you mentioned, I do know that the air cover and the urgency around design is in a place it’s [never] been before.”

He doesn’t know much about them. The agencies his administration destroyed. The hundreds of designers recruited from Google, Amazon, and Facebook who fixed healthcare.gov and built the COVID test ordering system. He doesn’t know much about them.

Mikey Dickerson, who founded USDS, on the opportunity Gebbia inherited:

“He’s inheriting the blank check kind of environment… [so] according to the laws of physics, he should be able to get a lot done. But if the things that he’s allowed to do, or the things that he wants to do, are harmful, then he’ll be able to do a lot of harm in a really short amount of time.”

And what has Gebbia done with that blank check? He’s built promotional websites for Trump initiatives: trumpaccounts.gov, trumpcard.gov, trumprx.com. Paula Scher of Pentagram looked at the work:

“The gold card’s embarrassing. The typeface is hackneyed.”

But Scher’s real critique goes beyond aesthetics.

“You can’t talk about people losing their Medicare and have a slick website,” says Paula Scher. “It just doesn’t go.”

That’s the contradiction at the center of America by Design. You can’t strip food stamps, gut healthcare subsidies, and purge the word “disability” from government sites, then turn around and promise to make government services “delightful.” The design isn’t the problem. The policy is.

Scher puts it plainly:

“[Trump] wants to make it look like a business. It’s not a business. The government is a place that creates laws and programs for society—it’s not selling shit.”

Wilson’s piece is long and worth reading in full. There’s more on what USDS and 18F actually accomplished, and on the designers who watched their work get demolished by people who didn’t understand it.

Google’s design team is working on a hard problem: how do you create a visual identity for AI? It’s not a button or a menu. It doesn’t have a fixed set of functions. It’s a conversation partner that can do… well, a lot of things. That ambiguity is difficult to represent.

Daniel John, writing for Creative Bloq, reports on Google’s recent blog post about Gemini’s visual design:

“Consider designer Susan Kare, who pioneered the original Macintosh interface. Her icons weren’t just pixels; they were bridges between human understanding and machine logic. Gemini faces a similar challenge around accessibility, visibility, and alleviating potential concerns. What is Gemini’s equivalent of Kare’s smiling computer face?”

That’s a great question. Kare’s work on the original Mac made the computer feel approachable at a moment when most people had never touched one. She gave the machine a personality through icons that communicated function and friendliness at the same time. AI needs something similar: a visual language that builds trust while honestly representing what the technology can do.

Google’s answer? Gradients. They offer “an amorphous, adaptable approach,” one that “inspires a sense of discoverability.”

They think they’ve nailed it. I don’t think they did.

To their credit, Google seems to sense the comparison is a stretch. John quotes the Google blog again:

“Gradients might be much more about energy than ‘objectness,’ like Kare’s illustrations (a trash can is a thing, a gradient is a vibe), but they infuse a spirit and directionality into Gemini.”

Kare’s icons worked because they mapped to concrete actions and mental models people already had. A trash can means delete. A folder means storage. A smiling Mac means this thing is friendly and working. Gradients don’t map to anything. They just look nice. They’re aesthetic, not communicative. John’s word to describe them, “vibe” is right. Will a user pick up on the subtleties of a concentrated gradient versus a diffuse one?

The design challenge Google identified is real. But gradients aren’t the Kare equivalent. They’re not ownable nor iconic (pun intended). They’re a placeholder until someone figures out what is.

Daniel Kennett dug out his old Mac Pro to revisit Aperture, the photo app Apple discontinued in 2015:

It’s hard to overstate quite how revolutionary and smooth this flow is until you had it for multiple years before having it taken away. Nothing on the market—even over a decade later—is this good at meeting you where you are and not interrupting your flow.

Kennett’s observation: Aperture came to you. Most software makes you go to it. You could edit a photo right on the map view, or while laying out a book page. No separate editing mode. Press H for the adjustments HUD, make your changes, done.

The cruel twist was Apple suggesting Photos as a replacement. Ten years later, photographers are still grumbling about it in comment sections.

There’s a design principle I return to often: if everything is emphasized, nothing is. Bold every word in a paragraph and you’ve just made regular text harder to read. Highlight every line in a document and you’ve defeated the purpose of highlighting.

Nikita Prokopov applies this to Apple’s macOS Tahoe, which adds icons to nearly every menu item:

Perhaps counter-intuitively, adding an icon to everything is exactly the wrong thing to do. To stand out, things need to be different. But if everything has an icon, nothing stands out.

The whole article is a detailed teardown of the icon choices—inconsistent metaphors, icons reused for unrelated actions, details too small to parse at 12×12 effective pixels. But the core problem isn’t execution. It’s the premise.

Prokopov again:

It’s delusional to think that there’s a good icon for every action if you think hard enough. There isn’t. It’s a lost battle from the start.

What makes this such a burn is that Apple knew better. Prokopov pulls from the 1992 Macintosh Human Interface Guidelines, which warned that poorly used icons become “unpleasant, distracting, illegible, messy, cluttered, confusing, frustrating.” Thirty-two years later, Apple built exactly that.

This applies beyond icons. Any time you’re tempted to apply something universally—color, motion, badges, labels—ask whether you’re helping users find what matters or just adding visual noise. Emphasis only works through contrast.

When I worked at LEVEL Studios (which became Rosetta) in the early 2010s, we had a whole group dedicated to icon design. It was small but incredibly talented and led by Jon Delman, a master of this craft. And yes, Jon and team designed icons for Apple.

Those glory days are long gone and the icons coming out of Cupertino these days are pedestrian, to put it gently. The best observation about Apple’s icon decline comes from Héliographe, via John Gruber:

If you put the Apple icons in reverse it looks like the portfolio of someone getting really really good at icon design.

Posted by @heliographe.studio on Threads

Seven Pages icons from newest to oldest, each one more artistically interesting than the last. The original is exquisite. The current one is a squircle with a pen on it.

This is even more cringe-inducing when you keep in mind something Gruber recalls from a product briefing with Jony Ive years ago:

Apple didn’t change things just for the sake of changing them. That Apple was insistent on only changing things if the change made things better. And that this was difficult, at times, because the urge to do something that looks new and different is strong, especially in tech.

Apple’s hardware team still operates this way. An M5 MacBook Pro looks like an M1 MacBook Pro. An Apple Watch Series 11 is hard to distinguish from a Series 0. These designs don’t change because they’re excellent.

The software team lost that discipline somewhere. Gruber again:

I know a lot of talented UI designers and a lot of insightful UI critics. All of them agree that MacOS’s UI has gotten drastically worse over the last 10 years, in ways that seem so obviously worse that it boggles the mind how it happened.

The icons are just the most visible symptom. The confidence to not change something—to trust that the current design is still the best design—requires knowing the difference between familiarity and complacency. Somewhere along the way, Apple’s software designers stopped being able to tell.

I spent all of last week linking to articles that say designers need to be more strategic. I still stand by that. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t understand the technical side of things.

Benhur Senabathi, writing for UX Collective, shipped 3 apps and 15+ working prototypes in 2025 using Claude Code and Cursor. His takeaway:

I didn’t learn to code this year. I learned to orchestrate. The difference matters. Coding is about syntax. Orchestration is about intent, systems, and knowing what ‘done’ looks like. Designers have been doing that for years. The tools finally caught up.

The skills that make someone good at design—defining outcomes, anticipating edge cases, communicating intent to people who don’t share your context—are exactly what AI-assisted building requires.

Senabathi again:

Prompting well isn’t about knowing to code. It’s about articulating the ‘what’ and ‘why’ clearly enough that the AI can handle the ‘how.’

This echoes how Boris Cherny uses Claude Code. Cherny runs 10-15 parallel sessions, treating AI as capacity to orchestrate rather than a tool to use. Same insight, different vantage point: Cherny from engineering, Senabathi from design.

One of my favorite parts of shipping a product is finding out how people actually use it. Not how we intended them to use it—how they bend it, repurpose it, surprise us with it. That’s when you learn what you really built.

Karo Zieminski, writing for Product with Attitude, captures a great example of this in her breakdown of Anthropic’s Cowork launch. She quotes Anthropic engineer Boris Cherny:

Since we launched Claude Code, we saw people using it for all sorts of non-coding work: conducting vacation research, creating slide presentations, organizing emails, cancelling subscriptions, retrieving wedding photos from hard drives, tracking plant growth, and controlling ovens.

Controlling ovens. I love it. Users took a coding tool and turned it into a general-purpose assistant because that’s what they needed it to be.

Simon Willison had already spotted this:

Claude Code is a general agent disguised as a developer tool. What it really needs is a UI that doesn’t involve the terminal and a name that doesn’t scare away non-developers.

That’s exactly what Anthropic shipped in Cowork. Same engine, new packaging, name that doesn’t say “developers only.”

This is the beauty of what we do. Once you create something, it’s really up to users to show you how it should be used. Your job is to pay attention—and have the humility to build what the behavior is asking for, not what your roadmap says.

Nice mini-site from the Figma showcasing the “iconic interactions” of the last 20 years. It explores how software has become inseparable from how we think and connect—and how AI is accelerating that shift toward adaptive, conversational interfaces. Made with Figma Make, of course.

Every designer has noticed that specific seafoam green in photos of mid-century control rooms. It shows up in nuclear plants, NASA mission control, old hospitals. Wasn’t the hospital in 1975’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest that color? It’s too consistent to be coincidence.

Beth Mathews traced the origin back to color theorist Faber Birren, who consulted for DuPont and created the industrial color safety codes still in use today. His reasoning:

“The importance of color in factories is first to control brightness in the general field of view for an efficient seeing condition. Interiors can then be conditioned for emotional pleasure and interest, using warm, cool, or luminous hues as working conditions suggest. Color should be functional and not merely decorative.”

Color should be functional and not merely decorative. These weren’t aesthetic choices—they were human factors engineering decisions, made in environments where one mistake could be catastrophic. The seafoam green was specifically chosen to reduce visual fatigue. Kinda cool.

“Taste” gets invoked constantly in conversations about what AI can’t replace. But it’s often left undefined—a hand-wave toward something ineffable that separates good work from average work.

Yan Liu offers a working definition:

Product taste is the ability to quickly recognize whether something is high quality or not.

That’s useful because it frames taste as judgment, not aesthetics. Can you tell if a feature addresses a real problem? Can you sense what’s off about an AI-generated PRD even when it’s formatted correctly? Can you distinguish short-term growth tactics from long-term product health?

Liu cites Rick Rubin’s formula:

Great taste = Sensitivity × Standards

Sensitivity is how finely you perceive—noticing friction, asking why a screen exists, catching the moment something feels wrong. Standards are your internal reference system for what “good” actually looks like. Both can be trained.

This connects to something Dan Ramsden wrote in his piece on design’s value in product organizations: “taste without a rationale is just an opinion.” Liu’s framework gives taste a rationale. It’s not magic. It’s pattern recognition built through deliberate exposure and reflection.

The closing line is the one that sticks:

The real gap won’t be between those who use AI well and those who don’t. It will be between those who already know what “good” looks like before they ever open an AI tool.

If design’s value isn’t execution—and AI is making that argument harder to resist—then what is it? Dan Ramsden offers a framework I find useful.

He breaks thinking into three types: deduction (drawing conclusions from data), induction (building predictions from patterns), and abduction—generating something new. Design’s unique contribution is abductive thinking:

When we use deduction, we discover users dropping off during a registration flow. Induction might tell us why. Abduction would help us imagine new flows to fix it.

Product managers excel at sense-making (aka “Why?”). Engineers build the thing. Design makes the difference—moving from “what is” to “what could be.”

On AI and the temptation to retreat to “creativity” or “taste” as design’s moat, Ramsden is skeptical:

Some might argue that it comes down to “taste”. I don’t think that’s quite right — taste without a rationale is just an opinion. I think designers are describers.

I appreciate that distinction. Taste without rationale is just preference. Design’s value is translating ideas through increasing levels of fidelity—from sketch to prototype to tested solution—validating along the way.

His definition of design in a product context:

Design is a set of structured processes to translate intent into experiments.

That’s a working definition I can use. It positions design not as the source of ideas (those can come from anywhere, including AI), but as the discipline that manages ideas through validation. The value isn’t in generating the concept—it’s in making it real while managing risk.

This piece cites my own research on the collapse of entry-level design hiring, but it goes further—arguing that AI didn’t cause the crisis. It exposed one that’s been building for over a decade.

Dolphia, writing for UX Collective:

We told designers they didn’t need technical knowledge. Then we eliminated their jobs when they couldn’t influence technical decisions. That’s not inclusion. That’s malpractice.

The diagnosis is correct. The design industry spent years telling practitioners they didn’t need to understand implementation. And now those same designers can’t evaluate AI-generated output, can’t participate in architecture discussions, can’t advocate effectively when technical decisions are being made.

Dolphia’s evidence is damning. When Figma Sites launched, it generated 210 WCAG accessibility violations on demo sites—and designers couldn’t catch it because they didn’t know what to look for:

The paradox crystalizes: tools marketed as democratization require more technical knowledge than traditional workflows, not less.

Where I’d add nuance: the answer isn’t “designers should learn to code.” It’s that designers need to understand the medium they’re designing for. There’s a difference between writing production code and understanding what code does, between implementing a database schema and knowing why data models influence user workflows.

I’ve been rebuilding my own site with AI assistance for over a year now. I can’t write JavaScript from scratch. But I understand enough about static site generation, database trade-offs, and performance constraints to make informed architectural decisions and direct AI effectively. That’s the kind of technical literacy that matters—not syntax, but systems thinking.

In “From Craft to Curation,” I argued that design value is shifting from execution to direction. Dolphia’s piece is the corollary: you can’t provide direction if you don’t understand what you’re directing.

Previously, I linked to Doug O’Laughlin’s piece arguing that UIs are becoming worthless—that AI agents, not humans, will be the primary consumers of software. It’s a provocative claim, and as a designer, I’ve been chewing on it.

Jeff Veen offers the counterpoint. Veen—a design veteran who cofounded Typekit and led products at Adobe—argues that an agentic future doesn’t diminish design. It clarifies it:

An agentic future elevates design into pure strategy, which is what the best designers have wanted all along. Crafting a great user experience is impossible if the way in which the business expresses its capabilities is muddied, vague or deceptive.

This is a more optimistic take than O’Laughlin’s, but it’s rooted in the same observation: when agents strip applications down to their primitives—APIs, CLI commands, raw capabilities, (plus data structures, I’d argue)—what’s left is the truth of what a business actually does.

Veen’s framing through responsive design is useful. Remember “mobile first”? The constraint of the small screen forced organizations to figure out what actually mattered. Everything else was cruft. Veen again:

We came to realize that responsive design wasn’t just about layouts, it was about forcing organizations to confront what actually mattered.

Agentic workflows do the same thing, but more radically. If your product can only be expressed through its API, there’s no hiding behind a slick dashboard or clever microcopy.

His closing question is great:

If an agent used your product tomorrow, what truths would it uncover about your organization?

For designers, this is the strategic challenge. The interface layer may become ephemeral—generated on the fly, tailored to the user, disposable. But someone still has to define what the product is. That’s design work. It’s just not pixel work.

The rise of micro apps describes what’s happening from the bottom up—regular people building their own tools instead of buying software. But there’s a top-down story too: the structural obsolescence of traditional software companies.

Doug O’Laughlin makes the case using a hardware analogy—the memory hierarchy. AI agents are fast, ephemeral memory (like DRAM), while traditional software companies need to become persistent storage (like NAND, or ROM if you’re old school like me). The implication:

Human-oriented consumption software will likely become obsolete. All horizontal software companies oriented at human-based consumption are obsolete.

That’s a bold claim. O’Laughlin goes further:

Faster workflows, better UIs, and smoother integrations will all become worthless, while persistent information, a la an API, will become extremely valuable.

As a designer, this is where I start paying close attention. The argument is that if AI agents become the primary consumers of software—not humans—then the entire discipline of UI design is in question. O’Laughlin names names:

Figma could be significantly disrupted if UIs, as a concept humans create for other humans, were to disappear.

I’m not ready to declare UIs dead. People still want direct manipulation, visual feedback, and the ability to see what they’re doing. But the shift O’Laughlin describes is real: software’s value is migrating from presentation to data. The interface becomes ephemeral—generated on the fly, tailored to the task—while the source of truth persists.

This is what I was getting at in my HyperCard essay: the tools we build tomorrow won’t look like the apps we buy today. They’ll be temporary, personal, and assembled by AI from underlying APIs and data. The SaaS companies that survive will be the ones who make their data accessible to agents, not the ones with the prettiest dashboards.

I’ve spent a lot of my product design career pushing for metrics—proving ROI, showing impact, making the case for design in business terms. But I’ve also seen how metrics become the goal rather than a signal pointing toward the goal. When the number goes up, we celebrate. When it doesn’t, we tweak the collection process. Meanwhile, the user becomes secondary. Last week’s big idea was around metrics, this piece piles on.

Pavel Samsonov calls this out:

Managers can only justify their place in value chains by inventing metrics for those they manage to make it look like they are managing.

I’ve sat in meetings where we debated which numbers to report to leadership—not which work to prioritize for users. The metrics become theater. So-called “vanity metrics” that always go up and to the right.

But here’s where Pavel goes somewhere unexpected. He doesn’t let designers off the hook either:

Defining success by a metric of beauty offers a useful kind of vagueness, one that NDS seems to hide behind despite the slow loading times or unnavigability that seem to define their output; you can argue with slow loading times or difficulty finding a form, but you cannot meaningfully argue with “beautiful.”

“Taste” and “beauty” are just another avoidance strategy. That’s a direct challenge to the design discourse that’s been dominant lately—the return to craft, the elevation of aesthetic judgment. Pavel’s saying it’s the same disease, different symptom. Both metrics obsession and taste obsession are ways to avoid the ambiguity of actually defining user success.

So what’s the alternative? Pavel again:

Fundamentally, the work of design is intentionally improving conditions under uncertainty. The process necessarily involves a lot of arguments over the definition and parameters of “improvement”, but the primary barrier to better is definitely not how long it takes to make artifacts.

The work is the argument. The work is facing the ambiguity rather than hiding behind numbers or aesthetics. Neither Figma velocity nor visual polish is a substitute for the uncomfortable conversation about what “better” actually means for the people using your product.

“I want my MTV!” That is the line that many music artists spoke to camera in a famous campaign by George Lois to get fans to call their cable companies to ask for MTV. It worked.

While MTV’s international music-only channels went off the air at the end of 2025, its US channels still exist. They’re just not all-music all the time like it was in the 1980s.

That’s where MTV Rewind comes in. It’s a virtual TV where you can relive MTV programming as it was. Built by an artist going by FlexasaurusRex, it’s an archive of Day 1 programming, and then different channels (YouTube playlists) to shuffle through the different shows, including 120 Minutes.

How do we know what we designed is working as intended? We measure. Vitaly Friedman shares something called the TARS framework to measure the impact of features.

We need UX metrics to understand and improve user experience. What I love most about TARS is that it’s a neat way to connect customers’ usage and customers’ experience with relevant product metrics.

Here’s TARS in a nutshell:

• Target Audience (%): Measures the percentage of all product users who have the specific problem that a feature aims to solve.
• Adoption (%): Tracks the percentage of the target audience that successfully and meaningfully engages with the feature.
• Retention (%): Assesses how many users who adopted the feature continue to use it repeatedly over time.
• Satisfaction Score (CES): Gauges the level of satisfaction, specifically how easy it was for retained users to solve their problem after using the feature.

Friedman has more details in the article, including how to use TARS to measure how well a feature is performing for your intended target audience.

I really appreciate the perspective of Lai-Jing Chu here as a Silicon Valley veteran. The struggle to prove the value of design is real.

I don’t know another function or role in the tech industry where it seems like we have to do our jobs at the same time as — and I will avoid saying “demonstrating value” here because it’s more than that — we carry out some sort of divine duty to make the product (let alone the world) a better place through our creativity.

Instead of more numbers like ROI calculations, Chu argues for counterintuitive approaches for advocacy, “not more left-brain exercises.”

Chu introduces us to W. Edwards Deming, an influential management consultant who wrote:

The most important figures needed for management of any organization are unknown and unknowable, but successful management must nevertheless take account of them.

One strategy she offers is to ask leadership a common-sense question: How would you grade the design?

Because when was the last time anyone did the most basic thing — to stop for a moment, hold the product in their hands, and take a good hard look at it? These questions throw the ball back in their court. It makes them wonder what they can do to help. Because chances are, most leaders want their product to have a good user or customer experience and understand that it makes a difference to their business success. You don’t just want buy-in — you want them to have true ownership.

I admire this approach, because chances are, leaders are already hearing about UX issues from customers. But to put this into practice in, let’s say, at any startup post-Series A will be an issue. There’s a lot of coordination and alignment that needs to happen because exec-level attention is much harder to come by.

Here is a good reminder from B. Prendergast to “stop asking users what they want—and start watching what they do.”

Asking people what they want is one of the most natural instincts in product work. Surveys, interviews, and feature wish lists feel accessible, social, and collaborative. They open channels to understand and empathise with the user base. They help teams feel closer to the people they serve. For teams under pressure, a stack of opinions can feel like solid data.

But this breaks when we compare what users say to what they actually do (say-do gap).

We all want to present ourselves a certain way. We want to seem more competent than confused (social desirability bias). Our memories can be fuzzy, especially about routine tasks (recall bias). Standards for what feels “easy” or “intuitive” can vary wildly between people (reference bias).

And of course, as soon as we start to ask users to imagine what they’d want, they’ll solve based on their personal experiences—which might be the right solution for them, but might not be for other users in the same situation.

Prendergast goes on to suggest “watch what people do, measure what matters, and use what they say to add context.” This approach involves watching user interactions, analyzing real behaviors through analytics, and treating feature requests as signals of underlying problems to uncover genuine needs. Prioritizing decisions based on observed patterns and desired outcomes leads to more effective solutions than relying on user opinions alone.

I’ve linked to a footer gallery, a navbar gallery, and now to round us out, here is a full-on Component Gallery. Web developer Iain Bean has been maintaining this library since 2019.

Bean writes in the about page:

The original idea for this site came from A Pattern Language2, a 1977 book focused on architecture, building and planning, which describes over 250 ‘patterns’: forms which fit specific contexts, or to put it another way, solutions to design problems. Examples include: ‘Beer hall’, ‘Positive outdoor space’ and ‘Light on two sides of every room’.

Whereas the book focuses on the physical world, my original aim with this site is was focus on those patterns that appear on the web; these often borrow the word ‘pattern’ (see Patterns on the GOV.UK design system), but are more commonly called components, hence ‘the component gallery’ — unlike a component library, most of these components aren’t ready to use off-the-shelf, but they’ll hopefully inspire you to design your own solution to the problem you’re working to solve.

So if you ever need a reference for how different design systems handle certain components (e.g., combobox, segmented control, or toast ), this is your site.

Alrighty, here’s one more “lens” thing to throw at you today.

In UX Collective, Daleen Rabe says that a “designer’s true value lies not in the polish of their pixels, but in the clarity of their lens.” She means our point-of-view, how we process the world:

1. The method for creating truth
2. The discipline of asking questions
3. The mindset for enacting change
4. The compass for navigating our ethics

The spec, as she calls it, is the designer’s way for creating truth. Others might call it a mockup or wireframe. Either way, it’s a visual representation of what we intend to build:

The spec is a democratic tool, while a text-based document can be ambiguous. It relies on a shared interpretation of language that often doesn’t exist. A visual, however, is a common language. It allows people with vastly different perspectives to align on something we can all agree exists in this reality. It’s a two-dimensional representation that is close enough to the truth to allow us to debate realistic scenarios and identify issues before they become code.

As designers, our role is to find the balance between the theoretical concept of what the business needs and what is tangibly feasible. The design spec is the tool we use to achieve this.

T-shaped, M-shaped, and now Σ-shaped designers?! Feels like a personality quiz or something. Or maybe designers are overanalyzing as usual.

Here’s Darren Yeo telling us what it means:

The Σ-shape defines the new standard for AI expertise: not deep skills, but deep synthesis. This integrator manages the sum of complex systems (Σ) by orchestrating the continuous, iterative feedback loops (σ), ensuring system outputs align with product outcomes and ethical constraints.

Whether you subscribe to the Three Lens framework as proposed by Oliver West, or this sigma-shaped one being proposed by Darren Yeo, just be yourself and don’t bring it up in interviews.

Oliver West argues in UX Magazine that UX designers aren’t monolithic—meaning we’re not all the same and see the world in the same way.

West:

UX is often described as a mix of art and science, but that definition is too simple. The truth is, UX is a spectrum made up of three distinct but interlinked lenses:

• Creativity: Bringing clarity, emotion, and imagination to how we solve problems.
• Science: Applying evidence, psychology, and rigor to understand behavior.
• Business: Focusing on relevance, outcomes, and measurable value.

Every UX professional looks through these lenses differently. And that’s exactly how it should be.

He then outlines how those who are more focused on certain parts of the spectrum may be more apt for more specialized roles. For example, if you’re more focused on creativity, you might be more of a UI designer:

UI Designers lead with the creative lens. Their strength lies in turning complex ideas into interfaces that feel intuitive, elegant, and emotionally engaging. But the best UI Designers also understand the science of usability and the business context behind what they’re designing.

I think for product designers working in the startup world, you actually do need all three lenses, as it were. But with a bias towards Science and Business.

Hey designer, how are you? What is distracting you? Who are you having trouble working with?

Those are a couple of the questions designer Nikita Samutin and UX researcher Elizaveta Demchenko asked 340 product designers in a survey and in 10 interviews. They published their findings in a report called “State of Product Design: An Honest Conversation About the Profession.”

When I look at the calendars of the designers on my team, I see loads of meetings scheduled. So it’s no surprise to me that 64% of respondents said that switching between tasks distracted them. “Multitasking and unpredictable communication are among the main causes of distraction and stress for product designers,” the researchers wrote.

The most interesting to me, are the results in the section, “How Designers See Their Role.” Sixty-percent of respondents want to develop leadership skills and 47% want to improve presenting ideas.

For many, “leadership” doesn’t mean managing people—it means scaling influence: shaping strategy, persuading stakeholders, and leading high-impact projects. In other words, having a stronger voice in what gets built and why.

It’s telling because I don’t see pixel-pushing in the responses. And that’s a good thing in the age of AI.

Speaking of which, 77% of designers aren’t afraid that AI may replace them. “Nearly half of respondents (49%) say AI has already influenced their work, and many are actively integrating new tools into their processes. This reflects the state of things in early 2025.”

I’m sure that number would be bigger if the survey were conducted today.