Deciding on the CORE of a problem is not as obvious as it might seem. In Project #2, the core was specified. However, in Project #3, the core is not obvious. In fact, determining the core of the problem is a major design challenge. (Project #2; Project #3)
What are some ways to think about this problem? In class, we described one way. Think of it as a Venn diagram. Each circle represents a major part of the problem. The intersection represents the common elements and therefore the core to be developed first.
But there is another way to think about the core. We can think of a range of emergency situations that may occur, from more typical emergencies (for example, weather conditions resulting in cancelled flights) to extreme emergencies (for example, a terrorist attack in the airport). Certainly the airport administrator needs to think about the extreme possibilities, and in conjunction with Homeland Security, plan what might happen. But what the administrator must worry about on a more frequent basis is the ordinary emergency—the one that repeats a few times a year. For the extreme case, paper plans are put into place, and there might even be a simulation staged with many emergency responder units involved. For the typical case, software and hardware are likely to be developed; the investment is worth it because it will hopefully relieve common passenger problems.
Finally, a third way to think of the core is as a multi-phased core. Given the more typical problem, the one that will happen versus the one that may never happen, it makes sense to build systems for the first, and to have emergency plans for the second. Or put it another way, if a true terrorist attack hits the airport, the administrator has bigger problems than helping passengers find their next available flight! But for the more typical problem, the one that happens several times a year, better planning is in order. The core of that problem may be divided into phases, with phase 1 being the most important to implement (it’s a minimal system but it’s crucial), phase 2 being less important but providing more human-centered focus, and so on. From this perspective, the core of the core is phase 1, and that’s the place to begin.
On Thursday I framed the introduction of the “seven themes of good design” by talking about big concepts and telling about a personal academic experience:
Think of an extremely smart person you know, a person whom many would describe as brilliant. How would you describe this person’s understanding of their area of expertise, whether it be finance, art history, biology, or any other discipline? Typically, these people understand big concepts: they see their world as a handful of basic themes with lesser concepts being variations on these themes.
Most of us don’t organize the world this way. We don’t see themes and variations, we only see variations, each one disconnected. Our heads are filled with independent facts and principles. But the very smart person reduces this wide array to a small set that helps him or her quickly grasp new situations.
In the mid-sixties, when I was an undergraduate at the University of Illinois, I took a course in physics. In those days, they didn’t offer “Physics for Poets.” There were only hard-core physics courses, taken mostly by engineering majors. But I wanted to know how the physical world worked, so I signed up. A good student, I attended all of the classes, took thorough notes, read the textbook, and completed all of the assigned exercises at the end of every chapter.
All went well until the first exam. I opened the test booklet and suddenly wondered if I was in the right course. “When did we learn how to solve these problems?” I wondered in bewilderment. I muddled through them, trying to remember the formulae I had memorized. Needless to say, I didn’t do very well in physics and redirected my interests elsewhere.
What happened? If I had had the courage to ask my instructor about the exam questions, the professor probably would have been puzzled by my confusion. We had different views of the subject. For me, physics was a vast collection of different problems, each with its particular formula. If a problem looked like example 3.7 in the text, I felt confident. Or if a problem matched well with formula 3.5.2, then the solution was forthcoming. But if a problem was new and different, I was lost. My professor, however, had no box in his head that contained this problem.
He understood physics in an entirely different way. For him, physics consisted of big ideas and central relationships like Force = mass x acceleration. Problems on the exam were not independent problems but variations on the big ideas. Nothing would have seemed unusual to the professor; each problem was a variation of something well known. But everything seemed unique to me, his naïve student!
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So these themes — human-centered design, transparency, computer imagination, and so on — are the big ideas that help focus our attention on good design. The techniques that we learn along the way — persona development, goal-directed design — are simply tools for the designer; they facilitate the designer’s job.
But if you just focus on the tools (like focusing on single physics examples or forumlae), you will be memorizing single techniques. Useful, yes, but missing the point. Instead, allow your mind to be reflective and ask yourself what do all of these techniques mean. You can read many HCI books (my office and home are filled with them) and can easily become confused by the suggested techniques — trying to line them all up — looking for consistencies and inconsistencies among them. But the expert designer begins to ask what these techniques mean. Variations (don’t worry about the vagaries among the techniques or variations) lead to themes. Big concepts lead to big insights.
We saw in the Al Pacino film, Looking for Richard, an example of Shakespeare expoiting the strengths of the play with his masterful use of words, poetry, and meter. Pacino helps us understand how Shakespeare exploited the theater medium to evoke a deeper understanding of ourselves — our loves and fears, our hopes and disappointments. Shakespeare’s plays employed “theater imagination,” if you will.
Moreover, we may look within the context of Pacino’s film to understand something else about Shakespeare’s brilliance: the threaded connections of the iambic pentameter of the line, the stanza, the play, and ultimately ones life. In the film, Vanessa Redgrave eloquently spoke of this, illustrating theater imagination and big concept thinking all at once:
Shakespeare’s poetry and his iambics floated and descended through the pentameter of the soul. And it’s the soul, if we like, the spirit of real concrete people going through hell and sometmes moments of great achievement and joy. That is the pentameter you have to concentrate on. And should you find that reality, all the iambics will fall into place.
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As a small exercise here, we can look at another medium — the song. And to illustrate “song imagination,” I’ve chosen Stephen Sondheim’s Send in the Clowns. In this first YouTube video, we hear Sondheim talk about his design of this song:
In the next clip, we see how he conducts a master class with a singer, coaching her in how the lyrics and music come together in this interpretation:
In this clip we see the original star of “A Little Night Music,” Glynis Johns, singing the song with Len Cariou. You hear the song performed in context:
Perhaps one of the greatest interpretations of the song, is Barbra Streisand. Notice her facial expressions matching so perfectly to the lyrics:
Finally, for a haunting interpretation of this song, listen to Sarah Vaughan’s masterful performance:
What is “song imagination” from the perspective of the designer-composer?
And, in the case of music, what is the role of the performer?
The audience?
And where are the clowns
Quick send in the clowns
Don’t bother, they’re here.
I was surprised in class yesterday when I asked the mentors if any team had consulted with them on project #2 — and their answer was a unanimous “no.” This is a strategic error on your part. The insightful comments they have written in the blogs show that they have a great deal of information and wisdom to share with you. Here are some ways you can involve a mentor:
Invite a mentor to one of your design sessions. Ask the mentor to observe your discussion and then comment at the end (allow time for this).
Invite a mentor to review your usability test and provide feedback.
Invite a mentor to observe your usability test to make sure that you are following good procedures.
Send an email to a mentor and ask a direct question. You may not get a direct answer, but you will be pointed in a good direction.
Discuss your usability results with a mentor. See if the mentor’s conclusions are consistent with yours.
Invite a mentor out to lunch or dinner and learn the “secrets” of doing these projects. Well, they may not tell you secrets, exactly, but they likely will provide useful information and insights.
The point is that these “best in class” second year students are an amazing resource for you. And if you don’t take advantage of them, you are cheating yourself out of part of your education.
How do you know which mentor to contact? I’d say, contact them all at once and see who responds. Be sure to specify the time you can meet so that they know if they are available.
One of the challenges of teaching and learning complex skills such as interaction design is that one needs to know everything on day one. I call this the teaching-learning paradox. Think about Project #1. In order to “successfully”complete the thermostat challenge, you need to be an expert in persona creation, evaluation techniques, ethnographic research, graphic design, team collaboration, solution generation (not just creating one or two possible “answers” but generating a dozen or more solutions), writing, presentation skills and so on. And yet, if one waits until you become an expert in each of these arenas, you’d never do the first project.
So, instead, we follow a process of successive approximations. This is a step-wise progression (or approximations) to an idealized goal (in our case, of becoming an interaction design expert). We can never fully get there anymore than we can achieve total wholeness as a human being. However, we can try one thing and another, and hope that we get good feedback (or critique) along the way. We encourage you to “fail rapidly and fail often.” It’s through this process of trying, questioning, failing, and succeeding, all in small steps, that we improve our skills. We teach a little and you do a little.
Again, this is not like math class where we can assign simple problems in the beginning and then systematically increase the complexity of the problems as you learn new concepts and techniques. Even small problems in interaction design, if they have any relevance to the real-world, are messy and difficult to complete.
To make the point even clearer, let’s examine the differences between real world problems and classroom problems. This is adopted from Sternberg, Robert J. (1985). “Teaching critical thinking, part 1: Are we making critical mistakes?” Phi Delta Kappan, 67, 194-198.
In the real world, the first and sometimes most difficult step in problem solving is recognition that a problem exists. In the classroom, the instructor or textbook signals that a problem exists.
In the real world, it is often harder to figure out just what the problem is than to figure out how to solve it. In the classroom, the instructor or textbook provides the problem.
Real world problems tend to be ill-structured. In the classroom, the instructor or textbook defines all aspects of the problem.
In the real world, it is not usually clear just what information will be needed to solve a given problem, nor is it always clear where the information can be found. In the classroom, needed information to solve classroom or text-based problems is found in the associated chapter or lecture; often parallel problems (examples) are solved for the student.
The solutions to real world problems depend on and interact with the contexts in which the problems occur. Classroom or text-based problems are self-contained; little or no context is provided.
Real world problems generally have no one right solution, and even the criteria for what constitutes a best solution are often not clear. Classroom or textbook-based problems have one right solution; textbook solutions are found in the back of the book.
Solutions to important real world problems have consequences that matter. Solutions to classroom or textbook-based problems have no consequences other than a grade or school advancement.
Real world problem solving often occurs in teams. Classroom or textbook-based problem solving often occurs alone.
Real world problems can be complicated, messy, and stubbornly persistent. Classroom or textbook-based problems are clear, well-defined, and easily forgotten.
While HCI Design I is conducted in a classroom setting, much of what we do is presented in an authentic context. We are trying to simulate what will happen when you enter the workforce, the so-called “real world” (and I’m not talking about the MTV series). The trick for you is to see a world of possibility. Only fear will hold you back, and it will crush you.
I’m reminded of a favorite book by Noah benShea, Jacob the Baker: Gentle Wisdom for a Complicated World (1989). It is the “story about a man whose humble life and profound wisdom are a source of both inspiration and reflection to those around him” (from the book’s inside cover). There’s a short segment about fear:
“A community leader came to see Jacob, hoping to find peace of mind, an ease for his burden.
The man was troubled by a repetitive dream that he did not understand.
‘Jacob, in my dream, I have traveled a long distance and am finally arriving at a great city. But, at the entrace to the city, I am met by a tall soldier who says that I must answer two questions before I am admitted. Will you help me?’
Jacob nodded.
‘The first question the soldier asks is ‘What supports the walls of a city?”
‘That is easy,’ said Jacob. ‘Fear supports the walls of a city.’
‘But what supports the fear?’ asked the man. ‘For that is the second question.’
‘The walls,’ answered Jacob. ‘The fears we cannot climb become our walls.’”
I don’t know who’s more excited about the first lecture — the students (mostly first year Master’s students in HCI/design, but also a hand-full of other graduate students and several advanced undergraduates) or me. It’s strange. Even after teaching a version of this course for over 22 years, I still put a lot of work into preparing for it. The preparation began last spring when David Royer (my graduate assistant) and I analyzed last year’s class to find out what worked and what needed improvement. Then over the summer I began the slow process of review and change. Over the last three weeks, I’ve put a couple hundred hours into preparing the materials, the new communications systems (which I needed to learn myself), and thinking through the examples and specific plans for the first day. I’m exhilarated and exhausted at the same time. Will they even notice?
So, for those of you reading this blog without much context, let me tell you about the course. It’s about HCI design. When I first came to the School of Informatics in 2001, I told the dean that I would be willing to direct the program (now under the very able leadership of Erik Stolterman) if we could emphasize design (vs. cognitive science, usability engineering, or more traditional areas of HCI). I argued that the future of HCI was design, and that if we were to distinguish ourselves as a program, this should be our emphasis. He agreed (not so much philosophically, but he was in desparate need of a leader so it was an easy sell). My first job was to hire a colleague, and I had the good fortune of being introduced to Eli Blevis. Eli and I agreed strongly on how to build the program, and we set out to do it. Much of what’s here today is a result of our collaboration, although Erik Stolterman, Youn Kyung-Lim, and Jeff Bardzell have added very important dimensions to the program. But to return to this course, the emphasis is on design. Here’s the overview document: Course Overview (just for the record, it’s copyrighted material, so please don’t copy it without permission and attribution).
I organize my course around these features:
Seven themes or big ideas of design. I don’t believe people can or will remember lots of details, but they can remember seven big ideas. These are the pillars of my design philosophy (they’ll be revealed next week). Everything we will do relates to these themes in one way or another.
Five non-trivial design projects. It’s like learning to swim by jumping into the deep end of the pool. There’s no slow build, or to continue with the analogy, there’s no splashing in the kiddy pool. The first design problem, while not as complex as later problems, is complicated enough and certainly non-trivial. (It’s about constructing an interface for a home thermostat system, from the home- or apartment-owner’s point of view.)
Working on teams. Design, for the most part, is not a solitary effort. You must learn to work on teams–not teams with “slackers,” but teams with highly energized people with many ideas of how to proceed. How do decisions get made? How do we manage our time? How do we value the diversity of the team? How do we resolve the many trade-offs we face? Etc.
Leadership. We want the students to see design as a vehicle for doing good work in the world, not just building another tool or application for people with a lot of money to spend. The problems of the world are great in number. Can design be used to solve some of these problems? We want our students to THINK BIG and demonstrate design leadership.
There are a few more features, but I’ll leave those for later.
What’s difficult about all of this is that there is no algorithm for success. We could teach certain textbook-like procedures, but from my experience, what this produces is mediocre designers. Great designers come from a different place and mostly from within. This requires most people in the class to think, feel, and grow in new ways. For some this will be very difficult. But all of what we do, including the music and movies, are designed to inspire and motivate us.
How does it all come together? I’m reminded about a scene in the movie, Shakespeare in Love (1998):
Philip Henslowe: Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster.
Hugh Fennyman: So what do we do?
Philip Henslowe: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.
