Embracing Friction — From the Desk of van Schneider — Edition №254

Embracing Friction

⏱️ Average reading time: 5-6min

For the past decade, we designers (in particular software & UX designers) have pursued an almost singular goal: make everything easier. User-friendliness above all else was and still is our mantra.

From operating systems to mobile apps and even games, our goal is to reduce friction, simplify and remove barriers. This philosophy, born from the early days of intimidating computing (and its complexity) has changed software from an expert's field into a universal tool that everyone today can access and use. Computers aren't just for the hardcore nerds anymore.

Software became accessible to billions of people. Our drive for simplification pretty much shaped our collective assumptions about software design: easier is always better, and friction is always bad. The best interface is the interface that needs no learning at all, isn't this what we've been preaching for years?

By extending this philosophy to our day-to-day software interfaces, we also began implementing the same principles in our video game development. And this is where things started to change.

As games became more accessible with abundant tutorials, hand holding, checkpoints and adjustable difficulties, players began to feel a sense of emptiness. The satisfaction of mastering a challenge pretty much disappeared. New games and challenges felt watered down. The satisfaction of mastering a hard, painfully excruciating game was replaced by "pleasant" experiences that, while enjoyable in the short term, left no lasting impression.

Classic video games had a unique charm and true personality. "Unforgiving, almost painfully difficult" is how I like to describe it. Patience was just one of the requirements. Not surprisingly, they were often a reflection of a single or small group of developers who built them out of pure passion (compared to today where it's often massive teams of UX-focused designers and researchers). But strangely enough, the very moments that seemed impossible to overcome in classic games became the fuel that kept players coming back for more. It's why the classics keep being the timeless classics decades later, and everything that followed seems to be forgotten just years later.

When everything is easy, nothing feels meaningful.

It's basic human psychology. We humans generally tend to value what we struggle to achieve. The pride of mastery, the satisfaction of growing our skills, and the sense of belonging to a skilled, like-minded community are powerful motivators which only are possible when there's something substantial to achieve and master. This doesn't only apply to games, but almost anything in life. Everything that isn't worth fighting for is fleeting at best.

The gaming industry changed because like many other industries, it chased growth as its core metric. The audience for easy, low-barrier games is always bigger than the audience for hard, mentally challenging games. It makes sense from that perspective if all you care about is growth (short term growth, I might add).

But you might be wondering, what the hell does all this have to do with software design?

Looking at the evolution of software design, it reveals a similar trend towards oversimplification. Modern UIs increasingly strip away depth and complexity to the point where they are essentially undermining the user's intelligence. When UX designers sit together today, there's a default assumption of user incompetence. But perhaps more troubling: it creates a self-fulfilling prophecy.

As software handles complexity on our behalf, we gradually lose the ability and confidence to engage with more sophisticated systems. This cycle of simplification and the decline of a users' skills leads to a world where true mastery or even understanding becomes increasingly rare, replaced by dependence on automated assistance and guided experiences.

It's a curious paradox. Ultimately this well-intentioned pursuit of oversimplification and accessibility diminishes the user's growth potential and therefore also limits our ability (as software designers) to break outside the box of well established, guided software design patterns. We're building our own prison.

BUT, there's a light at the end of the tunnel

I think there's another way. I call it "Strategic Friction" and it can be a feature, not a bug. And it doesn't have to be necessarily at the expense of growth. The key is understanding when this approach is appropriate. Good complexity creates new possibilities. Poor complexity creates unnecessary obstacles.

Carefully designed friction can create deeper engagement and investment into an experience. Just as classic video games' difficulty created dedicated players, strategic friction in software design can turn casual users into devoted experts who find satisfaction from mastering sophisticated tools.

This not only improves your overall product metrics, but it can have significant influence on your brand, since power users tend to band together and become evangelists for your brand.

Let me give you one example and their surprising second order effects:

Snapchat's early user interface deliberately (or perhaps accidentally) broke conventional UX rules; they created an interface that many found initially confusing and unuseable. However, this very "friction" created an almost exclusive sense of belonging among those who "got it." In the case of Snapchat, it was young people who needed a digital escape from their older counterparts: parents, who wouldn't touch Snapchat because it was just too damn confusing.

Young people who pushed through the initial learning curve of Snapchat felt they were part of something unique — a shared experience that strengthened their connection to both the platform and other members who had made the same journey. The friction of entry became a feature rather than a flaw, creating a distinct culture around the product that other companies could only beg for, even to today.

But don't get me wrong, I still believe core utilities and fundamental productivity software should remain simple and easy to use. However, when it comes to tools designed for creative expression or professional work, carefully crafted complexity and intentional learning curves can enhance user engagement and create more rewarding experiences. They create experiences for the mind and the soul.

As designers we have to keep reminding ourselves of the power we have: every decision we make has an impact, often beyond our comprehension. Sometimes it means guiding the user, sometimes it means challenging them with friction, and sometimes it means empowering them in ways that might feel uncomfortable to them at first glance.

This reminds me of another anecdote:

After I switched to Figma from Adobe Photoshop many years ago, I always had this uneasy feeling of becoming a worse designer. Worse as in, less creative.

While Figma is fantastic in streamlining interface design, far surpassing Photoshop for my current work, it's this very efficiency that comes with hidden constraints. Figma's architecture subtly shapes your design decisions, guiding your work along predetermined paths often without your conscious awareness. Figma's refined workflow (while absolutely amazing for productivity and speed), creates an invisible framework that quietly nudges my work towards established patterns.

In contrast to Photoshop, where the chaos and lack of structure offers a kind of creative liberation. The open-ended canvas and tools let me dream up anything I want and often pushes me towards unconventional thinking and more unique design solutions, even at the expense of efficiency. Photoshop is the definition of complexity and friction, but as patience persists, a beautiful portal opens in front of you.

I always like to say the tools don't matter, but they also kind of do. The design DNA of a tool, the friction or lack thereof subtly influences how we work.

Maybe this now turned into a love letter on what it means to be a designer, but I hope you enjoyed the read, straight from my mind.

Thank you for reading.

Yours truly,
Tobias