The knobs on grandfather's Onkyo receiver were impressively heavy yet effortless to move.
I have this distinct memory from my childhood: I’m lying on my stomach, propped up on my elbows, cozied up in yellow and orange-ish shag carpet. Dust floats lazily through a sunbeam that peeks through the heavy velour curtains. A clock ticks steadily but softly from the other side of the room. My right hand is rotating the large machined aluminum tuning knob on my grandfather’s hi-fi tuner – back and forth, back and forth.
My memory has me doing this multiple times on various visits, as though it was one of the items on my checklist of things to do while spending quiet Saturdays at my Grandparent’s house. The hi-fi system was objectively beautiful — three stacked rectangles in bright satin aluminum and delicately lit needle indicators that moved fluidly with the inevitable jazz music emanating from the corners of the room.
Each component had half a dozen switches neatly laid out in a row. They were composed of machined aluminum, thin precise cylinders jutting out from their axes with a crisp knurled pattern at the very tip. There were also a dozen or so knobs, each precisely machined with a distinct indicator notch cut into the edge. The aesthetics, while remarkable even today, were not what captured my attention.
My regular visits to Grandpa’s hi-fi system were primarily to FEEL it.
By this, I mean to simply enjoy the experience of turning the knobs and flicking the switches. Every input on the system felt precise and significant. The tuning knob, in particular, had a sublime, lightly dampened momentum when rotated. It felt impressively heavy yet was nearly effortless to move. The switches snapped assertively into place when activated, giving one the assurance that the simple act of switching from mono to stereo was done with purpose and gravitas.
This memory was, in a sense, my first acknowledgement that design can and should be about more than aesthetics. Design should be about curating a balanced experience for all of the senses. When the term User Experience (UX) is used, we often automatically associate it with digital media design, where users navigate through a complex series of tasks in two dimensions while limited to relatively few inputs. While digital UX is no easy endeavor, I’d like to consider the term UX in a broader context.
As an industrial designer, I think of user experience as the human/machine interface, the way human senses interpret a thing, whether it be a tool or a toy. In most products, a good user experience is not limited to good aesthetics. A good experience is had when using the product strikes the right balance between multiple senses, while meeting its intended purpose. To put this into context, I’ll use one of my favorite foods, pizza.
A pizza must meet many requirements before it can be considered “good.” Initially, the pizza should look tasty. It should contain the right contrast of toppings and cheese, it should have a pleasant browned, slightly singed color to the crust. Presentation is key here as one opens the ubiquitous pizza box and all the steamy, melty goodness shines forth. Obviously, we’re not done here, just as a product manufacturer should not consider themselves finished when they have a nice aesthetic design and a good packaging scheme. The pizza also must have a pleasant aroma, an agreeable texture, then finally, it needs to taste good. Only then can a pizza be considered “good.”
High-quality touchpoints say volumes about a product and, more importantly, about a brand.
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