What all of these people had in common was a well-rounded curiosity, the good sense to know when something wasn’t working, and good social skills. Not only could they design well, they could write, think analytically; and they were curious about every job in the shop. If a job in the shop needed to be done, they’d volunteer to do it, even if (or maybe especially if) it meant having to learn a new skill.
A designer uses their expertise in the service of others without being a servant. Saying no is a design skill. Asking why is a design skill. Rolling your eyes and staying quiet is not. Asking ourselves why we are making something is an infinitely better question than asking ourselves whether we can make it.
“You may be hiring us and that may be your name on the check, but we do not work for you. We’re coming in to solve a problem, because we believe it needs to be solved and it’s worth solving. But we work for the people being affected by that problem. Our job is to look out for them because they’re not in the room. And we will under no circumstances design anything that puts those people at risk.”
For those of you not familiar with Ayn Rand, she wrote crappy books about the power of individual achievement while she collected social security and started some pseudo-philosophy called “objectivism,” which can be summed up in five words: I got mine, fuck you.
One of the judicial tests for fraud is intent. Intent is notoriously hard to prove, unless the company committing the fraud has put together a detailed Powerpoint presentation illustrating the purpose and function of the software—which Volkswagen had (apparently unaware of Stringer Bell’s admonition, “Is you taking notes on a criminal fucking conspiracy? The fuck is you thinking, man?” Your annoying friend is right; everyone needs to watch The Wire.)
In 1971, American philosopher John Rawls proposed an idea for determining the ethics of a situation, he called it a veil of ignorance. He later expanded on the idea in his book A Theory of Justice. In short, a veil of ignorance is a way of determining whether what you’re designing, be it a startup, a dinner plan, or a system of government, is just. It’s very simple: when designing something, imagine that your relationship to that system gets determined after you’ve made it. For example, if you’re designing a system of government that allows slavery, you might end up being enslaved. If you’re designing a ride-sharing service, you might end up as the driver or the rider.
magazine asked executives at six hundred companies to estimate the percentage of their workforce who could name the company’s top three priorities. The executives predicted that 64 percent would be able to name them. When Inc. then asked employees to name the priorities, only 2 percent could do so. This is not the exception but the rule. Leaders are inherently biased to presume that everyone in the group sees things as they do, when in fact they don’t. This is why it’s necessary to drastically overcommunicate priorities. The leaders I visited with were not shy about this. Statements of priorities were painted on walls, stamped on emails, incanted in speeches, dropped into conversation, and repeated over and over until they became part of the oxygen.
Try this: go to your Twitter content settings and change the country to Germany. The Nazis go away! It’s the software equivalent of D-Day. Nazis gone. The next time Twitter tells you they don’t know how to find the Nazi stuff, be assured they’re lying. They’ve already had to tag it. Why don’t they turn it off worldwide? Great question. In fact, I asked Jack Dorsey that question in person. He said it’s not illegal in the United States. It may not be illegal, but giving a voice to someone who uses it to silence others is indecent, unethical, and cruel. As designers, our job is to protect the people who come in contact with the tools we build. Sometimes the law can back us up, like with the GDPR. Sometimes the law may be lagging a little bit behind.
Creative skills, on the other hand, are about empowering a group to do the hard work of building something that has never existed before. Generating purpose in these areas is like supplying an expedition: You need to provide support, fuel, and tools and to serve as a protective presence that empowers the team doing the work. Some ways to do that include: • Keenly attend to team composition and dynamics. • Define, reinforce, and relentlessly protect the team’s creative autonomy. • Make it safe to fail and to give feedback. • Celebrate hugely when the group takes initiative.
As design educators, we need to stop pulling out a syllabus that was put together while watching the Nixon impeachment hearings, and we need to stop convincing students they’re special unicorns immune to consequence.
Hao raised his glass. “I have seen that look before. I would have pity for those you seek, but for the fact that they deserve whatever you have planned. May you find your revenge and may it taste sweet.”
Talk to individuals. Ask what kinds of problems they have with “teaming.” When an organization is having trouble with change, managers usually say they know what is wrong. But the truth is that often they don’t. They imagine that everyone sees things as they do, or they make assumptions about others that are untrue. You need to ask the right questions. If you ask, “Why aren’t you doing this?” you’ve set up an adversarial relation and will probably get a defensive answer. If, on the other hand, you ask, “What problems are you having with this?” you’re likelier to learn why it isn’t happening.
Talk about transition and what it does to people. Give coordinators a seminar on how to manage people in transition. Everyone can benefit from understanding transition. A coordinator will deal with subordinates better if he or she understands what they are going through. If they understand what transition feels like, team members will feel more confident that they haven’t taken a wrong turn. They’ll also see that some of their problems come from the transition process and not from the details of the change.
BY THE SUMMER OF 1826, THOMAS JEFFERSON KNEW THAT he was dying. Although he was the greatest living Virginian, he was, like many of his planter neighbors, bankrupt. His habits had been too rich and his soil too poor. His last recourse, a special lottery authorized by the State of Virginia for his benefit, had failed to generate enough money to save him.
