Lessig’s Remix introduced me to the notion of Read/Only and Read/Write cultures; these terms are extremely useful for thinking about the way people interact with media. I was especially astounded by his analysis of “free access” which reveals the profound influence technology has on a society’s expectations about their rights to engage in “remix” practices; Lessig answers many questions I have grown up asking about copyright laws by breaking down the distinctions between different media forms in a way that illuminates their fundamental nature as different forms of “literacy.”
The example of composers like Sousa arguing against “machine music” speaks to a debate I have been engaged in since middle school (when I first began playing massively multiplayer online games like Runescape)—I would often get into online discussions about music where I had to defend my preferences for bands like Dragonforce and Dream Theater, which heavily utilize synthesizers to achieve their particular sound, against more “pure” forms of music which emphasize playing instruments with no digital effects. Common ideas I encountered were that “pure” music is channeled directly from the artist through an instrument with which he has a virtuosic connection; my opponents claimed that such a connection was impossible to replicate using (to borrow Sousa’s term) “machine music,” frequently citing their own personal experiences playing instruments which I, unfortunately, had none of. I knew, but had difficulty articulating, that computers were instruments, too, even if they relied on “samples” collected from dubious sources in the creation of songs. It seemed to me that computers offered the potential to go beyond the capabilities of normal instruments in creating more technical and nuanced soundcapes. Lessig suggests that therein lies the power of RW culture—remixing occurs when individuals take bits from different sources to produce a new work, and these new works are always in conversation with those they derive from. This seems to be no different than the conversations that occurred between classical composers, with each new symphony produced advancing the dialogue on music, although the crucial change that has occurred is that the new digital tools we have for creating media now empowers far more people to participate in the conversation.
One project which absolutely confirms the power of Lessig’s RW culture is one of my favorite web series, The League of Extraordinary Dancers (LXD).
It is an episodic superhero narrative about amazing dancers with supernatural abilities. Since its inception I’ve been enthralled by the highly choreographed, seemingly physics-defying displays of dance, and it’s not just the spectacle itself—LXD has revealed to me (and its broad internet audience) the rhetorical potential of dance to tell amazing stories. What I have not known since the show began is that these dancers, who are pulling off unprecedented feats of human acrobatics, were actually recruited from the Internet. This TED talk explains how dancers across the world are posting their moves online for others to watch, replicate, and improve upon. This is RW culture in action, and LXD creator Jon Chu has capitalized on this evolution in dance by taking some of the raw talent produced through Youtube conversations, applying his professional expertise in choreography and cinematography, and (through collaboration) offering them the opportunity to spread their message of dance to a whole new audience—people like me who might never have realized that things like this were going on.
Remix is a book I am going to have to buy—from this 100-page selection alone I feel I have moved significantly forward in my understanding of digital rhetorics (plus I have begun thinking about P2P file-sharing in an entirely new way thanks to Lessig addressing the moral dilemmas faced by those of my generation who have grown up being labeled as “pirates” simply because certain entities desire to exert control over digital literacy).
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Response to Buxton (104-165; 229-307)
Buxton’s discussion of sketching as a tool for designers is essentially a recommendation that we pour ideas out of our brains so that they can be applied to an ongoing “conversation” about our work. The role of a sketch is to be a physical representation of the thought process—their designs are rough, ambiguous and flexible, making them ideal for visualizing a product that is in development. I have occasionally used sketches when I want to represent something visually for myself, but more often I use outlines for basically the same purpose—to put my thoughts “out there” where they can be spatially organized according to a logic that supports the task at hand. Buxton emphasizes that sketches can be readily edited or easily discarded; with the technology of word processing for my outlines, both are easily accomplished (with a minimum of waste!). I certainly understand what he means by sketching as a “conversation,” because in creating outlines I often feel like I am engaged in a dialogue with myself—headings are added and rearranged, useful quotes are nested under appropriate sections, and the language used is that which comes directly out of my head-- whatever it takes for me to understand and get a handle on the thing I am working on.
When he starts writing about storytelling, Buxton begins to sound much like Kolko—using language, designers can model the user experiences they are attempting to achieve. In many ways my outlines are sketches that attempt to tell a story. These methodologies are useful and should be common practices for anyone who is designing anything; while reading I felt frequently felt myself thinking, “well yeah, obviously,” but ultimately I think Buxton makes an important point about the way that humans tend to work through problems: we need that element of tangibility because such things serve as “anchors” for our thoughts, allowing our brains to make new connections that improve upon what already exists.
When he starts writing about storytelling, Buxton begins to sound much like Kolko—using language, designers can model the user experiences they are attempting to achieve. In many ways my outlines are sketches that attempt to tell a story. These methodologies are useful and should be common practices for anyone who is designing anything; while reading I felt frequently felt myself thinking, “well yeah, obviously,” but ultimately I think Buxton makes an important point about the way that humans tend to work through problems: we need that element of tangibility because such things serve as “anchors” for our thoughts, allowing our brains to make new connections that improve upon what already exists.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Response to Kaplan and Sullivan readings
This semester I have found myself immersed in discussions of writing pedagogy as a result of my job tutoring in the Writing Center; these readings provide useful insights into the role of composition educators in a technological landscape which is repositioning writers in the publishing process.
One issue addressed by Kaplan which resonates with my experiences in the Writing Center is that of the “proliferation of freshman English as the most inevitable part of a college education.” I would say that 70% of our clientele come to us for help in one of these intro-to-composition courses; this is because, as Molly Wingate suggests in her essay “What Line?”, freshman English serves as a “gatekeeper” to American academics. This term brings the importance of writing teachers into focus; Paulo Firere is quoted stating “It is impossible to think of education as an autonomous or neutral practice.” We (as teachers of writing) must, therefore, be aware of how the hegemonic negotiations occurring in emerging communication technologies will be conveyed through our instruction. Since writing can no longer concern itself only with print media, we must address the ideological connotations of digital media like blogs, hypertexts, and even tweets. In this way I see “rhetoric” as a powerful pedagogical tool for bridging the gap, so to speak, between the methods we use and our goals as writers.
Although the Sullivan article reads as very dated, she presents some relevant points. In particular, she suggests that accepting the computer as a tool for writing means embracing the rhetoric of the “page.” I have witnessed this pedagogical strategy being applied in ENGL 103 here at Clemson—the first project students were assigned was a “Visual Rhetoric Analysis” in which they had to choose an image (usually an advertisement or political cartoon with some overt motivation) and use language to describe how that image was being used. This necessitated that the students incorporate multimodal layouts for their papers, and the emphasis placed on examining the visual design of images lent further awareness to the students’ own design choices. I worked with many students over the course of this assignment; they frequently brought in saved drafts on their laptops (which brings to mind Sullivan’s distinction between paper-drafts and digital ones as an important facet of the role computers play in the writing process) and desired feedback on not only their prose, but also on their layout/formatting decisions. My job became more than what is implied by “writing tutor”; I would show them how to wrap text around images, format their paragraphs, arrange captions and annotations, and finally how to deliver these carefully developed pages to their instructor with methods ranging from print (discussing the benefits/drawbacks of double-sided pages) to publishing on class blogs or uploading Google dox.
In conclusion, there is no doubt in my mind that Sullivan’s prescribed “new pedagogy of writing” has begun to emerge in the two decades since she wrote her article. As Kaplan suggests, the “computer revolution” is above all else a “writing revolution,” and this is clearly reflected in the writing classroom of the 2010s (or whatever we call where we are now).
One issue addressed by Kaplan which resonates with my experiences in the Writing Center is that of the “proliferation of freshman English as the most inevitable part of a college education.” I would say that 70% of our clientele come to us for help in one of these intro-to-composition courses; this is because, as Molly Wingate suggests in her essay “What Line?”, freshman English serves as a “gatekeeper” to American academics. This term brings the importance of writing teachers into focus; Paulo Firere is quoted stating “It is impossible to think of education as an autonomous or neutral practice.” We (as teachers of writing) must, therefore, be aware of how the hegemonic negotiations occurring in emerging communication technologies will be conveyed through our instruction. Since writing can no longer concern itself only with print media, we must address the ideological connotations of digital media like blogs, hypertexts, and even tweets. In this way I see “rhetoric” as a powerful pedagogical tool for bridging the gap, so to speak, between the methods we use and our goals as writers.
Although the Sullivan article reads as very dated, she presents some relevant points. In particular, she suggests that accepting the computer as a tool for writing means embracing the rhetoric of the “page.” I have witnessed this pedagogical strategy being applied in ENGL 103 here at Clemson—the first project students were assigned was a “Visual Rhetoric Analysis” in which they had to choose an image (usually an advertisement or political cartoon with some overt motivation) and use language to describe how that image was being used. This necessitated that the students incorporate multimodal layouts for their papers, and the emphasis placed on examining the visual design of images lent further awareness to the students’ own design choices. I worked with many students over the course of this assignment; they frequently brought in saved drafts on their laptops (which brings to mind Sullivan’s distinction between paper-drafts and digital ones as an important facet of the role computers play in the writing process) and desired feedback on not only their prose, but also on their layout/formatting decisions. My job became more than what is implied by “writing tutor”; I would show them how to wrap text around images, format their paragraphs, arrange captions and annotations, and finally how to deliver these carefully developed pages to their instructor with methods ranging from print (discussing the benefits/drawbacks of double-sided pages) to publishing on class blogs or uploading Google dox.
In conclusion, there is no doubt in my mind that Sullivan’s prescribed “new pedagogy of writing” has begun to emerge in the two decades since she wrote her article. As Kaplan suggests, the “computer revolution” is above all else a “writing revolution,” and this is clearly reflected in the writing classroom of the 2010s (or whatever we call where we are now).
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Response to Sketching User Experiences (27-63) and Remediation (Ch. 1-2)
It seems like ever since I took my first undergraduate Rhetoric class that word has infiltrated every aspect of humanity—my professor in that class proposed that fundamental distinction of being human comes from communication, discourses framed within much broader narratives through which we arrive at understanding. To me, these readings reassert that notion by describing remediation, which is perception that emerging media technologies are engaged in a constant dialogue with past ones. Bolter and Grusin’s example of the Wire and how it is “not like TV only better” encapsulates this dialogue, and as usual I used my own personal experiences growing up with video games to understand how truly applicable remediation is. Is there any other medium (assuming for a moment that we can separate any of today’s media, since B&G suggest that “no media can function independently anymore”) that has such a short but rapid evolutionary timeline as that of video games ? Its history fits so neatly within the span of just a few decades, quite a few of which happen to be my own developmental years, making it easy to chart its evolution and for a single individual to actually remember experiencing every step of that process (which becomes more difficult for that of television, quite difficult for cinema, increasingly unlikely for photography and certainly impossible for music). New gaming technologies are constantly described in terms of old ones—new consoles have “better graphics,” sleeker designs and superior functionality; they spur their own development forward by engaging in remediation.
It is interesting that, although media attempt to make themselves invisible by achieving immediacy through interfaces, we often develop a connection to the interfaces themselves so that they become the very thing by which we remember our experiences. The example given by Buxton in Sketching User Experiences involves Steve Jobs and the Apple brand; the iPod timeline in particular pays careful attention to the subject of interfaces. Looking at the device’s design progression (54-63) I experienced distinct sensations of interfacing with each phase; I remember the first time I experienced the non-moving scroll wheel and how I had to get used to the various button placements, and I think this is because the interface becomes integrated with the user—its purpose is, after all, to offer humans access to an extension of themselves. When we get used to the motions and rituals of interfacing they become as much a part of our reflex system as walking. Perhaps that is why the sight of an interface seems to evoke sensations resembling the experiences they help facilitate; its also why, for me, the below chart functions as a sort of interface experience histogram and reminds me of the many devices through which I have channeled my willpower over the years.
It is interesting that, although media attempt to make themselves invisible by achieving immediacy through interfaces, we often develop a connection to the interfaces themselves so that they become the very thing by which we remember our experiences. The example given by Buxton in Sketching User Experiences involves Steve Jobs and the Apple brand; the iPod timeline in particular pays careful attention to the subject of interfaces. Looking at the device’s design progression (54-63) I experienced distinct sensations of interfacing with each phase; I remember the first time I experienced the non-moving scroll wheel and how I had to get used to the various button placements, and I think this is because the interface becomes integrated with the user—its purpose is, after all, to offer humans access to an extension of themselves. When we get used to the motions and rituals of interfacing they become as much a part of our reflex system as walking. Perhaps that is why the sight of an interface seems to evoke sensations resembling the experiences they help facilitate; its also why, for me, the below chart functions as a sort of interface experience histogram and reminds me of the many devices through which I have channeled my willpower over the years.
 |
| Video Game Interfaces, credit to Damien Lopez |
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Response to Convergence Culture (Ch 2-3)
The story of American Idol introduced in chapter two of Henry Jenkins’s Convergence Culture illustrates the increasing importance of “expression” in media theory. I understand what Jenkins means about a consumer’s “investment” in a brand as it relates to his notion of “mass customization and personalization”—with more media being produced than a single person can possibly consume, the choices we make about what to pay attention to has important implications not only for the markets, but for our social self-image as participants in American culture. I see the places where these public and private interests converge as the origins of the highly ethical nature of the discussions they produce—If a company succeeds in establishing an emotional investment with me, I have an expectation that the interactions produced from their end have a high fidelity, otherwise these aspects of my social self-image are disrupted and revealed to be shallow constructions unworthy of being associated with my valuable attention.
The Idol example of fans’ outcry against unfair voting practices and deliberately fabricated results designed to increase dramatic tension resembles some of my recent experiences with reality programming. The show Master Chef has a similar structure and appeal as Idol, narrowing a huge number of amateur contestants down to a small group of the most talented individuals, yet due to the fact that advancement in the competition depends not on votes from viewers but judgments from the expert panelists one is forced to suspect the “reality” of the scenarios we are trying to invest in. Feedback from judge Gordon Ramsey often seems designed to evoke the most passionate responses from the contestants, enflaming rivalries and leading to increased dramatic tension. One can’t help but focus on the apparent arbitrariness of this tactic and then begins to wonder whether they should even bother watching.
Chapter three seemed to be speaking directly to me—having grown up a fan of The Matrix, Pokemon, and Star Wars, Jenkins’s examples truly resonated with my own experiences. The concept of “transmedia storytelling” is extremely appealing to me because it has the potential to expand and capitalize on the power of narratives, which Jenkins suggests guides and supports all of human understanding. One reason for its appeal may be that it puts the fan, or “loyal,” at the center of attention—attempts to shovel out bland, easy-to-produce tie-ins across media platforms have proven to be misguided, with the majority of the recent superhero movies trying and failing to do justice to the beloved intellectual properties they represent. I love that Jenkins feels that successful transmedia storytelling relies on designers’ passion for the brand; a strong emotional connection to the material leads to a higher fidelity product that is rich and satisfying to the loyals, who are themselves responsible for the existence of cult culture.
The Idol example of fans’ outcry against unfair voting practices and deliberately fabricated results designed to increase dramatic tension resembles some of my recent experiences with reality programming. The show Master Chef has a similar structure and appeal as Idol, narrowing a huge number of amateur contestants down to a small group of the most talented individuals, yet due to the fact that advancement in the competition depends not on votes from viewers but judgments from the expert panelists one is forced to suspect the “reality” of the scenarios we are trying to invest in. Feedback from judge Gordon Ramsey often seems designed to evoke the most passionate responses from the contestants, enflaming rivalries and leading to increased dramatic tension. One can’t help but focus on the apparent arbitrariness of this tactic and then begins to wonder whether they should even bother watching.
Chapter three seemed to be speaking directly to me—having grown up a fan of The Matrix, Pokemon, and Star Wars, Jenkins’s examples truly resonated with my own experiences. The concept of “transmedia storytelling” is extremely appealing to me because it has the potential to expand and capitalize on the power of narratives, which Jenkins suggests guides and supports all of human understanding. One reason for its appeal may be that it puts the fan, or “loyal,” at the center of attention—attempts to shovel out bland, easy-to-produce tie-ins across media platforms have proven to be misguided, with the majority of the recent superhero movies trying and failing to do justice to the beloved intellectual properties they represent. I love that Jenkins feels that successful transmedia storytelling relies on designers’ passion for the brand; a strong emotional connection to the material leads to a higher fidelity product that is rich and satisfying to the loyals, who are themselves responsible for the existence of cult culture.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Response to Here Comes Everybody (Chapters 3-6) and Design to Thrive (Chapter 8)
Clay Shirky’s perspective on the evolving landscape of communication technology approaches the phenomena of the Internet explosion in the past few decades from an angle I had never considered. His definitions revolve around a notion of the “professional”; traditionally, these people were empowered by their specialized training, making it necessary for nonprofessionals to interact with them—in this way they served as “gatekeepers” to their industries. Shirky especially focuses on the publisher, a profession which is becoming increasingly marginalized because they no longer possess all the means of production. He states that “an individual with a camera or a keyboard is now a non-profit of one,” and this ability for the layperson to self-publish circumvents the professionals which previously controlled the flow of information (77). This concept is compelling because it illustrates the extreme importance of professionals throughout history: since the invention of writing they have owned and understood the technology of communication. The Internet revolution has changed this dynamic in an extremely short period of time—what are the implications? I find myself fascinated by the potential of a globally connected society to solve problems without their ideas being mediated through professionals whose interests are often suspect.
To this end designers must work towards implementing the RIBS heuristic to maintain large-scale, productive communities and networks to reveal the aforementioned potential. Wikipedia is an ideal example and the reason that I am optimistic about the future of productive thought communities: it seems to defy the common understanding of how people work together. I remember being in high school as Wikipedia was gaining popular prominence; the faculty took a collective stance against the website, declaring it an unreliable source. Part of this response may be related to the “self-defense” aspect Shirky claims is part of being a professional (67)—they perceive Wikipedia as threatening their authority as givers (perhaps guardians) of knowledge. They argued that Wikipedia’s openly editable content was less accurate than other sources, alluding to famous instances of vandalism and malpractice, and insisted that we not cite its articles in our work. This type of understanding of Wikipedia seems not uncommon—people just don’t believe that such a project could succeed because it seems contrary to the “Tragedy of the Commons,” yet studies in prominent journals have concluded that its accuracy is quite close to that of Britannica (a publication not immune from serious errors).
There is something poetic and organic about Wikipedia that stems from the communal effort which sustains it: it is “self-healing,” simultaneously thwarting and discouraging attempts to harm its content (119); it evolves as a result of a collective desire to do a “good” thing, giving users a forum to make meaningful contributions, however small (133); and it is not “tied to extrinsic rewards”, decreasing the possibility of exploitation (134). Howard states that “any fundamental shift in the ways that human beings are able to share information has the potential for extraordinary sociopolitical impacts” (200); what, then, are the implications of instantly searchable archives of constantly updated, corrected and reviewed information becoming more and more widely available? And when, as Howard suggests it may be inevitable, it comes down to "Free Speech vs. Agents of the State" (209), will the agents be capable of containing the explosive potential unleashed? It is likely that projects resembling Wikipedia will play a significant role in the future of human development.
To this end designers must work towards implementing the RIBS heuristic to maintain large-scale, productive communities and networks to reveal the aforementioned potential. Wikipedia is an ideal example and the reason that I am optimistic about the future of productive thought communities: it seems to defy the common understanding of how people work together. I remember being in high school as Wikipedia was gaining popular prominence; the faculty took a collective stance against the website, declaring it an unreliable source. Part of this response may be related to the “self-defense” aspect Shirky claims is part of being a professional (67)—they perceive Wikipedia as threatening their authority as givers (perhaps guardians) of knowledge. They argued that Wikipedia’s openly editable content was less accurate than other sources, alluding to famous instances of vandalism and malpractice, and insisted that we not cite its articles in our work. This type of understanding of Wikipedia seems not uncommon—people just don’t believe that such a project could succeed because it seems contrary to the “Tragedy of the Commons,” yet studies in prominent journals have concluded that its accuracy is quite close to that of Britannica (a publication not immune from serious errors).
There is something poetic and organic about Wikipedia that stems from the communal effort which sustains it: it is “self-healing,” simultaneously thwarting and discouraging attempts to harm its content (119); it evolves as a result of a collective desire to do a “good” thing, giving users a forum to make meaningful contributions, however small (133); and it is not “tied to extrinsic rewards”, decreasing the possibility of exploitation (134). Howard states that “any fundamental shift in the ways that human beings are able to share information has the potential for extraordinary sociopolitical impacts” (200); what, then, are the implications of instantly searchable archives of constantly updated, corrected and reviewed information becoming more and more widely available? And when, as Howard suggests it may be inevitable, it comes down to "Free Speech vs. Agents of the State" (209), will the agents be capable of containing the explosive potential unleashed? It is likely that projects resembling Wikipedia will play a significant role in the future of human development.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Response to Design to Thrive (Ch. 4-7)
The RIBS heuristic is a great referent for community-building; each chapter's concept seemed fully grounded in detailed experience, much of which I was able to relate to from my own dealings with online communities. While reading, I found myself wondering about the administrators of some of the various communities I've enjoyed and the extent to which they have notions of these practices-- there seem to be certain common features utilized by the more successful administrators, and as a user I seldom considered the extreme amount of planning and maintaining that must have been going on behind the scenes. I think it is not uncommon for individual members of a community to focus on the effect of their contributions; they and their peers see themselves as fueling an organic process of creative exchange and fellowship, when it is really a carefully-calibrated machine they are fueling.
The creation of a sense of beneficence in an online community emphasizes the "sharing economy," a system relying on very intangible structures. My first introduction to the power of renumeration involved a forum on which the number of posts associated with your account was a strong measure of your status within the community; the desire to be a valued member of the group fueled the desire to contribute as often as possible in order to achieve that recognition. This is probably the most simplistic system to establish within a community and has since been replaced by a stronger emphasis on quality over quantity because, on the internet, anyone can spend enough time to make massive contributions to the point of it actually becoming less desirable to have a high post count-- what matters these days is ranking, whether by stars, "likes", or percentages. This somewhat evens the playing-field, encouraging new members that they will be judged by their quality and character and further emphasizing the value of their contributions. This also helps to generate further "original content" (or "internet gold") rather than useless repeat posts.
The notion of establishing a "space" for a community to "play" in deals in part with renumeration and part with influence. It is important for the space to be well-moderated and safe, creating a sense of comfort for the users, and having done so a leader can begin to focus on the more specific needs of the different types of users. It seems clear from the reading that the three classification systems offered for characterizing community members examine three different dimensions of the same issue: that different users have different influence needs at different times. The temporal model offered by Amy Jo Kim reveals the stages a user goes through as a participant in a community, and the social technographies ladder from Charlene Li and Josh Bernoff grants insight into how best to meet the specific needs of a user at whatever stage they are at. Finally, the trajectories model by Etienne Wenger emphasizes the different degrees of expectation possessed by the user. By combining all three a community designer is able to apply them to developing an online system to accommodate a complete spectrum of users.
The belonging chapter deals with users on a more personal level, and because of this I felt many resonances with my own experiences in the examples offered. All of the WoW examples are spot-on; I remember how the inclusion of a guild initiation ritual seemed to me such a great way to integrate myself with the existing social structure. Even the nuances of level-up rituals are well-described-- they can be effective and detrimental at the same time, fostering fellowship while creating jealousy and dissent. For the designer, then, drawing the line becomes essential. Belonging cannot be programmed; it takes an understanding of sociology and psychology for imagining how users will develop a connection to the community.
My notion of a community's significance has always played an extremely important role in my interactions with them, and the paradox of exclusivity helped greatly to explain why I have often had such difficulty in settling on a particular guild or other online network. I find myself struggling to reconcile my desire for a group that is active, yet not swarmed-- populated with quality individuals, yet welcoming and sociable. The text offers some great strategies for achieving this delicate balance which I have also seen implemented effectively, such as using invitations to target high-quality individuals who will in turn provide links to many other people whose decisions they may have direct influence over.
I have begun thinking of online communities in terms of their overall ecology thanks to RIBS-- they should be considered as living entities requiring careful maintenance and ideal conditions in order to thrive. The guy who ran the Star Wars fan community I was a part of often remarked that keeping his forum alive and happy was a full-time job, and now I can believe it-- as a community manager, applying these concepts to a large group of users would indeed require a significant amount of management. But General Gungan was just a hobbyist, while I am beginning to see how I can utilize the wealth of digital resources available to me with an expertise in internet ecology to do things on a much larger, professional scale.
The creation of a sense of beneficence in an online community emphasizes the "sharing economy," a system relying on very intangible structures. My first introduction to the power of renumeration involved a forum on which the number of posts associated with your account was a strong measure of your status within the community; the desire to be a valued member of the group fueled the desire to contribute as often as possible in order to achieve that recognition. This is probably the most simplistic system to establish within a community and has since been replaced by a stronger emphasis on quality over quantity because, on the internet, anyone can spend enough time to make massive contributions to the point of it actually becoming less desirable to have a high post count-- what matters these days is ranking, whether by stars, "likes", or percentages. This somewhat evens the playing-field, encouraging new members that they will be judged by their quality and character and further emphasizing the value of their contributions. This also helps to generate further "original content" (or "internet gold") rather than useless repeat posts.
The notion of establishing a "space" for a community to "play" in deals in part with renumeration and part with influence. It is important for the space to be well-moderated and safe, creating a sense of comfort for the users, and having done so a leader can begin to focus on the more specific needs of the different types of users. It seems clear from the reading that the three classification systems offered for characterizing community members examine three different dimensions of the same issue: that different users have different influence needs at different times. The temporal model offered by Amy Jo Kim reveals the stages a user goes through as a participant in a community, and the social technographies ladder from Charlene Li and Josh Bernoff grants insight into how best to meet the specific needs of a user at whatever stage they are at. Finally, the trajectories model by Etienne Wenger emphasizes the different degrees of expectation possessed by the user. By combining all three a community designer is able to apply them to developing an online system to accommodate a complete spectrum of users.
The belonging chapter deals with users on a more personal level, and because of this I felt many resonances with my own experiences in the examples offered. All of the WoW examples are spot-on; I remember how the inclusion of a guild initiation ritual seemed to me such a great way to integrate myself with the existing social structure. Even the nuances of level-up rituals are well-described-- they can be effective and detrimental at the same time, fostering fellowship while creating jealousy and dissent. For the designer, then, drawing the line becomes essential. Belonging cannot be programmed; it takes an understanding of sociology and psychology for imagining how users will develop a connection to the community.
My notion of a community's significance has always played an extremely important role in my interactions with them, and the paradox of exclusivity helped greatly to explain why I have often had such difficulty in settling on a particular guild or other online network. I find myself struggling to reconcile my desire for a group that is active, yet not swarmed-- populated with quality individuals, yet welcoming and sociable. The text offers some great strategies for achieving this delicate balance which I have also seen implemented effectively, such as using invitations to target high-quality individuals who will in turn provide links to many other people whose decisions they may have direct influence over.
I have begun thinking of online communities in terms of their overall ecology thanks to RIBS-- they should be considered as living entities requiring careful maintenance and ideal conditions in order to thrive. The guy who ran the Star Wars fan community I was a part of often remarked that keeping his forum alive and happy was a full-time job, and now I can believe it-- as a community manager, applying these concepts to a large group of users would indeed require a significant amount of management. But General Gungan was just a hobbyist, while I am beginning to see how I can utilize the wealth of digital resources available to me with an expertise in internet ecology to do things on a much larger, professional scale.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Response to Here Comes Everybody (1-54) and Design to Thrive (Ch. 2-3)
These readings provide some illuminating comparisons and terminologies that help me to describe some of the online experiences and interactions that have shaped my passion for interaction design. Shirky presents an insightful, narratively-driven lecture which illustrates how the old models for “gathering together and getting things done” were formerly rationalized—in some ways he seems to suggest a departure from the previously successful capitalist market system, which finds itself struggling in a new era where Coasean laws of economics are being shattered by the emerging potential of global online communities to defy transaction costs and apply their resources to tasks which would have previously simply gone undone (22, 44-45). The example given in chapter two of the power of technology to coordinate desperate individuals, with minimal effort, to accomplish a task was extremely salient because I had never truly considered the magnitude of the difference between sharing information in the generation I have known and the rest of human history: Flickr, by empowering individual users (motivated by their own interests) to generate a database of images from the Mermaid Parade, greatly surpasses the efficacy of all our bureaucracies and other social structures which evolved to serve the increasingly complex nature of human relationships (33).
Design to Thrive provided a clear and approachable framework for examining some of the features of the various social networks and online communities I have participated in. Previously I had not really considered the distinction, but looking back the quality of the interactions I had within my online communities were absolutely of a higher quality and of a greater personal significance than those I experienced on social networks—even though the majority of my social networking involved primarily people I knew personally. I messed around with MySpace a bit before Facebook took my high school by storm—Greenville Tech Charter High was quite small, and it took no time at all to add all 100 people in my class to my friends list, especially the way Facebook was able to sense who I was missing and help me find them. This high school network really did play a huge role in my junior and senior years—all social events, both school-sponsored and not, made their way onto our walls, and whether we attended them or not there was always a vast catalogue of photographic evidence which would spring up like a mushroom circle the morning after.
Certainly the ability of social network to “share” (as the text notes) information was greatly enhanced, but the information on Facebook always seemed to me mostly a subtext—enlightening to a certain extent, providing a greater understanding of the “goings on” between various groups, but what always mattered to me most of all was what I did with my own small group of friends while at school and at extracurriculars, as well as what I did with my various online communities when I was at home. One community in particular which involved my friends (at this point I should point out that yes, I participated in several communities and some of them, like the Star Wars fan community, I kept carefully separate) was our World of Warcraft guild on the server Crushridge (“Crashridge” for its tendency to go down whenever we were raiding). What started as a guild of friends from Greenville, SC eventually merged with other guilds to become a much larger organization, and soon all of us were active at various levels of the hierarchy—some became officers and raid leaders, others renowned for being “top DPS,” and some people, like myself, were just logged in all the time to chat on the guild channel. This sense of belonging was extremely important in keeping us playing the game, but our larger size also meant we became capable of “cooperating” to tackle more difficult game content—a “collective action” which required that we establish weekly raid schedules, a forum for posting rules and recruiting new members, lists of back-up players to replace possible no-shows, and purchase an additional Ventrilo server to allow us to communicate via headset rather than stopping the action to type. In this way I received my introduction to the dynamics of online communities, and these first few chapters truly supply relatable material for thinking about building such a community.
Design to Thrive provided a clear and approachable framework for examining some of the features of the various social networks and online communities I have participated in. Previously I had not really considered the distinction, but looking back the quality of the interactions I had within my online communities were absolutely of a higher quality and of a greater personal significance than those I experienced on social networks—even though the majority of my social networking involved primarily people I knew personally. I messed around with MySpace a bit before Facebook took my high school by storm—Greenville Tech Charter High was quite small, and it took no time at all to add all 100 people in my class to my friends list, especially the way Facebook was able to sense who I was missing and help me find them. This high school network really did play a huge role in my junior and senior years—all social events, both school-sponsored and not, made their way onto our walls, and whether we attended them or not there was always a vast catalogue of photographic evidence which would spring up like a mushroom circle the morning after.
Certainly the ability of social network to “share” (as the text notes) information was greatly enhanced, but the information on Facebook always seemed to me mostly a subtext—enlightening to a certain extent, providing a greater understanding of the “goings on” between various groups, but what always mattered to me most of all was what I did with my own small group of friends while at school and at extracurriculars, as well as what I did with my various online communities when I was at home. One community in particular which involved my friends (at this point I should point out that yes, I participated in several communities and some of them, like the Star Wars fan community, I kept carefully separate) was our World of Warcraft guild on the server Crushridge (“Crashridge” for its tendency to go down whenever we were raiding). What started as a guild of friends from Greenville, SC eventually merged with other guilds to become a much larger organization, and soon all of us were active at various levels of the hierarchy—some became officers and raid leaders, others renowned for being “top DPS,” and some people, like myself, were just logged in all the time to chat on the guild channel. This sense of belonging was extremely important in keeping us playing the game, but our larger size also meant we became capable of “cooperating” to tackle more difficult game content—a “collective action” which required that we establish weekly raid schedules, a forum for posting rules and recruiting new members, lists of back-up players to replace possible no-shows, and purchase an additional Ventrilo server to allow us to communicate via headset rather than stopping the action to type. In this way I received my introduction to the dynamics of online communities, and these first few chapters truly supply relatable material for thinking about building such a community.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Response to Convergence Culture (1-58) and Computer as Theater (Preface/Ch1)
The story of Dino Ignacio’s “evil Bert” which opens Convergence Culture strongly resonated with some of my own experiences and observations on the ways in which information spreads through various mediums. What, for him, originated as a fun website idea morphed through interactions across converging channels into something beyond what he had originally intended, leading him to take down his page with the fearful observation that “this has gotten too close to real life.” As a freshman in high school some friends and I made a blog which we utilized as a forum for sharing silly links and, occasionally, commentary on the school we attended that was seldom positive. When the school found out they had us shut it down; that, for me, was the point that I realized how close things on internet could get to real life. What had begun as something I never really intended anyone to see spread far more quickly than I could have anticipated through the school, ultimately affecting me with the dreaded “Saturday School.”
I actually seem to remember visiting the Survivor Sucks community at some point back when I, too, was engaged in various discussion communities on Ezboard. It appeared in a list of the most active communities in that BBS, and this was relevant to me because I was observing how the smaller communities I tended to engage in would frequently die out due to a lack of content being generated by its users, and in seeking out new forums to join I began to pay closer attention to the activity levels and size of their memberships. In that way I think I had a notion of the power of knowledge communities; the more people you get together, the greater problems they can solve. The way that the Survivor spoilers worked together, pooling their various resources toward a shared goal, and the ways in which this allowed them to “converse” with the producers of the series, is analogous to my experience of my favorite webcomic, MSPaintAdventures by Andrew Hussie (http://www.mspaintadventures.com/). Hussie started the comic based on the theme of an interactive adventure game where the users make choices for their characters; at first, he directly selected commands suggested by his readers and used those to shape the narrative of his comic “Jailbreak.” Later, as his reader-base increased, he exchanged the “suggestion box” for a fully featured forum where a burgeoning community took root. Yet the conversation didn’t stop there; since he is unable to respond to each and every suggestion, Hussie has taken to filling his most recent comic “Homestuck” with codes, recurring themes, self-insertion and meta-dialogue which involve the community. “Theorycrafting” is the popular term they use for taking what they are given by the author and combining that with outside sources of knowledge and research to develop sophisticated readings of the comic and the relationships between its characters. He is essentially engaging in the same practices used by Survivor producer Mark Burnett to engage his dedicated fans on a level beyond the TV broadcast, creating a convergence of mediums that enhances the viewer’s experience.
Hussie appearing in his own comic, bursting through "the fourth wall.
Another example worth mentioning related to the power of knowledge communities is Anonymous, the “organization” of internet users who pool their resources to accomplish many different tasks. The political agenda that has arisen to surround the group has brought attention to their ability to affect the “real world,” though the group’s origins in affecting such change lie in their attempts to publicly humiliate certain individuals in what were called “raids.” The target of a raid would be designated when the community became incensed enough with them ;one famous example is a grade school teacher who engaged in sexual commentary through LiveJournal. Once they found out the woman’s actual name they were quickly able to track down the school where she worked, hack the website and place a career-shatteringly embarrassing post about some of the teacher’s comments and pictures. In this way I can understand why Ignacio would have been quite afraid when people from the internet began contacting him in real life.
Brenda Laurel’s notion of interaction as analogous to theatrics calls to mind Kolko’s suggestion that interaction can be effectively understood through the creation of narrative scenarios; both emphasize the importance of conveying a human experience at an emotional and cognitive level. By examining the interface in terms of a stage one is able to understand how to marry different design elements toward the goal of creating a sense of immersion, involving the viewer to the extent that they lose any awareness of the technical aspects behind the scenes. This highlights the importance of interdisciplinary approaches to interaction design for the purpose of producing this sort of “organic” experience.
I actually seem to remember visiting the Survivor Sucks community at some point back when I, too, was engaged in various discussion communities on Ezboard. It appeared in a list of the most active communities in that BBS, and this was relevant to me because I was observing how the smaller communities I tended to engage in would frequently die out due to a lack of content being generated by its users, and in seeking out new forums to join I began to pay closer attention to the activity levels and size of their memberships. In that way I think I had a notion of the power of knowledge communities; the more people you get together, the greater problems they can solve. The way that the Survivor spoilers worked together, pooling their various resources toward a shared goal, and the ways in which this allowed them to “converse” with the producers of the series, is analogous to my experience of my favorite webcomic, MSPaintAdventures by Andrew Hussie (http://www.mspaintadventures.com/). Hussie started the comic based on the theme of an interactive adventure game where the users make choices for their characters; at first, he directly selected commands suggested by his readers and used those to shape the narrative of his comic “Jailbreak.” Later, as his reader-base increased, he exchanged the “suggestion box” for a fully featured forum where a burgeoning community took root. Yet the conversation didn’t stop there; since he is unable to respond to each and every suggestion, Hussie has taken to filling his most recent comic “Homestuck” with codes, recurring themes, self-insertion and meta-dialogue which involve the community. “Theorycrafting” is the popular term they use for taking what they are given by the author and combining that with outside sources of knowledge and research to develop sophisticated readings of the comic and the relationships between its characters. He is essentially engaging in the same practices used by Survivor producer Mark Burnett to engage his dedicated fans on a level beyond the TV broadcast, creating a convergence of mediums that enhances the viewer’s experience.
Hussie appearing in his own comic, bursting through "the fourth wall.
Another example worth mentioning related to the power of knowledge communities is Anonymous, the “organization” of internet users who pool their resources to accomplish many different tasks. The political agenda that has arisen to surround the group has brought attention to their ability to affect the “real world,” though the group’s origins in affecting such change lie in their attempts to publicly humiliate certain individuals in what were called “raids.” The target of a raid would be designated when the community became incensed enough with them ;one famous example is a grade school teacher who engaged in sexual commentary through LiveJournal. Once they found out the woman’s actual name they were quickly able to track down the school where she worked, hack the website and place a career-shatteringly embarrassing post about some of the teacher’s comments and pictures. In this way I can understand why Ignacio would have been quite afraid when people from the internet began contacting him in real life.
Brenda Laurel’s notion of interaction as analogous to theatrics calls to mind Kolko’s suggestion that interaction can be effectively understood through the creation of narrative scenarios; both emphasize the importance of conveying a human experience at an emotional and cognitive level. By examining the interface in terms of a stage one is able to understand how to marry different design elements toward the goal of creating a sense of immersion, involving the viewer to the extent that they lose any awareness of the technical aspects behind the scenes. This highlights the importance of interdisciplinary approaches to interaction design for the purpose of producing this sort of “organic” experience.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Response to Thoughts on Interaction Design (52-115) and Practices of Looking (9-91)
My studies in rhetoric have generally been focused on the classical philosophies related to linguistic communication. Kolko, in the second part of his text, introduced me to the notion of design rhetoric. I had not considered the implications of the fact that all forms of design convey some sort of argument, and these are frequently rooted in the designer’s own world-view and philosophy. For example, the designer of a cell-phone interface who chooses to emphasize and increase the ease-of-access to Twitter while sacrificing the ability to easily make phone calls. While the phone remains capable of making calls the fact that Twitter has been brought more fully to the user’s attention could potentially lead to that user adopting Twitter as a primary medium of communication. Consumer reactions to the product may differ, but if a portion of the users make such a switch the implications could be far-reaching. I have observed the evolution of Twitter from its beginnings as a little-known web-service, its purpose apparently exclusive to a niche of internet users, to a world-wide community that has become as integral to our internet devices as making calls. Even news companies, like CNN, have adopted Twitter for its ability to monitor trending topics and maintain an ongoing conversation with the network’s viewers—in this way its influence has vastly expanded from its origins, and the Kolko reading leads me to wonder what designers are responsible.
Kolko says that leaders of the Forbes 500 have shifted their focus in advertising to emphasizing the experience (68). This shift in the philosophy of some of the major controlling forces in our society both reveals the pervasive understanding of the importance of user-interaction as well as presents some ethical concerns regarding the fidelity of the experiences they are attempting to sell. The task of the designer has become infinitely more complex because each user’s experience is unique, yet designs must incorporate elements of uniformity as well as unpredictability in order to convey a continually satisfying experience for all users. Some companies do not necessarily try to create these engaging, quality, honest interactions—they engage in planned-obsolescence to encourage the purchase of more products, utilize shoddy materials (frequently beneath the surface so that users are unaware), and even release products that are incomplete. Kolko mentions the changing understanding of quality control as we move further into the digital age—gadgets must be produced with attention to both the physical product as well as the software, and users expect both to be free of glitches (78). The ability to update software is useful for designers who want to add functionality and improve efficiency over time, but some software is released rife with errors or even incomplete. The fiercely competitive market of online gaming is one venue where the malleability of software is of great importance to both designers and users—nobody expects a newly released game to be entirely free of bugs, which often only reveal themselves when hundreds of thousands of people are interacting with the software at the same time, but often this fact serves as justification for why a newly released product is not meeting user expectations. The massively multiplayer game Age of Conan, for example, was pushed-out in a rush to remain competitive with other games being released at the same time, and the designers had yet to implement half of the content. Their expectation was that the users would spend time experiencing the early content long enough for them to polish the later content, but of course their audience is not uniform and some players reached the game’s limits by the end of the first few days.
Kolko touches on an interesting topic related to the ways interaction can alter behavior that I, having grown up surrounded by digital gadgets and computers, have often considered. These technologies have had a profound influence on the cognitive development of their users. My generation has developed an affinity for these devices; our ability to quickly learn and interact with them has become a source of bafflement to our parents and elders, yet it seems there is a mental cost to be paid. I only know two phone numbers by heart—my own and my family’s home number. My incentive to memorize anything is greatly decreased by the fact that I expect to be able to, at any given moment, pull up a far more accurate source of information to reference. It is as if the Internet is my external memory. The implications of this could be severe—people generate new ideas by drawing connections between past experiences stored as information in the brain, but if information is not present in our minds it surely cannot be synthesized to form new ideas. This notion of our technology having such a profound influence on our working minds truly emphasizes the role of interaction design in the life of the user—these designs become integrated into our routines and thereby affect how we go about experiencing the world around us.
The power of design rhetoric is evident in the warlike struggle between competing companies to claim more of a user’s limited attention. Sturken and Cartwright suggest that relationships of power are at play whenever we engage in the act of looking, and the truth of this becomes clear whenever we browse the internet or watch TV (9). As intrusive as TV commercials may be we still have the ability to ignore them or change the channel if we desire not to see them, but on the internet a single page might be framed on all sides by flashing ads. Sometimes my eye is drawn to these ads against my will, and when that occurs the company behind it has been victorious in asserting the power of an image to steal attention. Even if I do not respond to the ad by clicking it the damage has been done simply by looking—the image has entered my head and cannot be unseen. The more I see it over the course of browsing sessions, the more of an impression it makes on me. It is therefore no surprise that Sturken and Cartwright point out the common association between “ideology” and “propaganda” in contemporary culture (23). If our ideologies are shaped by our experiences, then by presenting us with as much of their visual stimulus as possible a company or institution can hope to influence how we think.
For members of my generation, Roland Barthes’s theory of the myth of photographic truth comes as no surprise (16). I have been skeptical of images ever since I learned, around middle-school age, that one of my favorite photographs of a shark leaping from the water to bite a man dangling from a helicopter had been ‘shopped. I believe that digital editing practices have led to an increased sense of skepticism, leading people to seek truth beyond the visual medium, utilizing different sources to come to a fuller understanding.
My undergraduate minor was in psychology, so I have had the opportunity to learn about psychological perception. For me, Sturken and Cartwright’s concept that “the viewer makes the meaning” is a comfortable one—no matter how many people experience a single image and discuss it amongst themselves, each individual is experiencing a wholly unique perception which draws upon their memory of past experiences. People may come to similar conclusions about the meaning of a piece, but the meaning of that meaning is nevertheless linked to many other meanings in each individual, none of which possesses the same set of experiences.
Kolko says that leaders of the Forbes 500 have shifted their focus in advertising to emphasizing the experience (68). This shift in the philosophy of some of the major controlling forces in our society both reveals the pervasive understanding of the importance of user-interaction as well as presents some ethical concerns regarding the fidelity of the experiences they are attempting to sell. The task of the designer has become infinitely more complex because each user’s experience is unique, yet designs must incorporate elements of uniformity as well as unpredictability in order to convey a continually satisfying experience for all users. Some companies do not necessarily try to create these engaging, quality, honest interactions—they engage in planned-obsolescence to encourage the purchase of more products, utilize shoddy materials (frequently beneath the surface so that users are unaware), and even release products that are incomplete. Kolko mentions the changing understanding of quality control as we move further into the digital age—gadgets must be produced with attention to both the physical product as well as the software, and users expect both to be free of glitches (78). The ability to update software is useful for designers who want to add functionality and improve efficiency over time, but some software is released rife with errors or even incomplete. The fiercely competitive market of online gaming is one venue where the malleability of software is of great importance to both designers and users—nobody expects a newly released game to be entirely free of bugs, which often only reveal themselves when hundreds of thousands of people are interacting with the software at the same time, but often this fact serves as justification for why a newly released product is not meeting user expectations. The massively multiplayer game Age of Conan, for example, was pushed-out in a rush to remain competitive with other games being released at the same time, and the designers had yet to implement half of the content. Their expectation was that the users would spend time experiencing the early content long enough for them to polish the later content, but of course their audience is not uniform and some players reached the game’s limits by the end of the first few days.
Kolko touches on an interesting topic related to the ways interaction can alter behavior that I, having grown up surrounded by digital gadgets and computers, have often considered. These technologies have had a profound influence on the cognitive development of their users. My generation has developed an affinity for these devices; our ability to quickly learn and interact with them has become a source of bafflement to our parents and elders, yet it seems there is a mental cost to be paid. I only know two phone numbers by heart—my own and my family’s home number. My incentive to memorize anything is greatly decreased by the fact that I expect to be able to, at any given moment, pull up a far more accurate source of information to reference. It is as if the Internet is my external memory. The implications of this could be severe—people generate new ideas by drawing connections between past experiences stored as information in the brain, but if information is not present in our minds it surely cannot be synthesized to form new ideas. This notion of our technology having such a profound influence on our working minds truly emphasizes the role of interaction design in the life of the user—these designs become integrated into our routines and thereby affect how we go about experiencing the world around us.
The power of design rhetoric is evident in the warlike struggle between competing companies to claim more of a user’s limited attention. Sturken and Cartwright suggest that relationships of power are at play whenever we engage in the act of looking, and the truth of this becomes clear whenever we browse the internet or watch TV (9). As intrusive as TV commercials may be we still have the ability to ignore them or change the channel if we desire not to see them, but on the internet a single page might be framed on all sides by flashing ads. Sometimes my eye is drawn to these ads against my will, and when that occurs the company behind it has been victorious in asserting the power of an image to steal attention. Even if I do not respond to the ad by clicking it the damage has been done simply by looking—the image has entered my head and cannot be unseen. The more I see it over the course of browsing sessions, the more of an impression it makes on me. It is therefore no surprise that Sturken and Cartwright point out the common association between “ideology” and “propaganda” in contemporary culture (23). If our ideologies are shaped by our experiences, then by presenting us with as much of their visual stimulus as possible a company or institution can hope to influence how we think.
For members of my generation, Roland Barthes’s theory of the myth of photographic truth comes as no surprise (16). I have been skeptical of images ever since I learned, around middle-school age, that one of my favorite photographs of a shark leaping from the water to bite a man dangling from a helicopter had been ‘shopped. I believe that digital editing practices have led to an increased sense of skepticism, leading people to seek truth beyond the visual medium, utilizing different sources to come to a fuller understanding.
My undergraduate minor was in psychology, so I have had the opportunity to learn about psychological perception. For me, Sturken and Cartwright’s concept that “the viewer makes the meaning” is a comfortable one—no matter how many people experience a single image and discuss it amongst themselves, each individual is experiencing a wholly unique perception which draws upon their memory of past experiences. People may come to similar conclusions about the meaning of a piece, but the meaning of that meaning is nevertheless linked to many other meanings in each individual, none of which possesses the same set of experiences.
Response to Thoughts on Interaction Design (9-51)
Prior to this reading I tended to lump together fields such as interaction design, interactive design, GUI design and graphic design under the very broad label of “media arts.” In this way I considered designers of this sort to be essentially “applied artists”—taking what they know about aesthetic planning and applying it to products they help to develop. Kolko presents interaction design as something wholly separate, suggesting that the field’s emphasis on “the creation of a dialogue between a person and a product, service or system” (20). This human-centric view of design seems to draw heavily upon research methods and concepts from sociology, psychology, business science, computer programming and even architecture to synthesize a user-focused experience.
The Zimmerman, Evenson and Forlizzi “process of design” described in the text has a distinctly scientific quality to it. As with the scientific method, the problem must first be defined to provide a clear focal point for generating ideas and gathering data, allowing one to come to some sort of hypothesis. I was intrigued by Kolko’s suggestion that interaction designers should utilize scenario narratives for building a conceptual framework in which their hypothesized product would function. This proclamation of the power of story-telling suggests that Kolko acknowledges the strong relationship between human thought and narrative structures— with interaction design’s heavy emphasis upon the human-factor, utilizing such a fundamentally human process as narrative could lead to products which more naturally accommodate and anticipate the way users act and think. The later steps in the process become a cycle, much like the scientific cycle of experimenting and analyzing, and both involve interpretation of the results produced.
The chapter on managing complexity provides useful frameworks for working with what, in interaction design, can be nebulous, multimodal concepts that can be difficult to tie together in a comprehensive way. As a student of English I understand the great importance of organizing one’s thoughts before writing—outlines have become part of my way of life. An effective one helps me visualize the structure of an essay, allowing the grouping of similar concepts into comprehensive sections. My outlines tend to resemble the concept map Kolko presents, although his map can be utilized in a less linear fashion to consolidate a breadth of disparate elements. I agree with Kolko that visualizations can aid understanding by illustrating the metaphysical links between ideas, and especially appreciated his “ecosystem diagram” for its depiction of the multidirectional interactions between elements functioning as parts of an intricate system.
Perhaps the most significant insight Kolko offers to designers is the mantra “the user is not like me” (25). This simplistic notion calls to mind not only the infinite diversity of users, each of which possesses an entirely unique perspective when interacting with technology, but an awareness of the innate biases of the designer. It reinforces the practices of ethnography and extensive user inquiry, firmly supporting important point that interaction design should concern itself with the human user before all else.
The Zimmerman, Evenson and Forlizzi “process of design” described in the text has a distinctly scientific quality to it. As with the scientific method, the problem must first be defined to provide a clear focal point for generating ideas and gathering data, allowing one to come to some sort of hypothesis. I was intrigued by Kolko’s suggestion that interaction designers should utilize scenario narratives for building a conceptual framework in which their hypothesized product would function. This proclamation of the power of story-telling suggests that Kolko acknowledges the strong relationship between human thought and narrative structures— with interaction design’s heavy emphasis upon the human-factor, utilizing such a fundamentally human process as narrative could lead to products which more naturally accommodate and anticipate the way users act and think. The later steps in the process become a cycle, much like the scientific cycle of experimenting and analyzing, and both involve interpretation of the results produced.
The chapter on managing complexity provides useful frameworks for working with what, in interaction design, can be nebulous, multimodal concepts that can be difficult to tie together in a comprehensive way. As a student of English I understand the great importance of organizing one’s thoughts before writing—outlines have become part of my way of life. An effective one helps me visualize the structure of an essay, allowing the grouping of similar concepts into comprehensive sections. My outlines tend to resemble the concept map Kolko presents, although his map can be utilized in a less linear fashion to consolidate a breadth of disparate elements. I agree with Kolko that visualizations can aid understanding by illustrating the metaphysical links between ideas, and especially appreciated his “ecosystem diagram” for its depiction of the multidirectional interactions between elements functioning as parts of an intricate system.
Perhaps the most significant insight Kolko offers to designers is the mantra “the user is not like me” (25). This simplistic notion calls to mind not only the infinite diversity of users, each of which possesses an entirely unique perspective when interacting with technology, but an awareness of the innate biases of the designer. It reinforces the practices of ethnography and extensive user inquiry, firmly supporting important point that interaction design should concern itself with the human user before all else.
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