One of my favourite newfound pieces of technology (on which I’m writing this essay) is the AlphaSmart Neo2. It’s a bit of a cult item. The device was developed in the early 2000s as a portable word processor to teach typing to children. It contains ~8 files, each of which have space for ~10,000 words. That’s it. No internet, no email.
The Alphasmart boasts a full QWERTY keyboard, and a 4cm x 20 cm LCD screen. It runs on three triple A batteries, with a 700 hour battery life.
It’s almost comically simple. A screen to see the most recent sentence you’ve typed, and a keyboard to type it. In lieu of Function keys there are eight file keys that allow you to switch from one project to another.
So what’s the reason to type on one?
The lack of features reduces external distraction, and the poor user interface dissuades compulsive editing and re-editing. The device resists distraction from without and within.
As a writer, my process is to braindump in the Alphasmart, and then transfer to my computer for editing. The transfer process is even more simple. Instead of dragging a txt file, the Alphasmart quickly types everything you’ve entered — a direct streaming of your braindump, as illustrated below:
It’s hard to overstate how much this tool has improved my writing. It brings the single-minded focus of writing in a notebook to a generation who’ve forgotten cursive script. It enables folks who understand the compound benefits of digital information storage and recall to write without the compound distractions of an information-oversaturated world.
In this way, the Alphasmart belongs to a small category of products, together with the Amazon Kindle, where high friction for app switching and clunky user interfaces are core value propositions.
This is not to be confused with the simple tools of the past, like the ax, or the Leica rangefinder. While these bygone tools were produced before the modern information age, the Alphasmart was produced as a sort of willfully-inadequate design within it. Willfully bad UI is the point.
I’d like to propose a design ethic: bad UI as good UI. More friction in function-switching, as a foundation of more immersion in experience.
There’s an iconic photo showcasing all the varied items that are contained in a smartphone — camcorder, VCR, walkman, calendar, phone, etc.
This photo is usually deployed to communicate the wonders of miniaturization and product consolidation. One implication we don’t often consider: how is the intentionality between using and creating with each of these objects harmonized? How does the focused reflection of book reading settle down alongside the wild distraction of watching cartoons or scrolling TikTok?
The iPhone home screen is a libertarian paradise. All apps are given equal footing to monopolize your attention. “May the most compulsive app win!” Maybe this is an outgrowth of Silicon Valley’s anarchic utopianism.
In a world with one device = one function, UI optimization is great. In a world where one device = many functions, there’s some ambiguity about what you should be solving for.
I’d like a phone that delivers a very high friction experience to toggle away from the reading app. Likewise, taking photos can be reactive, or it can be willful and meditative. I’d love a phone where, for a sixty minute period of walking through the city, photo taking is all it can do.
I’m not suggesting that a smartphone is altogether less than the sum of its parts. It’s obvious that layering GPS onto photographs or the ability to seamlessly share one file into any number of newfound aggregators are magical experiences. I am awed by the interoperability of connected functions in a smartphone.
Still, a call for a little slowness. A bit more Alphasmart please.
