Way of the Retainer

While I’m closing out the next Tuxedo post, this is almost more of a note to myself more than anyone else. It’s about useability and acclimatisation, and may well be blindingly obvious to you. I had an experience this week that really drilled home how we acclimatise to interfaces, internalise the positive stuff, and only really think consciously about what’s left visible and apparent – the negative.

I drive a 2004 Holden Astra hatch. It is not a glamorous or luxury car. I will never drive it down winding forest roads or through oil-black rainslick streets while my eerily coiffed European model wife sleeps, elegantly arranged next to me. (cue sweeping strains of classical music) But it does me just fine, thank you very much. I like the car so much that, after someone killed my last black Holden Astra, I brought pretty much the same car again. Then someone tried to kill this one in Melbourne, but that’s another story entirely

Recently, my car was kind enough to suggest that a new fuel pump might be in order, by way of killing the old one. While I was procrastinating over getting the car fixed, my partner was kind enough to let me do a substantial amount of driving in her car. I’ve driven her car around a number of times before, as you do in regular life. But this was a long enough stretch to acclimatise to her car as my regular driving experience. And it is a neat, practical car – it’s compact, corners fantastically, has more pick-up than mine in first gear, and has awesome cup-holders. And for coffee freaks, cup-holders are important.

But the experience when I got my car fixed was like driving a completely new car again. I saw my car through the eyes I had when I first bought it, and remember why I love the act of driving it, and why its been a great companion relocating interstate twice. Why I like sitting a little closer to the road, how comfortable the seats really are, how the interior design is put together in a way to melt away when you’re driving at night, and the sense of space and comfort it gives, even though it’s a smallish four-door hatch.

The lesson for myself here, which you’re welcome to take away too if it resonates, is this: when we use products, we often assume the positive parts of the experience as a given, and they become transparent – it’s difficult to appreciate them on a day to day basis. We can still see the negative though, and focus on that. It’s only when we move away from a product that the positive becomes clear, often by contrast. So I’m going to do my damnedest to remember that, if the only feedback for something is negative, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad, if it’s still doing its job and being used widely.

It could just mean that the good stuff has become transparent.

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