USER EXPERIENCE FAIL: The Chronicles Part I

I’m currently in the process of writing the first installment of my memoirs, and I find that the majority of what I write about has to do with my frustrations with various user experiences.  As a public way of chronicling this hatred for the poorly designed, visually assulting, and logically backward, I have decided to post some of my favorite segments here.  Given my career and area of expertise (the web), I have decided to focus instead on experiences I have had in physical space, with objects, devices, services, etc.  Below – behold my first rant:

I.   Deliberately Disorienting Shoppers Through Manipulation of Physical Space in the Interest of Profit / the WHOLE FOODS / DIESEL Effect

Grocery shopping checkouts are notorious for long lines, confusing self-checkout systems (see #6) and the infamous “express lane” option.   Typically, one uses quick judgement to choose whichever line appears to be moving fastest, depending on the number of items being purchased and how willing one is to interact with machines vs. cashiers.  Whole Foods on 14th street decided to solve this problem in what I consider to be the largest service design clusterfuck I have ever experienced.  In what I assume was an attempt to “streamline” the waiting process, the store makes consumers wait while paying attention to not one – not two – but THREE different informational cues to determine when they can move to a cashier (this does not include the inital decision of which line to choose first…. though theoretically they all should move at the same pace…. they don’t).  You choose a line, demarkated by a velvet rope.  The line you are in is associated with a color, which is displayed on a monitor above the massive line/crowd of anxious shoppers.  The monitor is small, centrally located, and does not directly physically correspond to the line in which one is standing.  To add insult to injury, the lines are very long, and beside each is an equally long rack of impulse-purchase items, arguably 4x the length of the average impluse station in any other grocery store.  Let’s say I choose the blue line.   I’ve got one item, and I’m hungry as hell.  I’m behind 13 other blue-liners, and the line is moving incredibly slowly.  My eyes wander across the seemingly enless display of impulse items – energy bars, chapstick, tissues, washcloths, small toys – but only briefly, for I am immediately brought back to reality as I notice a small movement in my line.  This is how the “filtration regulation” system works.

But, surprise! The system doesn’t work.  The poor shopper, after being  funneled into a color coded line,  composed of other shoppers with various amounts of goods (from a single container of sushi to those with full grocery carts), regardless of preference, must  waits in their color corral until – lo and behold – yet ANOTHER variable is introduced – a number appears upon monitor overlayed across the color he or she has chosen.  This number corresponds to a numbered cashier station, toward which the shopper at the front of that line is then allowed to advance.  However, the cashier’s numbered signs are of less than ideal design, as they are numerous, clustered, often obstruct one another, and employ an obscure presentation of the numeral itself.  Hence,  the shopper then spends an average 2-5 seconds trying to figure out where said numbered cashier is, before timidly advancing, moving their line forward by one.The system infuriates me for three reasons.  First, that I am not allowed to choose a line based on criteria that is important to me in a normal grocery checkout setting… how slowly the person in line seems to be unloading from their cart, how old the person is, how heavy their items are, how many items they have, etc.  Second, that I don’t have the choice to use an automated checkout.  In the case that I am buying a single item for lunch (a frequent occurence), I would certainly opt for a machine interaction rather than wait in the express line, etc.  Third, the system employs too many variables for the average person to keep track of, and as a result, actually significantly impedes the regular flow of customer traffic.  The shopper has to keep track of four things at once: the color of their line, it’s relation in physical space to the display on the screen, when a number appears on their color bar on the screen, and the physical location of the respectively numbered cashier.   It’s madness.  By the time #6 on blue signals me to move from my corral, I feel like an abused racehorse, confused, agitated, ready to throw my frozen Amy’s microwavable meal at an innocent cashier’s head.

This system is not only practicallly inefficient, it (potentially) it creates negative emotions by causing the user to feel confused, disoriented, “cheated” of choice, and subject to automated dictation.  Others like me with smaller loads feel agitated groups amongst those with large carts.  We stand there, staring at the monitor vigilantly, anxiously awaiting where and when the next number will be called, wondering in our heads if the distribution of “releases” among the lines is equal, keeping close track in our minds, deciding that surely the green line seems to be moving faster than the orange one – while all the while you have no control, no option to change your mind or move, only to wait, like one might for the grim reaper, “for your number to be called”.   And that’s what the shopping experience in the 14th street whole foods is like.  death.

If I could find the designers responsible, I would make them go to the store at 1:30, prime lunch hour, and experience the misery for themselves.  Then I would take them to lunch upstairs, where we would wedge ourselves uncomfortably in between a group of college students on uncomfortable metal chairs in the balmy cafe space, and ask for a succinct explanation of why this system was implemented, and why it is efficient.  Then I would laugh at them and throw my cup of soy sauce in their face, making sure not to sully my  jeans and hoodie (my professional attire), and walk out.   I think I hate those guys more than any other imaginary guys that I know.  Or at least, that I can think of right now.

Diesel

On Union Square West, coincidentally located just kitty corner from the previous offender, the Diesel store stands out as  a trendy, edgy clothing store that exemplifies the brand’s core aesthetic values and themes.  (Also commented on by Norman:)  When one enters the Diesel store, loud house music infiltrates the ears.  The floor is open, free of visible sales associates at seemingly any hour of the day.  As one wanders in, unsure of where to go, what to look at, or where to find it, no help is offered up by the staff, who continues to mill about in the background.  As such, given no other choice, the shopper is forced to explore the space themselves until they find something that is of at least remote interest. At this point, the shopper feels a sense of achievement, having been able to navigate toward something desirable without any help.  With some added confidence, the shopper continues on, picking up additional items, until eventually, a shopping assistant casually approaches and asks if the shopper would like a fitting room.  But don’t be fooled – the staff is not  just inattentive, incompetent lovers of German house music.  Nay, the entire process is carefully calculated, and every sales associate is trained in the routine.  Allow the new shopper to enter.  Intimidated by the loud music and apparent lack of direction, the shopper feels vulnerable, open to navigating toward the first item of interest they can find.  Once they’ve located an item(s) or interest, the sales associate swoops in “to the rescue”, to save the user and lead them to a safer place. Though Diesel’s not the only store that does it  (arguably Uniqulo, H and M), it’s undoubetdly a sneaky sales tactic.  And to me, a dishonest one.  Not that I’d ever be caught dead in a pair of Diesel anythings.  I’d rather have the lady in the Green line at Whole Foods spill a container of rice pilaf on my brand new white Vans.  And that I’d rather look like a non-chalant hipster  douche than a insecure fashion backward douche in a pair of $500 faded jeans – well, that’s saying a lot.

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