...business cards good enough to eat

I'd been meaning to do this for aaaaaages and I finally got round to it - make some Moo MiniCards based upon one of my very favourite things; biscuits. You're no doubt rather familiar with Moo.com already, but if you didn't know, these particular bespoke business cards are long and thin, which make them (almost) perfect dimensions for a variety of biscuits (I had to retouch my photography for the perfect fit). Rounded corners would've been nice, but for under £20, I won't start complaining about die cutting.

They come in Bourbon Cream, Rich Tea Finger Cream, Pink Wafer, Scottish Shortbread and Milk Chocolate Finger varieties.

Oh I'm sorry. Here's my card.

..to search Google Search by Image

Just before Christmas, I was doing some housekeeping to my unruly Mac desktop. I found an old picture of a Dachshund downloaded when doing some pictorial research for a client pitch. Before I dumped it, I dropped it into Google Search by Image, just to see what got spat out. I'd never actually used their image search in this way before and was curious. You know how the saying goes; 'Curiosity killed the sausage dog and turned it into a sexy Asian guy resplendent in just yellow pants'.

Google wanted me to see a surprising amount of sauce considering it was a Moderate Safe search. Wanting to take it farther, I dropped the first search result (hot yellow pants guy) back into Search by Image to see what Google thought looked similar. A baby was delivered!

What would happen if I were to repeat the process ad-infinitum? It would be a revealing experiment into the responsive nature of Google's 'intelligent' search algorithms, I thought. But I just didn't get round to it. However, someone else did, and used a far more interesting process than mine. In Search by Image, Recursively, Transparent PNG, #1, Sebastian Schmieg takes a blank image as a starting point and re-feeds the results into Google 2951 times in a brilliant experiment where Google appears to eat itself. It's time well spent even if no double rainbows, dancing cats or sausage dogs get thrown up. (Thanks to Owen Priestley for pointing me towards it).


Search by Image, Recursively, Transparent PNG, #1 from kingcosmonaut3000 on Vimeo.

...taking control of your day

...being instructed without being instructed

Instructions are a drag. Nobody reads them. Realistically, they're a last resort. Whether it's a new microwave, smartphone or videogame, the best way to get people to use the damn thing straight out of the box without any hair being pulled out is to make the process:

1: Simple
2: Intuitive
3: Discoverable

And for bonus points:

4: Delightful

If i've just bought a new microwave and I can't heat my sponge pudding within five minutes of plugging it in, I'll be sad and hungry. Give me some simple dials that denote 'time' and 'power'  and I will happily know exactly what these mean, given that they directly correspond to the heating instructions on the back of the packet. If you don't give me these, give me some clear iconography - semiotically understandable so I can jolly well start heating. If I find myself in front of a dial sporting a graphic with which I've no prior experience, allow me to discover its function painlessly - discovery is a rewarding experience, which in turn creates satisfaction. Throw in a 'delighter' - say a good old-fashioned analogue 'ting' rather than the digital beep of the surly robot meal generator - and you're on to a winner, and I'm on to my pudding.

Recently I saw something excellent. My favourite teeny weeny bit of design I've seen for ages. An instructions killer which, if it already exists, I've never personally experienced it before.

Everyone's hooted and tweeted about the Being Henry campaign for Range Rover Evoque, and rightly so. It's a quite beguiling and seamless piece of brand engagement with the sort of rabbit warrens it's a pleasure to spend time down. The campaign is quite straightforward stuff, guiding a guy called Henry throughout his day by making this-or-that choices for him at pivotal moments in the story. You get to act like a God. A God that manages to have time to spend messing about on the internet when He/She has better things to do. But a God nonetheless.

The crux of the interaction within the Henry experience lies not in the user clicking choices presented to them, but rather dragging Henry either left or right in the direction of his next adventure. This action of dragging isn't remarkable or unique (I've worked on an interactive piece myself which used a similar device) but the way the user is introduced to it is clever. Really clever.

Before the user reaches the main bit of Being Henry they face the usual language select gateway. With any other campaign, this is just another fait accompli before the main experience. But in this case, an otherwise dull screen becomes a neat little tutorial without the user even realising they've been tutorialised. Rather than click your language, you drag a slider left or right until your language slots into place. Before you've even started, you're familiar with the navigational mechanism ahead.



For such a little nudge it reaps big rewards. It's simple, it's intuitive, it's discovery. The endeavour of choosing a language may not be the most delightful experience itself, but the invisible goings-on this one action provides at the outset will get users engaged quicker and, with more satisfaction than a page of old waffle about putting tab A into slot B.

Whether or not this delight will register with users is unimportant. An intelligent piece of holistic design has oriented the user and laid the foundations for a piece of excellent user experience.

...Billionaire's Shortbread

...Mungames

Hey you square. I know you're the type who's far too busy to car-jack an old lady, stave off a gang of marauding undead or collect stickers bouncing across a patchwork landscape, but take five minutes to read this and you'll soon see how play is absolutely everywhere in your day and completely, unashamedly unavoidable. Even YOU, the most buttoned-down of all people, the one with the least time for childish fripperies but the most time for hard work, at some point during your day, will get involved in play (and I'm not talking about an illicit bit of Farmville at lunch).

The recent launch of Google+ awoke my halcyon era (#sarcasm) memories of 2007 when everyone clambered aboard the Facebook steam roller as it headed out of town, crushing MySpace, Bebo and any other chubby social network not nimble enough to adapt or step aside. In its infancy, before all the extra features evolved - the apps and widgets we associate with modern Facebook - adding friends was a massive factor of what made Facebook addictive. Who can I get next? How high can I get my numbers? Can I get more friends than my mate Ian? It was the acceptable face of collecting football stickers in the playground, except the rules of engagement meant you had to actually be OUT of the playground to legally take part - 16 years or over. For those who outgrew such childish pursuits the moment things morphed, dropped and broke in the night, it was a welcome invite to play. A common gaming trope emerged: Collecting.

As I started adding Friends, Acquaintances and Stalkers to Google+ I soon figured out, with absolutely nothing happening on Streams, adding to my Friends, Acquaintances and Stalkers is, like Facebook before, the most addictive thing about the new social platform. Google+ may be an empty aircraft hangar for most people right now, but the collecting - the gaming element - will drive it forward until it does everything Facebook does, but without the obtuse interface.

In our everyday lives when carrying out work or performing the most mundane of tasks, we engage in micro-games often without realising, either competing against others or oneself. For example, at work I'm writing this piece. I have other things to do. In fact, I have three things on my plate which need immediate attention. But for now I continue to write knowing full well I need to get on with the other jobs. I'm in the throes of time management. My immediate world shows a countdown clock in the corner and I'm halfway through my allotted segment of time before it runs out. My task is to complete this piece or I risk failure to move on to the next task. A common gaming trope emerges: Trial.

You can see where I'm going with this already.

It's like we're hardwired from birth to get the most out of life from play, even when there's work involved; the classic 'see how quick you can pack your toys away' never rang so true. So why stop when we reach adulthood if play can be conducive to a both a productive and positive head state when going about our business? I'm not just talking about tacking a metaphor of games onto our lives, but rather to understand and accept that play is an inherent part of a day-to-day existence. Ever stuck the kettle on in the kitchen and raced it against toasting some bread? (Challenge). Or guesstimated the amount of footsteps to WHSmith? (Puzzle). It's okay. We all have. In fact, I've categorised a shortlist (Collecting) of the 'mungames' which I often play. See if they match any of yours (Challenge).

• Holding the petrol pump on full and stopping EXACTLY on the amount you want to spend. (Skill)
• Hoarding £2 coins in a jam jar (Collecting)
• Blowing fifty £2 coins on treats (Reward)
• Catching a spider under a glass (Skill)
• Carrying more than three drinks at once in a pub (Trial)
• Peeling off sticky labels without tearing or leaving residue (Skill)
• Boarding a bus/train moments before it leaves (Achievement)
• Stacking washing up on the draining board (Puzzle)
• Parallel parking (Trial)
• Searching for the damn keys (Discovery)

As the human race goes, we didn't get to where we are without competition. It's the catalyst which moves things forward and is at the heart of gaming. So you see, play is unavoidable. Next time you're up against it at work, and you're worried about facing the end-of-level boss with a spreadsheet which looks authored by Duke Nukem, don't worry. There'll be a brilliant cheat you can Google, download and submit as your own before holing up in the kitchen for a coffee (Powerup). If your boss accuses you of playing games, say yes. Yes I have. It's only human (Level up).

...Now In Lemon

Excitement is like a wheelbarrow. It has one wheel and two handles.

No.

Excitement is like a stretcher. It has a paramedic either end.

No. Still not right.

Excitement is like a rip tide. You can get carried away in it.

Yes. Let's go with that.

With an excitement borne from the impending delivery of a new fanzine, I eagerly pledged to write a piece on it, a review if you will. Dead excited I was. Rubbing hands together excited. Now I sit here, on the bus, the fanzine under my arm, still very excited but also unsure of what to say or where to begin. Apart from this preamble, I mean, where do I start? At page one? Yes. That's a start. Page one.

So I've been sent the first edition of a new fanzine and straight out of the block it's wrongfooted me, all dressed in blue but called 'Now In Lemon'. Already I know we'll be pals. Like all good fanzines, it delivers what the fans want: lo-fi, free badge, served in an earthy brown envelope. It pushes all the right buttons in making NME fanboy nostalgia ping the corners of my eyes.

At this point, I should lay my cards on the table, just in case I want to make a future bid for BSkyB. Someone who sits not six feet away from me at work is one of two people behind the project. A talent. A fellow designer. A friend. Hence my alacrity, then apprehension, at fulfilling my own hurried brief of attempting a nonpartisan review.

Hello, and welcome back to part two of this Now In Lemon special review. Coming up: The goings-on of camo-clad Ross Kemp; meta ghosts; fur and mortality; crusifixations; and the number 23. But first we speak to Will Weaver about this snazzy new cottage industry paper, and ask What do you really think about this fanzine?

What do I really think? To be honest, I don't want to spoil anything. Part of Now In Lemon's charm is the surprise, so I can only impart my obfuscated opinion. What I can say is this...

The reader is taken from absurd to very funny to unnerving from the turn of each page. It's a project publication, so you get the makers' heart right there on the page, in ink which appears to be hanging on to the A5 sheet for dear life. A lovely honesty emerges, helped in part by Footprint, the co-op printer of this old-school analogue format sympathetic to the tone of the ideas and art. In turn, a certain fuzzy warmth encircles the whole zine which would otherwise be compromised filtered through the cold, harsh VGA display of an onscreen blog.

A well metered observation of the human soul via black ink and earnest paper stock, Now In Lemon is a brief visit which never outstays its welcome but rather, didn't stop long enough. Looking forward to issue 2 already.

Get it here: nowinlemon.com