I once spent four hours explaining the pressurized steam system in a submarine galley to a new recruit, insisting with a straight face that the controls were intuitive. They were not.
The gauges were positioned behind a horizontal structural beam that required a specific, painful lean to read, and the emergency shut-off valve was painted the same dull grey as the bulkhead. Because I had spent navigating that cramped, metallic labyrinth, I had mistaken my callouses for a design feature.
I told the kid it was just a “learning curve,” a lie I told to avoid admitting that the engineers had simply run out of room and ideas. I was forcing him to inherit a struggle I had rebranded as an education, which is also how most software companies treat their users today.
The Euphemism of Friction
We have a habit of using language to soften the blow of incompetence. This morning, I spent trying to end a phone conversation with a persistent acquaintance, navigating the social geometry of “well, I’ll let you go” and “we should catch up soon” while my coffee went cold.
It was a trapped feeling, the same one you get when a piece of software demands a specific sequence of clicks that feels more like a secret handshake than a