Design can be thought of as a form of communication. This does not imply that combining shapes into forms is like combining letters into words. Instead, a designer associates and embeds existing words into his design, which then becomes a proxy for the designer himself. This view of design language is the view of designer as persuader. This is discussed at length by Richard Buchanan in his text “Declaration by Design: Rhetoric, Argument, and Demonstration in Design Practice.”⁵⁶ Buchanan explains that all forms of design encompass some aspect of rhetoric, or argument. These are defined either by the individual designer's world view or design philosophy, or by the overarching social world of design (which could be thought of as corporate policy or branding). As technology becomes more influential in pushing product innovation, successful design rhetoric—or persuasive language—becomes immensely important.

A product does not only speak but in fact attempts to convince—a designer makes an argument that comes alive each time a person considers his creation. Buchanan argues that designers can not help but persuade, and technology is often used as smoke and mirrors to insert an empty dialogue. But instead of relying on the “coolness” of technology, form, material, and function can be successfully combined to create a cohesive argument. A pursuit of argument can be viewed as an attempt to shape one's attitude. Design is to communicate, and this communication is not a monologue. It is a dialogue of persuasion, and argument, and learning.

Rhetorical argument implies a sense of purpose: “Indeed, design is an art of communication on two levels: It attempts to persuade audiences not only that a given design is useful, but also that the designer's premises or attitudes and values regarding practical life or the proper role of technology are important, as well.”⁵⁷ A designer may develop the next generation of cell phones, dealing with the physical form of the telephone, the material and manufacturing choices, as well as the software interface that a user encounters to perform calls. This designer's communication can be viewed on several levels; on a highly superficial level, it is possible to discuss the implications of using brushed aluminum and long, slender lines to illustrate a sense of futurism and references to technology in architecture. A deeper analysis might consider the “usability” of the phone—has the designer created a well-structured dialogue, so the user and object can communicate efficiently and effectively? Finally, it is possible to consider the argument the designer has made by choosing to design cellular communication at all. They may be—implicitly, obviously—making a statement concerning the benefits technology has awarded society with rapid communication across geographical boundaries. Or, the commentary may be considered more trivial: The designer may be simply stating that they “Prefer to Make Cool Things.”

As another example of design rhetoric and argument, reflect on the form of a music-playing device. Specifically, picture a portable audio tape player. What does it look like?

Most will envision a similar—and archetypical—image of a square device with a clear panel in it. It is easy to picture the small spools that twist the tape around, and this imagery allows an easy conceptualization of how the object functions. The cognitive accessibility of the device's functionality makes it predictable. In addition to simply picturing the item, most people—however technical—can form some sort of mental model of how the device works. This mental model may be technically inaccurate, but it allows for a quick analysis of the essential method of operation. The rhetorical stance taken by the designer (be it a designer at Sony or a designer at Aiwa) is probably going to be fairly similar.

This same sort of analysis can be performed with a portable compact disc player. Most people have a fairly clear understanding of the formal characteristics of a CD player that have been driven by the functional characteristics of a CD. The device is flat, and roughly the size of the compact disc. Arguing that “form follows function” leaves little room for the individual aesthetics of brand (the color of the plastic, or the placement of the buttons), but the general archetypical form resonates easily with the audience. A CD player is a CD player.

Now consider an MP3 player. What does it look like? A more difficult question may be: What should it look like? In this case, the pliability of digital technology affords huge leniency with regard to form, material, size, color, and weight. The designer is not constrained to follow a mechanically driven function, and must instead make decisions based on external characteristics. An MP3 player can look like anything at all: It can be a square white box with radiused corners and a round click wheel in the middle, or it can be shaped like a carrot. The importance of persuasion—of convincing an audience that the MP3 player is “correctly designed”—increases dramatically when functionality is nearly invisible. All too often, this rhetoric is left up to the advertisers—who may resort to brute force tactics of persuasion in loud television ads or huge billboards. But argument, either through form or advertising, need not be loud. Would the iPod succeed without the subtle and refined Dancing Silhouettes reminding us that Apple has discovered the “proper” form for an MP3 player? The argument of this advertising campaign, combined with the care and attention to detail of the physical iPod, has created a rather ubiquitous “sign” of what an MP3 player should look like.

Designers Shelley Evenson and John Rheinfrank⁵⁸ established, through years of designing product and systems at consultancies like Scient, the Doblin Group, and Fitch, a theory of visual and functional product language. Like Buchanan, Evenson and Rheinfrank considered language as the strong connector between artifacts and people, and discussed how design languages become a connector for how people experience products, services, and systems in the world around them. People do not simply use product form language—they live with it. Product form language is the basis for how people generate and interpret their surroundings. This has great implications for the design of mass-produced items. These items do more than simply provide a function or some form of functional utility. When viewed under the guise of language, these products become the fabric of society, and allow people to express themselves, to communicate with others, and to shape their environment in unique ways.

Evenson and Rheinfrank were referring to the physical form, material, and visual style of an artifact. Products that incorporate an extended level of digitization (and, therefore, complexity) often seem confusing based on their visual aesthetic. It is difficult for people to rationally consider and analyze a personal video recorder because the form language surrounding the recorder is often arbitrary—perhaps inspired by older, analog recorders, or inspired by the whim of the designer. One way to think about the way a designer may impact culture, then, is to analyze the language and style in which a digital object is presented. The Interaction Designer shapes culture directly through the creation of new visual form language. This semantic view of design—that objects are embedded with more than just functional significance—rejects the platitude of Form Follows Function and instead recognizes the need for emotional and social connections in the human-made world.

This view is formally grounded in the study of semiotics. Semiotics is, literally, the study of signs. A sign need not be a printed object, but instead can include the theoretical understanding of the process of signification. By signifying something (or signing as a verb), humans can communicate meaning, and a sign itself is thought to carry some form of meaning. The sign (either physical or conceptual) uses various codes to help communicate the meaning and values embedded within it. A sign can be a visual element—like a street sign—but can also be the way one uses his body language, or the sound pattern of words used to communicate to another. ⁵⁹

Ferdinand de Saussure is generally considered the founder of the semiotic movement. He considered language as a scientific and independent notion that could be separated from elements of cultureor comprehension. Saussure believed that words are embedded with semantic meaning and therefore “stand for” other things—the word “chair” (in any human, spoken language) is deeply associated with the idea of sitting and the idea of the object that we sit on. The rules that make up the system become universally more important than the application of the rules—that is, the notion of “chairness” exists whether or not we are using, considering, or speaking about a “chair.” One can consider and theorize on the nature of signs independent of particular usages or examples. ⁶⁰

If designed artifacts (such as objects like chairs or even complicated computer interfaces) follow Saussure's view of semiotics—and are thought of as signs rather than as simple physical and static elements of function—one can start to understand that the process of signification is deeply related to Interaction Design and the process of behavioral understanding in experiences. This might include the name of the object (often arbitrary—what does a “DVD player” really mean?), the body movements necessary to manipulate the object (the sunken, press-able nature of buttons, or the round and “turnable” style of a dial), or the proper way to consider an object (“I am a serious piece of consumer electronics. Do not play with me.”) A sign, by definition, should be fairly universal and easy to understand. One should not require training to comprehend the message being communicated (in fact, semiotics frequently implies that users can't help but be affected by the process of signification—it happens automatically).

While there certainly is a market for “cool things,” some designers find the emphasis on styling and visual aesthetics as superficial—a great deal of the design community feels that a designer provides a deeply intellectual contribution in the creation of goods, and the sensory elements are only the most immediate “hook” for people to respond to a creation. In fact, there is much more substance to designed artifacts, and it is this substance that allows them to resonate in a meaningful fashion. This substance is what Saussure viewed as the linguistic sign, what Evenson and Rheinfrank viewed as a design language, and what Buchanan considered as the harmonious combination of rational, human, and stylistic.

One way of examining and considering this level of substance is through a linguistic lens of poetry. An interaction occurs in the conceptual space between a person and an object. It is at once physical, cognitive, and social. A poetic interaction is one that resonates immediately but yet continues to inform later—it is one that causes reflection, and one that relies heavily on a state of emotional awareness. Additionally, a poetic interaction is one that is nearly always subtle, yet mindful.

Consider the poetic and highly refined act of chopping a clove of garlic with a Wüsthof cook's knife—and compare it to the obvious, jarring experience of riding a roller coaster through the most perilous curves. The roller coaster drops and turns, and relies on the adrenalin rush associated with near death. It creates an experience so riddled with awe that many will stop “thinking” at all. Each turn and drop is bigger than the last, and as riders feel the wind in their hair and the blood in their ears, the exhilaration is one that is sensory and perceptual first and cognitive second, if ever.

By comparison, preparing a meal can be a rather banal experience. Imagine using the heavy forged steel Wüsthof, the cold metal against your hand, the staccato and constant motion of the blade against the cutting board, and the pungent odor of garlic pressing against your eyes and nose. This mundane experience described is a story, which creates, much like a compelling novel, a world for the participant to engage in. Unlike a novel, however, the participant is not an idle observer. The active engagement of the senses encourages a highly heightened sense of awareness⁶¹—the “user” is not simply a “viewer.”

The roller-coaster forces a set of behavior through brute force, and reminds the rider over and over that he is, in fact, thrilled. The knife, by comparison, speaks quietly but firmly. The interaction is at once less obvious and more compelling. The entertainment provided by the roller-coaster is passive in the most obvious sense—a rider sits, and his senses are assaulted. The “entertainment” provided by the knife is highly active, demanding a sense of acute engagement.

A poetic interaction can generally be characterized as having, or encouraging, three main elements: honesty, mindfulness, and a vivid and refined attention to sensory detail. These elements combine to encourage creativity in the end participant (note the shift away from the word user, as the audience no longer simply uses but instead must actively engage).

Honesty is a difficult word to discuss as applied to product development, as it brings to mind issues of ethics, morality, and the basic axioms of humanity. While the principles of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness resonate with Americans, these are ideologically Western views—thoughts of simplicity, respect, and nature may make more sense to the Japanese. Thus, while underlying and basic principles of integrity (do not steal, do not kill) may transcend cultures, the details of honesty seem to be culturally independent. Products that attempt to convey a sense of honesty may, in fact, not make any sense when presented in other cultures (and sub-cultures) and communities. Given that culture changes over time, honest product design, too, may begin to alter depending on the momentum of society.

All cannot be relative, however, if the attempt is to define a frame-work for poetic Interaction Design. If honesty implies integrity, Interaction Designers can uphold the integrity of several aspects of the design through the development of the product, and these particular aspects of honesty seem to transcend cultural boundaries: integrity to the business vision, integrity to the consumer, and integrity to materials.

Frequently, business decisions are made with a great deal of thought and consideration, yet the dissemination of these goals is thwarted by tiers of middle management that twist and convolute both the decision and the rationale for that decision. To uphold integrity to the business vision requires that Interaction Designers participate in the development of this business vision in some manner. How can one uphold the integrity of something if one isn't aware of what that something is? Internal corporate branding, often represented as a set of strategic imperatives or as a set of goal-outcome statements, is used to disseminate business objectives internally. These statements are often an obvious attempt to force a value system on a set of participants who had little to do with the creation of these values. Jim Clemmer, ⁶² author of Firing on All Cylinders, claims that these imperatives are “those vital 12 to 18 month goals, priorities, and improvement targets that—when reached—hurl our team or organization towards its vision, value and purpose.” Yet most involved in the development of products cringe when they hear a goal or priority broken down into a tongue-in-cheek euphemism like “Trim the Fat” (Albertsons) or into single, staccato like bullets of “Imagine. Build. Solve. Lead.” (General Electric). These miniature rallying cries rely on rote memorization and belittle the audience—they implicitly state that members of a company can't understand the complexity of business decisions and strategy.

Victor Margolin reflects that “Designer/entrepreneurs should be able to create business plans, identify niches for new products within the global marketplace, and seek appropriate venture capital.”⁶³ If designers and artists truly understand why they are working on a particular project or direction, they can best embrace the strategic decision and “hurl” themselves forward at it. This understanding of business value and strategy requires equal representation at the heart of business: A designer needs to be present in the boardroom, where these decisions are made.

Integrity to the consumer, or participant, requires the passionate advocacy for humanity. This advocacy transcends “making things user friendly” or “foolproof,” and instead requires respect for the end consumers and “users” of the product. ⁶⁴ This respect comes from understanding and empathy, and results in a level of commitment that often relies on the emotive instead of the rational. While design and manufacturing are engaged in for-profit activities, these activities should be ethical and informed. The entire notion of “planned obsolescence” rejects this notion of integrity for humanity, in that it attempts to pull the wool over the naïve consumers' eyes. Industrial Designer Brooks Stevens has been recognized as coining the term planned obsolescence. Consider the subtle audacity of his definition for this quality of design: “Instilling in the buyer the desire to own something a little newer, a little better, a little sooner than is necessary.”⁶⁵ With design comes a great deal of power. Rather than attempting to trick otherwise neutral participants in the dialogue of a product, why not exert this power toward the creation of betterment for the individual, his family, and his society?

Integrity to materials requires a sense of respect for both the natural world and the human-made world, and the philosophical understanding of how various materials want to work. Consider a PT Cruiser with wood paneling (wood laminate, a thin sheet of wood or a wood-like material) on the side. The car is made of metal and plastic, and is artificial in nearly every way (even in its allusions to early Sixties wagons). According to Chrysler, it is the “small car alternative that lives large.” Why, then, would a designer specify a choice of “a simple, flowing wood-grained graphic” on the doors, the graphic being “a linear Medium Oak woodgrain framed with Light Ash surround moldings”? The car isn't wooden, and in this case, the wood isn't even wooden! Trevor Creed, Senior Vice President of Design at the Chrysler Group, attempts to explain that “For the Chrysler PT Cruiser ‘Woodie’ Edition, we wanted a design execution that recreated the carefree fun of the popular 1960s California surf wagons.”⁶⁶ But the popular California surf wagons, specifically the Mercury Station Wagon, were made of solid wood. The 1946 Mercury Woodie was made of a solid wood frame (most probably birch or mahogany), as were many vehicles in the late thirties and early forties. If a car is going to be made of wood, it should deserve to be made of wood. What type of design deserves to be made of a “wood-grained graphic”?

One can't help but think of the idealistic Ayn Rand's Howard Roark, as he denounces the Parthenon as poorly architected: “The famous flutings on the famous columns—what are they made for? To hide the joints in wood—when columns were made of wood, only these aren't, they're marble… Your Greeks took marble and they made copies of their wooden structures out of it, because others had done it that way. Then your masters of the Renaissance came along and made copies in plaster of copies in marble of copies in wood. Now here we are, making copies in steel and concrete of copies in plaster of copies in marble of copies in wood…”⁶⁷

Sustainable Design advocates William McDonough and Michael Braungart illustrate a similar respect for materials and the associated principle of honesty in design in the physical manifestation of their text Cradle to Cradle. The pages of the text are made of plastic, rather than paper. The ink from the pages can easily be washed and captured for re-use. The plastic itself can be reused without downcycling. As McDonough wondered aloud during the Industrial Designers Society of America annual conference in Washington, DC, in 2005, “Why make something as simple as a sheet of paper out of something as elegant as a tree? Design something that makes oxygen, fixes nitrogen, build soil, provides habitat for hundreds of people, and self replicates… and cut it down to write on it?”⁶⁸

In addition to the elements of honesty, a poetic interaction should encourage a state of mindfulness. Mindfulness (note the subtle distinction between mindfulness and mindlessness) has often been cited as the primary state of mind necessary to accomplish meditation. Buddhists reference a state of mindfulness of breathing. One can think of mindfulness as an acute awareness of the present moment. ⁶⁹ Rather than actively considering other people, or chores that need to be done, or opinions that need to be formed, one simply exists, and understands this moment of that existence. This appreciation for the present moment has been cited as a successful method by marathon runners and artists alike, and discussed by authors such as Ralph Waldo Emerson and Walt Whitman.

A successful poetic Interaction Design will encourage a state of mindfulness. This is, of course, easier said than done. To achieve this state of mental appreciation, one must be willing (and actively choose) to ignore many of the problems and elements present in the hustle of daily life. How can a product encourage a user to let go of his surroundings and attend only to the moment?

When reading a poem, it is interesting to consider where the imagery comes from. The words on the page are rather plain, and save for the authors' potential use of kitschy typography, the print itself is rather nondescript. Words themselves frequently fail to trigger vivid and robust thoughts, as the brain seems to desire to think in two dimensions. That is, even when trying passionately to picture a “tree in the rain,” few readers will get beyond the prototypical form of a tree—the form that, perhaps, a child will scrawl when asked to draw a tree. This lack of ability to visualize an object in full detail in the mind may be what holds many back from claiming artistic capabilities. “I can't draw” usually means “I can't draw accurately,” and it may be more appropriate to claim “I can't think” (or at least “I can't think accurately”).

But compare the imagery conjured by a “tree in the rain”, to this short excerpt from “The Wasteland”:

T. S. Eliot has managed to use the same basic constructs of words, and simple words at that, to stir deep emotional responses in the reader. A “tree in the rain” is finite, obvious, and non-challenging. The lack of complexity and specificity may, in fact, be why it is difficult to picture the tree with any depth or detail. But the fact that the lilac has dead roots, and it isn't just a rain—it's a spring rain, creates a matter-of-fact situation that readers can begin to feel, before they even try to see it. It is difficult to picture April, much less to picture the month as cruel, yet Eliot's four lines have managed to invigorate a deeply honed sense of feeling that allows readers to picture not just a tree, nor a rain, but an entire scene.

In much the same way as readers have difficulty picturing a “tree in the rain” with any level of character, they may have a similarly troubling time imagining opening a car door, or turning on the television, or typing an email. Simply recalling the nature of interactions one has had throughout the day is a particularly difficult task, in a peculiarly striking way. As an example, try to imagine how many doors you must have opened, how many buttons you have pressed in one day. Surely there were a lot, but recreating these actions or recalling particulars is incredibly difficult. It may be difficult to reproduce these ideas because they happened, for lack of a better word, automatically. It is not necessary to consciously attend to the car door when encountering it. Your focus was most likely on the destination of the drive, or the other passengers in the car. Most will recall actual behavior only when it fails. It is easy to recall when the door broke, or when a key was lost, or when a door was difficult to open.

Author, psychologist, and philosopher John Dewey explains that “Experience does not go on simply inside a person. It does go on there, for it influences the formation of attitudes of desire and purpose. But this is not the whole of the story. Every genuine experience has an active side which changes in some degree the objective conditions under which experiences are had.”⁷¹ This implies that, while an Interaction Designer may focus on the creation of an artifact or system, much of the “meat” of the experience of use is left up to the person using the artifact or system. This lack of control in design can be frightening, especially for the designer who is used to thinking of design as an expressive, personal, and highly finite activity. In fact, thinking of design as an activity of creation (a verb) with a beginning and an end ignores the entire beauty of the engagement with the person for which a design (a noun) was created in the first place.

Frequently, resonant interactions are creative interactions with a heightened awareness of task. Author and psychologist Mihaly Csikszent-mihalyi has been analyzing the essence of creativity, and has identified the state of being known as “flow” to be one that encourages a vivid awareness of the moment but an almost lack of awareness of the surrounding environment and task. As Csikszentmihalyi describes, during flow, the sense of self and self-consciousness disappears. While experiencing flow, people become too involved in their activities to worry about protecting their self-image or their ego. ⁷²

Perhaps, then, it is useful to attempt to recall not a particular interaction but the beauty of the associative scene. In the same way that a poem requires a sense of whole in order to understand the parts, so too does a successful interaction require both a holistic attention to the context and a dramatically detailed understanding of nuance.

In addition to honesty and mindfulness, a vivid and refined attention to sensory detail can be thought of as the last necessary element to encourage a poetic and resonant Interaction Design. This attention to sensory detail—made up of all elements of design, including material, form, color, texture, placement—is frequently lost during the translation from concept to reality in the actual development of manufactured goods. Two main explanations can be cited for the loss of this important quality: an understanding of importance, and cost.

Often, the folks working in product development don't understand, respect, or care about attention to sensory details. Many engineers and business executives have a difficult time embracing the subjective benefits of one material over the other. This is not to say that engineers and executives don't care about all details; indeed, to achieve a level of Six Sigma quality, engineers must be detail driven. ⁷³ But these details are in logic and in process, rather than in the visual or the aesthetic. Many engineers simply have not been trained to perceive these details. Those who have designed computer interfaces can attest to the blinders software developers have towards visual style. To many developers, the user interface is an inconvenience, and one that commonly implies drastic compromises and delays in development. It is not accidental that one can achieve a B.S. in Computer Science at Carnegie Mellon University and never take a required user interface development course. The design of visual control interfaces are relegated to an elective.

Additionally, issues of cost frequently disrupt attention to sensory detail. In the development of a physical product, designers may specify very particular trim pieces or premium surface treatments. These details will help differentiate a product in the marketplace and will serve to create a cohesive experience of use, but will also add cost to the development of the product. In a business culture, the value of these particular ephemeral enhancements may simply not be comprehensible to the managers making financial decisions. These details are at the heart of popular industrial design successes like the Apple iPod, the Motorola RAZR, and the Audi TT. Imagine the iPod in a cheaper grade of plastic, or the TT without the hallmark—and more expensive—art deco gauges and custom leather interior. Companies like Apple and Audi continually understand and respect attention to detail in visual aesthetics, and frequently pass on the cost of this refinement to the consumer, who will happily pay the premium price to enjoy the premium experience.

To resonate poetic, the interaction one has with a product should be engaging, appropriately complicated to the given task in order to encourage a mindful state, and highly sensory. But it is important to note that the moment need not be long. While pouring a cup of coffee out of a French press, one may experience a mindful interaction, if only for several seconds. The combination of acuity necessary to perform the task (the challenge, if you like, of successfully moving the hot coffee from one apparatus to another), and the appropriate materials (stainless steel, glass) and the various sensory elements (the smell of the rich coffee, the heat against the pouring hand, the billows of steam from the bottom of the coffee mug) creates a poetic interaction.

It is interesting to note that none of the traits outlined above—honesty, mindfulness, or sensory refinement—has much to do with usability, or with common usability metrics. Usability is usually associated with decreasing time necessary to complete a task (and increasing efficiency), decreasing the time necessary to learn a new interface, or reducing number of errors. Usability engineering commonly recommends a reduction of cognitive demands, and seems to encourage the creation of “mindless” interfaces that simply don't require a great deal of thought to operate. Consider the cliché reference to “user friendly” as a means to describe computers: poetry, even the most humane and beautiful, is rarely considered by the masses to be user friendly.

This is not to say that usability is not important. On the contrary, if one cannot understand a creation, this creation certainly cannot allow for a state of mindfulness or encourage creativity. However, in order to realize the state of awareness described above as critical to mindfulness, an element of challenge must be present. The pursuit of a creative solution is not an easy activity, yet the difficulty—the sense of accomplishment that occurs when completing a difficult task—can be thought of as one of the main attractors to participants in the design process. Striking the balance between usability and challenge is a difficult task, one informed by both experience and intuition. The poetics of art begin to clash dramatically with the fundamental need for usability, and future designers will need to make conscious choices of which to give primary importance.

Are people ready for more demanding and poetic experiences? Humanity generally walks a fine line between creativity and consumption. If mindless consumption is thought of as negative, mindful creativity would be the ideal goal of a poetic interaction. This then begs the question: Can our Interaction Design solutions encourage users to be creative?

It is interesting to consider the implications of a design that allows regular people—people who don't claim to be artists and may rarely get a chance to create much of anything at all—to be creative and to experience the mindful state of flow described above. Imagine the idea of design empowering regular people to create, and to experience the joy and personal satisfaction that comes with the development of a new idea and the embodiment of that idea in something tangible. Interaction Design that is poetic—honest, mindful, and highly sensory—can allow regular people to do just that. An example can be found in the delight one experiences building with LEGO bricks, and this experience has been digitally extended to include the online LEGO Factory. ⁷⁴ A regular person, with no design or art training required, can access a website, create a LEGO set using free software provided by LEGO, and can then buy the physical bricks to make his digital creation. The interaction begins to approach the poetic, in that it is honest to the respective medium (digital building as compared to physical building), it demands a sense of mindful play, and is highly visually refined in the traditional brand language of LEGO.

Some practicing designers balk at the idea of designing poetic interactions. One early reviewer of this text was as blunt as to say “I have other things to worry about—like shipping a working product that isn't awful.” Yet if designers focus only on the low-hanging fruit of functionalism or usability, the human experience with designed objects is destined to a level of mundane banality. As ideological as it may appear, what if that piece of enterprise software offers—for a fleeting moment of use—a poetic experience? A poetic interaction can generally be characterized as having, or encouraging, three main elements: honesty, mindfulness, and a vivid and refined attention to sensory detail. The notion of poetry extends the view of design as communication, building on the view of argument, rhetoric, and design languages. Poetry specifically, and language generally, provides a framework in which to view interactions created through design. These interactions, when properly structured, can afford sensory, emotionally charged, and breathtakingly human experiences.