My goals were simple:
1. I wanted to create something that my son—at only four years of age—could look at and get a sense of what he was supposed to do. I wanted him to manage this disease from an early age. I needed him to understand what was expected of him.
FIGURE 1.2 This version of the diabetes chart has the same information as the one provided by the hospital. All that has changed is the visual design.
2. I wanted to give us, as parents, a sense of control. My wife and I needed to create something like this. Of course, we needed to understand what was expected of us. But on a deeper level, we needed something we could control. As parents, you’ve done everything right, fed your child the right foods, avoided the things that might harm a child. And yet, something like this happens, for no explicable reason. We felt powerless. Creating this chart was one way for us to assert some level of control over a small piece of the diagnosis.
Now, what about the after version? From a graphic design perspective, there is plenty to critique. The icons are inconsistent. There are some padding and alignment imperfections. Color schemes are meh. I could have fixed this with more time. But winning a graphic design award was not my goal. My goal was to make the information understandable and fixating on small tweaks wouldn’t make it much more understandable. This kind of transformation is largely functional, not aesthetic. Moreover, it’s something we can all do, or should be able to do, by the time you’re finished with this book.
If you can organize a closet or sort spices in a kitchen cabinet, you can do what I’ve done here. At the core, all I did was identify and align “like” information. If you look closely at the before version, you can see three kinds of activities listed (finger pokes, insulin shots, and eating), as well as the times for each; this information was—in the before version—listed, but not shown. By introducing a column for each of the three types of activities, then mapping those columns against the time of day, resulting in a grid layout, we could see more clearly when to do which activity. (This also allowed us to be explicit about when we should not do an activity as well, as indicated by the × shape.) This chart was largely about using space to hold meaning, something that we’ll explore in detail.
Beyond this sorting and alignment exercise, I added images to reinforce the literal things being referenced with words: the column headers had corresponding images (finger for finger pokes, needle for taking shots, a food tray for eating). Where finger pokes were involved, I grabbed a “drop of blood” icon (courtesy of a Google image search). And when it was time to give my son a shot, I reinforced the language of which type of insulin by adding illustrations of “H” or “N” vials of insulin. Where something was optional (“only if needed”), I used opacity to fade that back into the background, a type of visual encoding that we’ll also discuss.
Understanding Is Created
It is a truism and a time-worn cliché that we have more information—and more access to information—than at any other point in history. Yet all this information doesn’t get us especially far if we can’t make sense of it. At the same time, we tend to assume that information should come in an understandable shape. When it does not—when we are given information but not understanding—we are likely to blame the information-industrial complex for failing us. This is why the diabetes chart example is so irksome. Medical professionals provided accurate and reliable information in a critical situation, yet also left my wife and me feeling uncertain and powerless and fearful of doing harm to our child. While the hospital’s training program was superb, my family needed more from that chart, a great deal more, given the pivotal role it would play in our lives.
But consider this story from another angle. While we should have been given a more understandable chart, should we also expect all information to be this way? Should every bit of information that comes our way be instantly and immediately understandable? Is it reasonable, or even possible, to be given understanding anytime we are given information? There are many situations, such as health and public safety, when information should be unambiguous. This has led to standardizing the meaning of everything from traffic lights to symbols on radioactive material. But even when the information before us is clear and comprehensible, the path to understanding may still require us to engage with it. Quite often, we need to create understanding.
Suppose that you wanted to knit a pair of socks, and we gave you the best book ever written on the subject, the best instructional videos ever produced, and a few hours with a world-class knitting instructor. Furthermore, let’s consider what would happen if you divided the process into two stages. In the first stage, you would absorb the information from these three world-class sources—reading, watching, listening closely, and taking it all in. Once you’d gone through and studied all the information, then, and only then, would you move to the second stage: sitting down and starting to knit. Such an approach seems silly and doomed, no matter how clear the information is or how wonderful the instruction. You would still need to act. You would need to pick up the needles and start knitting, ask questions, review the examples, make mistakes, and keep going. This would be true even for experienced knitters. The understanding comes through doing, not just taking in information.
Even the revised diabetes chart, despite the improvements, didn’t eliminate the need for finger pokes and counting carbohydrates. By making the chart more understandable, it became easier to monitor blood sugar levels and manage insulin, while also reducing the chance of making a mistake. But the chart was still just a part, albeit a central part, of living with diabetes.
Or take privacy policies as another example. How often, in the course of a month, do you agree to an app’s “Terms of Service”? Or what about your bank’s annual privacy notice, or the last employee agreement you signed? How often do you read all the terms and conditions? And if you have, did you understand the binding legal terms you agreed to? The phrase “I have read, understand, and agree to the terms ...” has been called the biggest lie on the Internet.1 We have all committed this lie and for good reason. Terms of service documents are dozens of pages long and written in legalese. They can only be understood with significant effort. In one study, researchers asked people to sign up for early access to a new social networking site. The site didn’t exist, but it had a convincing home page and a sign-up process based on the design of Facebook, LinkedIn, and other social networking sites. The privacy policy and terms of service were modified from actual LinkedIn documents.2 The privacy policy told users that, if asked, the site would share any user data requested with the government, including the NSA and other intelligence agencies. Some 97% of people accepted the policy. The terms of service document was more brazen. It required all users to “immediately assign their first-born” child to the company, including unborn children through the year 2050, and that accepting the terms meant said children automatically became company property—“No exceptions.” Of the 543 people who signed up, 93% agreed to the terms. Too long—should’ve read it.
FIGURE 1.3 Making sense of information is like assembling pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Think of these legal documents, or the knitting tutorials, or any other information, as a jigsaw puzzle (see Figure 1.3). All of the raw information we might need is there—pieces of the puzzle—waiting to be assembled into something coherent. With some effort, it is possible to understand the content of these documents in their original form. In some cases, it’s simply a matter of fitting the pieces together. In other cases, it means transforming the information into some new form that makes sense, adapting the information to yourself, your situation, your particular needs—precisely what