Appreciating good design: The microwave that didn't beep

It's easy to appreciate when good things happen. It's harder but more satisfying to appreciate when things don't happen.

The world is rife with examples: the deductive value of the dog that didn't bark; the reminder of jealousy's destructive streak in the knight whose armor didn't squeak; the life-saving recognition of the planes that didn't make it back.

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Good design is becoming rarer. I aim to support good design by celebrating it wherever I see it. Won't you join me?

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It's a month ago. I'm at an Airbnb. It's morning. I need sustenance. I heat up the scrumptious bibimbap burrito I picked up from Chops the night before. I watch dumbly as the beautiful barrel of beef murmurs mesmerizingly in the microwave, its cogitative carousel calming my soul, its hymnal hum hugging my heart. Some time later, I'm snapped from my stupor. The microwave beeps, inviting me to dig in. Geeked, I open the door after the first beep. Not another beep is heard.

Did you catch the beauty of the product design there?

Let me explain by rewinding. The night before, I used that same microwave. I noticed that when it finished, it beeped exactly four times.

"This microwave beeps four times when it's done," I accurately observed, certain this revelation would fast-track me for a Nobel, or at least a Faraday Medal.

But when I pulled that succulent sirloin from the mic after the first beep, the machine beeped no more.

This can only mean one thing: the microwave stopped beeping because it recognized I'd grabbed the food.

There is your brilliant, thoughtful, loving design.

Wait, what makes this great design again?

Look, I get it. I'm writing an ode to a microwave; the stakes are low. [1] Most of you reading this already get the picture. But for the love of design, I want to savor what makes this so great.

Why does a microwave beep in the first place? For one reason only: to signal to you, the busy microwave owner, that your food is finished heating and that you should come get it now. Therefore, the moment I open the door, the microwave no longer needs to beep. Its mission is complete. I'm here, I've received my food, and I'm ready to show this bodacious burrito who's boss.

Of course the microwave should stop beeping when I open the door. And yet, my microwave at home sports no such loving design. A simpler machine, it barrels forward with three beeps no matter what - even if you open it after the first beep.

This suggests that the makers of this microwave made extra effort to program the machine to stop beeping once you open it. That extra effort is important.

Okay... but why is that important again?

Again, we're talking microwave beep counts. Trivial in the grand scheme. But as a designer who believes in a human-first world, this signals something far deeper. It shows love for the end consumer. And the little things often reveal the big things.

Every product you own began as a design. A design for a machine that would solve a problem. The problem the microwave solves is turning cold food into hot food. Some designers stop there. But others put more thought into it. And for the creators of this microwave to add this flourish means they put love into their design. They thought about me, the human at the end of the cycle, and how I would use this product in my life.

This is the product design version of the mom who brings a cup of freshly rinsed grapes for her daughter as she picks her up from school. Or the friend who queues up their bestie's favorite song before they pick them up from the airport, to help welcome them home.

This is love. Yes, it's a small thing. But in a world where this human-first design feels increasingly rare, where we're forced to choose from a megaconglo-maniacal [2] swampland of products and services, this act of expending extra effort to improve the experience for you - the human at the end of the chain - is something to be celebrated.

They didn't take the easier route. They didn't do what was easiest or cheapest for them. They thought about me. They built the thing so it would conform to the shape of my life.

That ought to be celebrated and appreciated, no? If we want to see more of that in life, please join me in recognizing this ringing (er, silent) example of human-centered design.

Footnote

[1] It was a Sharp Carousel Microwave, Model # SMC0912BS, btw.

[2] I'm trying out this grisly portmanteau of "megalomaniacal" and "megaconglomerate" to efficiently describe the amoral, avaricious oligarchy of corporate behemoths that runs the USA today. For my tastes, the dreadful ugliness of the word lends it a satisfying iconicity.