I’ve definitely been quiet on here lately, since I started at EchoUser in June.  For my oft-updated blog presence, be sure to check out The EchoUser Experience, our company blog on all things experience design related.

I’d also encourage you to follow me on my EchoUser Posterous blog, where I point out the minutae from day to day that affect my…well, my life experience.  Think of it as a digest form of my brain

And finally, don’t forget to follow me on Twitter at @felixdesroches, my new aggregated Twitter feed for everything on experience, life, and sustainability.

A new lens, a new life

I definitely want to catch everyone up on what I’ve been up to over the last few months, but for now I want to talk about lenses.  Don’t worry, not eyeglasses, or the great work of the Scojo Foundation, but more life lenses.  It’s been awhile coming, but I’ve slowly started applying the (small d) design lens to everything I do: how to design a better solution? How was this experience designed? What does design mean to healthcare? How can I design a better life?

Once I came onboard at EchoUser, I finally gave myself license to use the “experience” lens, full time.

Whoah.

Everything, I find, is an experience. Catching the bus. Using my stove. Buying a movie ticket. Checking my email. Calling my bank. They say that when you’re a hammer everything’s a nail, and this case ain’t no diff’rnt, that’s for sure! Even the smallest interaction triggers a thought about experience design, such that I’m constantly thinking about it. Toilet paper holder too close to the loo? Experience design. Accidentally flip the high beams on while turning? Experience design.

Everything, it seems, is an experience, and I can’t wait to share mine. Word.

Photo from Bob Fornal @ Flickr.

It really isn’t a difficult concept to grasp: the presence of a smile is a strong indicator of happiness (at least in the moment).

So many product designers and marketers just don’t get it.  If your product and/or service doesn’t include the option – nay – the requirement that I smile at some point, there really is no point.  Paul Annett at Clearleft gets this, and lays it out clearly in this presentation (which is designed to elicit smiles).

A friend of mine who works as a Cafe Mistress at a local java joint recently made me smile tremendously when she mentioned that for every customer who comes in without a loyalty card, she puts the coffee credit (which eventually results in a free coffee) into my account.  It’s not her job to do this, but since we’ve become friends, she did it anyway.

Lesson learned? Treat all customers as friends (and they will eventually become them).  And I don’t know about you, but if making my friends smile isn’t priority numero uno, then I don’t know what is.

Turns out that BlueShield has the same problem and my recent ER visit is a case in point.  You would think that the service and insurance providers are experts at making sure that they get paid on time, but this isn’t really true.  Take, for example, my attempts to get new ID cards sent to me: the BlueShield customer portal is actually pretty slick, with a relatively clear layout, but with one major flaw – there is no “Change Address” option!  Speaking of which, there is no “View Current Address” option, either, so I have no idea what information they have on file.

This means that I actually have to call the main number, which I did this morning – to make sure that I actually receive the recent claim that I have pay.  BlueShield has decided to use an automated voice recognition system, which I think is an awful idea, mostly because they are so hard to get right.  Other than sounding patronizing half the time, you’re forced to interrupt the operator with answers to his (and it was a he) questions, which feels unnatural and makes for stilted dialogue.  Anyway, once I’ve gone through a few questions I’m told that my call will be “answered in the order it was received”. But once again, I have no idea how long I have to wait! At least providing a message along the lines of “average wait times are XXX minutes” would help a lot.

Then I make a blunder: I say “ID cards” as a menu selection, which then shunts me over to an automated ID card sender – which is a problem, because they still have the wrong address on file.  With no idea how to go back to the main menu, I hit “0″ and hope for the best.  Luckily, I guessed right, and a nice guy called Jonathan answers the phone about a minute later.  He changes my address in about 2 minutes, which is great, but makes me repeat all the information I used to log in online – this doesn’t really make any sense, but I roll with it anyway.  Jonathan then puts me over to another department to verify my claim, and I’m diverted off into the depths of BlueShield.

Finally, a woman called Michelle picks up, asks me for all of my information (again!), and then asks me what I need. I tell her the story about my address on file being incorrect, my inability to change it online, the nice chat with Jonathan where he changed it for me, and my current chat with Michelle to make sure everything is in order.

Turns out that Michelle’s office isn’t integrated with Jonathan’s, so the recent updated address doesn’t show up on her system.  Further, she has to forward the new address that I give her to “Member Services” to make sure that I get an explanation of benefits.  It seems a little dumb that none of the offices within BlueShield integrated their data and customer management systems.

I say as much to Michelle:

It’s interesting that you guys don’t have integrated accounts, dont’ you think?

To which she replies:

It would be so much easier!

And to top it off, I initially opted in to participate in a customer feedback survey after my call, but as luck would have it, once Michelle signed off the system hung up on me.

BlueShield: listen to your employees and get rid of your crappy system!

Word.

I came across an amazing site today from designer Dustin Curtis.  It’s a personal look into his thoughts, life, and design work.  Part portfolio, part blog (even though he has a separate blog), part expose and manifesto, it’s an amazing work of art that kept me captivated for over an hour.  An hour.

An hour.

For someone firmly embedded in the Gen-Y I-have-a-2-second-attention-span mindset, that’s amazing.

The interesting part for me is that it highlighted the tension inherent to personal design sites: on the one hand, they need to showcase a designer’s personality, her work, her approach, and her success.  And sometimes the best way to do this is to act like everything but a portfolio site – lots of personal flavor, random musings, and beautiful (often non traditional) design elements. On the other hand, the site is generally supposed to generate awareness around the designer’s work, with the overall hope that this awareness (through cross linking, comments, forwarding, etc.) will eventually lead to paying work.

So it has to look like a duck and sound like a duck, but bark like a dog.  What gives?

‘Follow your passion’ is the worst advice you can give someone… Had I ever even bothered to define what that was, this never would have worked out.

Definitely an interesting thought, especially because us Gen-Y-ers are consistently egged on to follow our passion and hearts wherever they might take us (and chances are that won’t be any of the dirty jobs Rowe gets to try out).  This is interesting, too, because it turns the “find your passion and you will be happy philosophy” on its head.  Rowe goes on to point out that every single person he profiles, from the gourd maker to the fish farmer to the sewer cleaner to the ostrich raiser, first found something they could do well, and then, with a dollop of time and a pinch of patience (and oftentimes poo), built a solid passion around it.

What’s so contrary about this statement is that it re-imagines passion as something to be nurtured over time. Not as the flash-in-the-pan, go-down-in-flames-with-nary-a-care-in-the-world passion that we read about in books or see on the silver screen.

I, for one, am not sure whether Rowe has it right.  Sure, he became really good at one thing (off-the-cuff humoristic monologues on any topic under the sun) and managed to turn it into something meaningful, but his story does creak a little under scrutiny: first, the dirty jobs he takes as proof-positive that a seemingly dull task can engender passion envision a future where everyone does menial work.  So, what, that ex-day trader should take up goat castrating because he happens to be good with a blade? I exaggerate, but the point needs to be made: well-paying labor that is at first blush a little boring does not necessarily make sense for the average person (or, indeed, passion make).  Second, it took Rowe 47 years to “make it”; how is that for a lesson to teach others? Wander along aimlessly for half a century and then you might find your passion?  There has to be a better, potentially faster, way.

For the time being, I’ll stick with passion for passion’s sake.  How about you?

The latest issue of Inc chronicles the meteoric rise of Tony Hsieh and his now uber-successful and well-known company, Zappos.  The gist of the story is that Hsieh has managed to create a culture that rewards independent, creative and most importantly, empathetic behavior.

I spent the first part of the article skeptical that such an open, daring and, frankly, risky, culture is even possible.  In a company where the CEO takes vodka shots with new hires to test their mettle, you’ve got to wonder how long everything will last until there’s a lawsuit, or someone who takes offense at this kind of behavior.

Once I had accepted the reality that such a fun culture indeed is possible, and helps a company and its people thrive beyond belief, I spent the rest of the piece wondering if Hsieh can do all this only because he’s successful.  He was successful (financially) before Zappos, and my assumption is that when you have a lot, losing a little isn’t a big deal so you don’t mind taking risks.  But then I realized that the more successful Hsieh becomes, the more he technically has to lose – so there goes that theory.

In the end I came away a little ashamed that I kept trying to find reasons for why Hsieh built a company the way he has.  Financial reasons, critical reasons.  The truth is that when I get down to it, I totally understand Hsieh’s approach and would definitely rather risk offending a potential employee than dread waking to a company I don’t love.

Forget the dread, a vodka shot hangover will do me fine.

7:35pm

I enter through the front of the hospital from the regular parking lot.  No need for real ER parking, since I’m not about to keel over.  Unfortunately, this means I have to “sign in”.  A quick gesture to my chin grants me automatic access, and I’m off into the bowels of the hospital.

7:37pm

I finally find the ER, which is so unremarkable that I almost miss it.  No sign in desk here, just a huge security desk that is so high I can’t tell if someone’s behind it.  Reminds me of a kids play fort.  Overall, it does nothing to make me feel safe, since I wonder what the security is meant to protect me against.

7:38pm

After looking around the micro waiting room, I eventually notice an unmarked door …and a table with sign in sheets sitting outside.  Printed on a pink 11″x7″ is something to the effect of “Fill out one of these sheets with your medical emergency information, and the triage nurse will get to you soon.”  No mention of how soon this will be, how the nurse knows you’re even there (the sign in sheets are out of view of the triage room), or what to do if you’re bleeding profusely and in need of immediate help (I suppose screaming might help).

I fill out the sheet, use the word “gash” to give my description a visceral, important feel, and drop it into the sign in drop box.

7:50pm

The nurse comes out, picks up the sign in sheets, flips through them, and calls my name.  I don’t know if he calls me first because my sheet was first, or because the other ER patients didn’t use cool words like “gash”. Who cares, I’m in.

8:00pm

Done with triage, where I explained how I injured my chin (surf accident), I head over to Registration.  This takes about 10 minutes, during which time I realize I don’t have my medical insurance card.  I have the info in an email, but the woman behind the desk doesn’t seem interested.  I know I’m not the only one who forgot his card, so it’s surprising that this is a problem.

8:10pm

The waiting begins.  I’m sitting on a chair from the 60s (which is weird, because the hospital was built in 2002), that almost cuts me when I happen to run my hand down its leg and catch a finger on a nail.  Good thing I’m getting a tetanus shot.

8:45pm

Name hasn’t been called yet. Have been watching Lethal Weapon 4 on the TV across the room – for the first time ever in an ER (at least in my experience), the TV is A. not on CNN and B. not on mute.  I thought I wouldn’t like this, but I enjoy Mel Gibson and find that everyone in the room gets into the harrowing action sequences.

9:00pm

Yay! My name is called and I get moved to my own room (after scarfing down a sandwich my friend brought me…thanks Etan!).  The room, as with most ER rooms, is a bland beige color, and replete with hospital bed, doctor’s stool, sink, cabinets, and those weird trolley things with the wires sticking out of them.  I play with the wires and check my Oxygen stats as I wait for something to happen.

9:15pm

No men’s magazines.  Only Health, Martha Stewart Living, and some other female cover.  I’m not saying the hospital is sexist, but…

9:35pm

Someone arrives to clean my wound (“irrigate” is the term they used, which I find vaguely discomforting and agricultural), and asks me how I hurt myself (again). They leave me holding gauze on my chin – I get my friend, who I snuck into the room with me, to root through the cabinets for tape so I can free up my hand.  Amongst all the leads, bedpans, and gauze we find some.  Awesome.

I trade my t-shirt for a gown (at the behest of the nurse), only to take it off when I feel an overwhelming sense ofutter humiliation overcoming me within seconds of putting it on.  I do notice the first positive design feature of the evening: a foot pedal faucet (presumably to keep hands free and clean).  Not bad.

9:50pm

The doctor came around 9:50 and asked me what I did (yet again).  She’s nice, and surfs too, so we get along.  Says she’ll be back soon to stitch me up.

10:15pm

Doctor stitches me up.  Takes all of 5 minutes.  The lidocaine pin pricks only hurt a little, but the most disconcerting thing of all is the huge suture sheet she uses to cover everything except my wound.  Good thing I’m not claustrophobic – couldn’t they at least make it transparent?

11:10pm

I just sat around for almost an hour waiting for…”discharge” papers.  No word from anyone, even when I try to stare down the nurses walking down the hall.  Like great bartenders, they have this uncanny way of avoiding your gaze. Weird.

11:15pm

I flag down a male nurse, who gets my papers ready in just under 30 seconds (what did they do over the last hour, anyway?!).  I walk past Registration (they tell me I’m good to go), and I’m scott free.

***

So overall, a pretty standard ER experience.  Which is to say, absolutely unacceptable!  Here are some major design flaw themes of the evening:

1. No feedback. It’s almost as if the hospital does its very best to totally keep everyone in the dark.  The waiting room experience is interminable, punctuated only by repeated visits to the Registration area to ask for information and look baleful.  The wait in the ER/treatment room feels like solitary confinement, and is absolutely devoid of stimulus.  From a safety perspective, I would keep people busy with at least a TV so they don’t rummage through every drawer, open ever cupboard, and twiddle every knob on the machinery (just like I did).

How about putting in a TV screen that shows your name and approximate wait time left? Even the DMV does something like this, and I can guarantee that a little information will go a long way toward keeping people calm.

2. Repetition. I get it, it makes sense for the various medical staff to ask what happened to you so they can weed out the crazies/head trauma patients who can’t keep their story straight.  But honestly, this only ended up annoying me, and I considered lying just to have some fun.  If someone is obviously coherent, write down the story in the records, and get everyone who sees them read it.

3. Waiting. I know, I know, hospitals are busy places.  And real medical emergencies take precedence over minor scrapes like mine.  But really, is it necessary to keep someone in the ER for 4 hours when only 10 minutes are actually relevant?  I’m sure there’s some scheme with the insurance companies where time in the ER = money charged, but this is ridiculous.  Waiting only stresses patients out (because we all think our emergency is the most important), so making sure we get in and out quickly should be priority #1.  Some hospitals try to trick you by getting you into a treatment room in record time, only to leave you languishing on your own and without TV. My recommendation? K.I.S.S. (Keep It Short, Stupid).

Do you have an ER horror story like this one (or worse)?  Share away!