My son is three years old.
When he finishes something — a drawing, a block tower, something he's never done before — he looks up and says I did that. Something that didn't exist before exists now, and no one will ever quite do it the way he did. It took effort, persistence, patience — it took work. And it feels good.
I watch him and I think, we are born with this. But something in us as we age loses touch with it. We live in a world of consumption, of convenience, of outputs delivered instantly without effort. And some people, faced with the choice, decide they would rather have a generic representation of themselves than put in the work of making something their own.
I understand the temptation. I don't want it for my son.
Everything we interact with has the potential to shape how we see the world around us and how we see ourselves. That's why designing for this new interaction space isn't just important, it's one of the most human problems we have ever faced.
We are not interacting with software in its traditional sense. We are not querying a database or navigating a menu. We are in the presence of something that responds, that adapts, that can feel — to us — like another mind. That changes everything. Because how AI interacts with us, or fails to, will shape whether or not we believe our process, our presence, our mark, has value.
I did that. — That's what I'm designing for.