Working against the meritocracy of design.
I’ve never been a designer who needs to be knee-deep in several projects or work every waking hour. I don’t believe greatness requires obsession. Hustling to build a reputation might sound admirable, but effort doesn’t always equal quality.
Design isn’t meritocratic, yet we still celebrate our celebrities. I follow those with strong perspectives to think them through myself. The design leaders I admire work hard and have more experience than me. That explains their influence — but does it justify their worship?
Maybe I’m overstating it. But social media looks like worship. We copy their books, retweet their quotes, like and share their posts, hoping others will see we’re learning “the right way.” Platforms full of hearts, likes, and requests for subs make it feel like meritocracy distorts our self-worth.
We want to learn. I ask myself: How are they so good? Can I be like them? Is it repeatable? Will their years of experience distill into something that fits where I’m at today? Can I CMD+C this process?
Designers often latch onto absolutes — philosophies we follow with religious adherence. At worst, we collect books and artifacts as proof we’ve done the work. But the systems and advice often skip the full story. Personally, I need the details — the when, why, and how something worked (or didn’t) because copying Apple or Google doesn’t make it good or right. We aren’t allowed to pull from a mix of methods. For instance, saying UX “solves problems” doesn’t fully reflect my work. Sometimes I audit existing solutions. Sometimes I question whether we even understand the problem. And even then, we shouldn’t take forever to define it. I prefer to analyze systems — structures that help explain why people act irrationally.
And that satisfies me. I’m not bored. There’s no simple metric to measure this effort. No silver bullets. Too many variables. Infinite user experiences. Each situation feels unique. The process a designer follows doesn’t matter unless the solution creates a real behavior change. The only judges that matter are users — not critics assigning merit. It’s not the review that counts. Is the comedian great? It’s whether the audience laughs.
When did we decide success in design — or anything — requires burnout? Why does effort guarantee quality? We listen to professors, mentors, TED talkers… but why? Shouldn’t our work be judged by the users? If so, then hours spent are irrelevant. What matters is whether the work disproves our assumptions.
I don’t believe that “only the work” is enough to make a difference or change the world. I’m not creatively fulfilled when I’m just asked to execute. In design, outcomes matter. Yet, we praise the process. Companies and teams fixate on how we worked. But that’s judging the process, not the results. I get that large orgs need structure. They can’t start fresh with every new hire or idea.
But I’m not critiquing the process itself — I’m critiquing how we assign merit to those who conform best.
My Own Worst Enemy
I’m a constant self-critic. A walking contradiction. I understand how someone can feel confident in their worth while I immediately doubt my own outcomes — despite affirmation. I love the advice, “What you ought to do is what you should be doing.” When I can’t do what I think I should, something’s off. Like hitting a dirt road and realizing, “This isn’t going smoothly.”
There was no lightning-bolt moment where I found my calling. Honestly, I wanted to make games. I even had the privilege. I didn’t study at a university. I fell in love with skills that were useful in a job, taught by an unwitting mentor. Over time, I developed new ones. Some I reused — never the same way. Different projects molded those skills into different tools.
It sounds like fate. But it’s not. It’s just time. Too many variables, too many little moments brought me here. I’ve had peaks and valleys in effort across jobs. None were failures. Some I regret — I could’ve been better.
My Own Short Story
Here’s more of that story. I share it in hopes that, by the end of my career, I’ll have built a legacy I’m proud of.
One day, a friend and I wanted to make games. We never did, but we designed a few. That meant writing and doodling. I didn’t understand game mechanics or player psychology. I just asked, “What’s fun to Ben?” I didn’t know that was a biased, narrow lens.
My effort didn’t equal quality. The value wasn’t just in my ideas, but in how I was learning to think and work.
We registered domains and LLCs. Made websites for fun. Launched a wireless internet company. I learned to sell Apple products by building relationships. I helped my cousin start a medical supply company, then asked LEGO for a job — told them I’d wash floors just to be in the building. I walked into a robotics startup. I worked in health insurance, voice assistance, toys, gaming, and blockchain. Every step added variety.
What skills did I learn? I couldn’t list them all. Not because they weren’t valuable — but because they layered into everything I did next. I didn’t stop to record each learning moment. But those experiences collided — like atoms forming molecules — shaping a mindset I use to design whatever’s in front of me.
It all sounds scattered. I sound like a goof who just chased fun jobs.
You won’t find a drawer full of genius ideas when I’m gone. Sometimes, I don’t even feel like a designer. I’m not Jony Ive or Will Wright. No one should be. They’re singular — and so am I. What I am is confident. I could walk into any place and help. That’s the designer I am.
Why? Not because of books or mentors. When I want to grow, I research deeply before I act. I learn first. That takes time. Some teams don’t like that. I’ve learned not to care — unless they let me do my job right. That honesty has made me leave jobs I loved. There’s that tension with merit and process again.
I don’t believe showing up makes you brilliant. I don’t believe copying others is the only way to learn. You have to love what you’re showing up for. Life isn’t just a slog. That’s too depressing. I’m too idealistic to accept that. Most of the time, we control our circumstances. So, no — motivational quotes aren’t enough. We need to name the real problem. Sometimes, it’s us.
I’m not my best when I’m bored or frustrated. I rebel against the slog. Tedium is pointless. But don’t mistake it for detail. I love detail — because it serves the outcome. Tedium is busywork. It’s filler. It’s hot air. And it’s everywhere in big companies.
I need to balance initiative and discomfort. That’s a skill. Some call it persistence. Others, discipline. I get in my own way when I should be making space. We don’t need to mimic celebrities. Owning books we haven’t read, posting anecdotes, or overachieving for applause won’t make us more worthy.
The Difficult Finality
That’s the sacrifice — my ego wondering if I’m good enough. Every motivational poster echoes that feeling. That learned ego gets mistaken for confidence. Worse, for merit. The same applies to doubt, risk, criticism, and hard work. Give us a break. Doubt can teach. It can be a red flag. Risk has value. Managing it is better. Why are these things treated like flaws? Because inspiration sells? No. Because people love the slog. They romanticize struggle. They sell the myth. It’s like Photoshopping success into your life.
The legacy I want? Teaching someone — my kids, a friend — to help themselves. To think in the gray space. To see the world and their role in it as nuanced. Not copy-pasted. If you can connect those dots, you’ll not just be ahead of the game — you’ll help make it better for others.
That’s a legacy that changes the world. You plus others — that’s the change. It’s not up to just me or you. Merit is ignored. It’s not effort. It’s not the path. It’s the outcome.
It’s an accidental legacy I strive to achieve. But, who the fuck am I?