On divergence: being autistic in UX
As our industry matures and its rituals calcify, is it becoming increasingly unwelcoming to different ways of thinking?
Between a restrictive view of what constitutes good design and heavy competition for jobs and status, pressure is high in UX. For neurodivergent people in the industry, and especially for those looking to break in, the need to operate differently can heighten the anxiety. Gatekeeping in our community around methods, rituals and artifacts only adds to this feeling, but if we choose to care more about outcomes and be less prescriptive about process, we can incorporate a diversity of approaches and perspectives. When we do so, the industry as a whole benefits.
The paths diverge
Like many in the field of User Experience, especially those of us a few years into the journey, I got here mostly by accident. I had the luck (and privilege) to be in the right place at the right time, having the right conversations with the right people.
It’s been a bumpy ride at times, often characterized by insecurity, doubt, and an ever-present impostor syndrome. I’ve learned to feign understanding and comfort even when it feels like I’m the only one who doesn’t instinctively understand the tacit rules by which everyone else is playing. I’ve devoted untold hours to studying the ways in which “competent” people move in this world, determined to train my own behavior accordingly. I’ve endlessly replayed moments and interactions in fits of paranoia, convinced that I slipped up and revealed my own incompetence or obliviousness.
Oddly, everything in the paragraph above also applies to a second journey I’m on later in life, as a self-aware autistic person. The same intense feelings of fear and doubt I have felt professionally, all of the coping mechanisms I have developed, are familiar. They have been with me my whole life.
I don’t think this experience is uncommon in either setting. Coincidentally or not, over the last few years, both the field of User Experience and the topic of neurodiversity have been on a similar trajectory, entering the public consciousness in a big way. Both now have thriving online communities, largely made up of folks who have historically considered ourselves outsiders, excluded socially or professionally, misunderstood and undervalued. We have relied on each other for support, validation, and advice.
Recently, though, at least from my perspective, these paths have begun to diverge. As online neurodiversity communities have grown, they have remained fiercely inclusive and supportive, filling in the gaps where institutions have failed us (though, it needs to be said, not immune from toxic dynamics around race, gender, and socio-economic status). My immersion into the #actuallyautistic community has been transformative, helping me to understand and contextualize feelings and memories that befuddled me for years. It has reframed my struggles with anxiety and depression. It has affirmed that there is nothing wrong with me, that the fact that I think the way I do means I have something valuable and unique to offer.
I have also met some great people and learned a lot by spending time in online UX communities, but these days when I scroll through the UX corners of Twitter, LinkedIn or Medium, I often feel paranoid, more unsure whether I belong, and hesitant to question what is starting to feel like dogma. I sense a vaguely sinister undercurrent of gatekeeping, and an increasingly narrow view of how design should be practiced.
🧠 Autistic Brain Interjection
I feel compelled here to mention my deep insecurity about making these thoughts public. Partially, this is because in doing so I disclose my identity as an autistic person to anyone who reads this, but mostly, it’s because of a creeping, familiar feeling that I’m a step behind everyone else — that what I’m thinking is either wrongheaded, or so obvious as to not be worth mentioning. These doubts color so much of my experience, both in UX and in life. They are a core feature of my autistic experience.
How it started
My perspective on the state of the industry today is informed to a large extent by what it was like when I joined, back in 2010. This was a brief and unique moment, which I think of as the second of three roughly defined eras. The first, pioneering era is represented by those who formed the foundation of the practice, making inroads into an established system while defining and formalizing foundational principles and techniques. Progress happened in fits and starts, over the course of decades, and many people made names for themselves in the process. It will not come as a surprise that this group, which defined the norms and practices we continue to live by, is overwhelmingly white and male. [Note: this statement speaks more to who we continue to acknowledge and less to the importance of early contributions to the field from women and people of color. Those contributions must be recognized, and I thank the folks who have called this out.]
The second era consists largely of people like me, who benefitted from the work of our predecessors and looked to them as leaders. We poured in from a wide variety of fields, many of us learning on the fly, lacking any formal background in UX. During this time, software companies were rapidly adapting, awkwardly and often begrudgingly, to incorporate User Experience into their workflow (while also moving en masse to agile development). Judging by who I would see at conferences and in online communities, this group of UXers was also overwhelmingly white, me included, though perhaps less overwhelmingly male (I have tried and failed to find reliable data on this, so these assertions, while made confidently, are impressionistic).
A defining characteristic of this era is the chip on our collective shoulder, and a large portion of our energy was spent debunking the misconception that we were rebranded visual designers. We wanted to convince the world that we represented a crucial perspective — the advocate of the user — that was too often ignored, and we sought to inject this missing perspective into the deliberation of big, strategic decisions. If this second era of UX represented us successfully getting in the door, our new obsession became securing a “seat at the table.”
🧠 Autistic Brain Interjection
To be clear, this conversation within UX circles had been happening for years by the time I showed up. The truth is that I didn’t participate much, didn’t feel confident enough to contribute. I heard the conversation going on around me, but without me. Still, even from the periphery, constrained by my autistic inability to find a way into the middle of it, I felt like I was a part of it.
It is tempting to look back at that time nostalgically, though I’m aware that I view it through a lens of privileged romanticization. Despite the industry’s frustration at being misunderstood and undervalued, what most stood out to me was that I could actually see myself — my awkward, unconfident self — having a place in it. That we were thinking about systems in exciting ways, and open to a variety of approaches to solving problems. While we came from a wide breadth of backgrounds and disciplines, what tied us together was a curiosity and an openness to the idea that all of our past experiences and approaches were valuable — that we could find strength in our varied life experiences and perspectives.
I had not yet begun the journey into understanding my neurodivergence, but I knew there was something strange about the way my brain worked. Now that fact appeared to be an asset. It felt like kismet.
How it’s going
Today, we are in the thick of the third era. We see a massive influx of new UXers rushing in to meet the soaring demand, who have formal training in a rapidly maturing discipline and a well-defined path into the industry. They enter the field much more secure in their value, taking for granted that UX is a core part of the process. Thankfully, this group is less male and more racially diverse, although still with plenty of room for improvement.
We now find ourselves sitting at the table, validated and valued. We hold our own in conversation with our Business and Engineering partners, and we are represented and influential at the executive level. Where we were once obscure, we are now seen, and people are flocking to join our ranks.
I need to stipulate that, at this point in UX in 2022, we have also arrived at a widely accepted set of principles governing our discipline. Fairly or not, these principles get lumped into a framework called Design Thinking. Much like Kleenex and Band Aids, Design Thinking has become so ubiquitous that it has morphed from its original brand identity into an umbrella term encompassing a high-level approach to problem solving. Today that term is loosely associated with a vast set of artifacts and processes, which serve to transmit the foundational principles into practice.
Despite a vocal and growing backlash, these ideas have come to embody the public concept of design itself. The educational infrastructure supporting the new wave of designers entering the field is largely built around it, and it dominates online discussion.
It’s tempting to think that we arrived at this place through some sort of Darwinian process — that Design Thinking emerged as the victor based on its ability to reliably produce better outcomes than its alternatives. The reality is that Design Thinking as a reproducible and commodifiable model took off as a response to specific market conditions. While it may stand on its own merits, its domination represents a major achievement in branding and marketing as much as it does proof of its own efficacy. Many approaches that have proven themselves valid and effective resist fitting into a neat package. Design Thinking, in contrast, is recognizable, succinctly defined, and provides us with a clear and powerful pitch as to why we belong at the table.
The elevation and codification of Design Thinking would not have been possible, though, if the framework and its accoutrements did not produce reliable results for a dominant group of practitioners. For many designers, the rituals associated with the framework provide guardrails that prevent divergence from the Design Thinking path. They take work that, by nature, is big, vague and complex, and break it into manageable chunks when, if done correctly and in sequence, promise a philosophically sound result (in theory, if not always in practice).
Understanding these tools and having them available is wonderful insofar as they serve our true goal: meeting the needs of those we serve in the best way possible. The more tools we can add to our toolset the better, and the more we practice using them the more we can each develop a coherent system that makes sense to us. It should not be controversial to say that whatever tools best serve our purpose should supersede fealty to any specific philosophy or methodology, nor to acknowledge that approaches to design in general are vast and diverse, each with their own legacies and ties to specific cultures, contexts, and schools of thought.
In theory, a part of the designer’s process should be to evaluate how to approach any given chunk of work. Increasingly, we treat this as a solved problem: to design correctly is to practice Design Thinking. It’s an ironic circumstance, given the core prohibition against jumping to a solution.
The price of a seat at the table
I worry now that we are unnecessarily limiting our perspective. It didn’t used to feel quite this way, back when we had less to lose and more to prove, before we were sitting at the table. In large part what we longed to bring to the table, beyond our craft, was our ability to navigate these big and messy problems with humility and curiosity. Now our perfunctory response to messiness is to arrange it into tidy hexagons, easily documented and understood. What grew from a mission to transform standard business practice evolved to resemble and fit nicely with that which it sought to challenge.
So what becomes of those of us who flocked to UX as a corner of the industry that seemed to embrace and champion divergent ways of thinking? As Nick Foster puts it, “Design Thinking didn’t change business at all, rather it changed Design into business, adopting its language, priorities and techniques. It sold out Design in an attempt to impress those in power, and in so doing lost its heart.”
The means have become the ends
With the third era of the industry in full swing and competition for jobs and attention being fierce, designers are increasingly incentivized to prove their bona fides by demonstrating true belief in these foundational principles. But how does one demonstrate commitment to an abstraction, especially in the public forums in which so much of this discussion takes place? By embracing the ways in which that commitment is tangibly expressed through devotion to rituals and artifacts. Just as one may demonstrate religious faith by participating in specific rites and displaying specific behaviors, so too does the designer. And so we’re left in a confusing place in which the rituals themselves have taken on their own aura of sanctity. In other words, the means have become the ends, and being an evangelist for good design is equated with promoting specific ways of operating as the only ways that are correct.
Today, it is common to see this type of devotion to Design Thinking take place in social media posts imploring fellow designers not to engage in unsanctioned behavior. Notice how many of these posts begin with the words Don’t or Stop.
So what’s the harm when we decide to elevate one methodology over others? While it’s true that constraints can often lead to great design, the imposition of arbitrary and artificial constraints that favor one type of thinking over others creates an inhospitable and inaccessible environment for some, while making it harder for new, progressive ideas, let alone people, to break through to the practice as a whole.
There’s an unstated assumption in these types of social media posts that the methods they champion are equally viable and available to everyone who would seek to work in design. I am here to tell you that this is not the case, that there are groups of people for whom, for various reasons, these processes are confusing and laborious, if not simply unfeasible. The upshot for the people facing those barriers is that they are increasingly (if implicitly) deemed incapable of doing good design work.
I don’t believe that those who engage in this behavior are bad people, I don’t believe they have bad intentions, and I don’t think there’s really anything wrong with this type of post in isolation. It’s great to share what works for you! My goal is not to shame or embarrass anyone. My only point is that, cumulatively, this can feel like gatekeeping to those whose membership in the community feels tenuous. The fear of being publicly scolded and humiliated for failing to follow the pack is real.
How might we see exclusion play out?
There’s a popular truism within the autistic community (I imagine some version of it exists in many communities): when you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person. In other words, we all struggle with this stuff differently. Yet, when the practice has evolved over time according to the values and needs of one dominant group, those outside of that group are likely to be impacted negatively.
From my perspective, for example, the current Design Thinking canon is rife with rituals involving a lengthy and complex set of instructions (say, the kind you might find when planning a design sprint), which make my head spin. I have a similarly frustrating experience when trying to cook from a recipe, or when running experiments in the lab back in college when I thought I could hack it as a Chemistry major. I anxiously and compulsively read and reread each step as I go, so bogged down in trying to make sure I’m following the right steps that I lose the big picture. I have been defeated. The process has clouded the goal.
🧠 Autistic Brain Interjection
I have a hard time differentiating when to take things literally and when not to. Similarly, when given a set of rules, I feel compelled to either follow them to the letter or disregard them entirely.
A couple more concrete examples of prescribed behavior, ripped from social media:
Always start with sketching
In this snippet from a post that LinkedIn recommended to me, I’m told I should start my process by ideating and sketching, rather than in a high-fidelity design tool. Presumably, “ideating and sketching” involves rapid physical sketching, with the underlying goal of auditioning as many ideas as I can, not falling in love too quickly, seeing what rises to the top only after looking far and wide. This seems to me to be a fine and worthy principle, but the message emphasizes the means, not the ends.
At the risk of sounding blasphemous, I will admit I have a hard time with sketching exercises. I freeze. My autistic brain will usually respond to a blank sheet and sharpie similarly to how it responds when I need to make small talk. Sometimes I go completely blank, and the harder I try to come up with something, the emptier the void where my thoughts should be. It’s frustrating!
Here’s what’s weird: the trick I’ve learned to unlock my thoughts is to do exactly what I’m told not to do. When I start by focusing on visual design — by laying out a page in order to show one idea, focusing on all the little details until it looks just right — that’s when my brain starts working, rearranging things, thinking and then rethinking things. I am better able to see and understand the larger system. Iteration still happens, but I don’t have stacks of paper to discard when I’m done as proof. I don’t know why that works for me, I just know that it does, and I am hyper-aware of how this process looks to others.
Never jump to the solution
Far be it from me to question the wisdom of Albert Einstein, who (apocryphally) claimed he would devote 55 minutes out of an hour thinking about a problem and only 5 minutes thinking about the solution, but I’ll go out on a limb and say that what worked best for Einstein may not be the best approach for everybody. Still, this has become an accepted tenet.
Again I run into the issue of the means displacing the ends, and again I diverge. Another admission: I often try to understand a system by envisioning solutions to problems early on. In fact, in my brain, the solution and the problem sometimes become hard to distinguish, like entering a tunnel from one direction as opposed to the other. I arrive at a fundamental truth that problems and solutions are both transient aspects of some deeper human need, and I find it helpful to explore the contours of that deep need from both sides. Again, I am hyper-aware that my process breaks the rules.
Environment of fear
Admonitions against what is perceived as malpractice are received differently by those of us who have had to adapt in ways that appear counter to best practices, and the resulting insecurity has a cumulative effect. For many of us who have firmly established ourselves in the industry, the impact, while real, is mostly subtle and psychological. We can comfort ourselves that the fact that we’re still here is evidence that the way we do things is okay. For those who are just starting to look into UX as a career, though, the impact may be more materially consequential.
I want to stress that none of this is to say that we can’t learn and improve by trying out widely-used methods or understanding how great thinkers operate. Nor is it to say that people should be discouraged from publicly touting their approaches to design. Just the opposite! Discussing our methods openly, from a strengths-based perspective, enriches the community by broadening our horizons. It is simply to say that, when we assume that what works for most works for everyone, and scold those who differ, we can create an environment of fear.
UX is not unique in that a small, mostly homogenous group of leading figures gets an outsized share of power to define the boundaries in which the rest of us operate, but the fact that this phenomenon is common does not lessen its impact. Everyone should read Lisa Angela’s essay, Undoing the Toxic Dogmatism of Digital Design, which tackles this tendency to unquestioningly worship design leaders:
“It’s perfectly fine to learn from someone highly experienced and be inspired by what they’ve achieved, but that’s where the adulation should end. They are just another resource for your ongoing education. Take it all in from as many sources as possible, then forge your own path with your own ideas. Following any ideology without question is antithetical to what it truly means to be a good designer.”
Who gets to be a designer?
The prominence of Empathy within the Design Thinking framework feels good and admirable. After all, when we all strive to gain empathy for others, everyone benefits. There’s a counter-intuitive effect in its application, though, in that it can also function as a mechanism for exclusion: it’s okay if we don’t have designers from *insert group here*, because we can empathize with them and understand them! By the logic of the framework, the Empathy step and the artifacts it generates provide the designer-as-outsider with all the information needed to take ownership of the ensuing problem-definition and problem-solving processes.
And so we are left with a set of mutually reinforcing trends. First, as the definition of “good design” narrows, so too does the image of who is fit to be a designer. Second, exclusion of designers who don’t fit the mold can be justified by the fact that, inherently within the framework, the tools of design are built to be wielded by “empathetic” outsiders. The effect is that an increasingly exclusive group lays claim to an increasing amount of control, and important decision making continues to be filtered through and reflective of the structure of power. For those who are left behind, the effect is double: not only are we more likely to be excluded from the role of designer, but, as users of products and services, we are also fully dependent on others’ capacity for empathy (often superficial) to have our needs met.
I want to be careful not to paint with too broad a brush here. My point is not that neurotypical people are the only ones capable of working within the Design Thinking framework. I have had neurodivergent colleagues who are absolutely virtuosic in their mastery of these tools. My point is that there are many others who, for a wide range of reasons, are most effective when they work differently, who have so much to contribute.
Conclusion — the industry is harmed by exclusion
None of this should be seen as an argument against the inevitable formation of standards and best practices. The issue here is not with rigor or with standard-setting, but with how those norms get defined and enforced, and by whom. Nor am I advocating for throwing away any particular methodology. I am advocating for us to resist valuing methods over principles, and processes over outcomes. I am calling for us to resist focusing on how a particular designer approaches their work, and instead on whether their actual output serves those for whom it is intended ethically and effectively.
I hope we can all agree on two things: 1) the more we canonize specific practices, the more they can become barriers to inclusion; 2) the industry as a whole is harmed by exclusion, its progress hindered by being cut off from fresh and different perspectives and approaches. I’ve already spent far too many words arguing the first point. If you’re inclined to disagree with the second, then I really don’t know why you’re still reading this article. It is because these brains think differently, or because people have different experiences and perspectives that have presented them with a different set of barriers to entry into our club, that we should care so much about finding ways to bring them in.
I don’t think the vast majority of the design community actually disagrees with these ideas on these terms, and yet the effect of the discourse remains. Which is to say, well-intentioned exhortations can turn into shame and fear for those who do things differently. I don’t believe the environment for neurodivergent people in UX is worse than it is in other fields. I believe it has the potential of being so much better. It has its origins in questioning the way we do things, in being welcoming and open to different ways of thinking — systems thinking, new approaches to problem solving — that are particularly and uniquely inviting to a neurodiverse set of people. Instead of expanding that circle of inclusion out to address systemic inequities, I fear we are constricting our self-definition to fit in. The shame is to see what could have been, and what is going away. As we have gained our seat at the table, I can’t help but worry about what we have lost, and who we are losing.
🧠 Autistic Brain Interjection
Holy crap. Was this way too long?
