For years, my phone had a physical switch on the side. I could reach into my pocket and know instantly, without looking, if it was on silent. That switch held a state.
 

Now it is a button. It does more, but it holds nothing. I have to look at a screen to learn what my thumb used to know. The hardware stopped telling me what the software was doing.
 

People do not experience the object and the software separately. They pick up a device and it is one thing. The exact place where the physical stops and the screen starts is where most products quietly fall apart.

That gap is where I want to work.
 

Most interaction design assumes a screen. My favorite problems start when you take it away. It forces you to ask how someone builds a mental model of a system they cannot see. When every affordance has to arrive as sound, touch, or gesture, there is no room for ambiguity.

A wrong guess stays invisible until it fails.
 

So when I look at a computing ecosystem, I am looking for invisible friction. If the same physical input means two different things on two devices a person uses at once, I do not treat that as a preference issue. It is an affordance conflict that translates to disjointed emotional resonance in users' mental models. My process is mapping those disconnects and defining alignment paths grounded in interaction patterns people already have, rather than inventing novelty for its own sake.
 

That constraint also changed what I think good behavior looks like. Everyone is racing to build systems that do more. Predict more, suggest more, act more. But a system that interrupts constantly is not smarter, it is louder. Without a screen to explain itself, a product has to be right about when to speak and right about when to stay quiet. So the question I ask is not what can this do. It is when should this do nothing at all.
 

Good design makes people more capable. It should never make them less necessary.