As a pointy-eared technical guy, I’ve long been resistant to this type of language, knowing it to be logically meaningless. After all, the heart is merely a muscle that pumps blood, right? But the heart is also a potent symbol, and I hope my meaning was clear to the programmers in the room: the software under discussion was intelligent, but lacking in emotional appeal.

Increasingly, I find that one of the things that separates software that I love from software that is merely adequate is the presence of heart; and this is something that programming books (and the programmers who write them) tend to give short shrift. We programmers will discuss speed, efficiency, maintainability, and robustness till the cows come home, but very rarely will we admit that our software needs to be more likable. We are an army of tin men, hacking away at the thicket, with increasingly powerful hatchets, and hollow chests.

What gives software more heart? What makes a user have a more meaningful and fulfilling relationship with a collection of ones and zeros? A few things that come to mind are personal relevance, simplicity, directness, judicious randomness, pictures and sounds and above all, a little silliness.

Personal Relevance

Probably the most direct way to make software pull at the heart strings is to fill it with people that are at the center the person’s life. Social apps, such as those that use Facebook connect or the Flickr API, are a good example. Simply looking at a row of faces that are familiar to me can have a strong impact, and even more so if the software finds ways to deepen my relationships with other people.

It is clear that a lot of people are aware of this simple trick, and we are now seeing a plethora of companies that seek to add personal relevance to their brands by using Facebook Connect and similar measures. Unfortunately, not all those brands necessarily make sense in a social context, and inappropriate and ungainly attempts to add social features may actually distance users (why does Levis want to connect me to my friends?), rather than endear them.

Simplicity

To put it plainly, a simple elegant interface has more emotional appeal than an inelegant clunky one. It is hard to love a clunky interface (although I suppose pity can inspire love). More often than not, clunky interfaces make us angry and frustrated.

Most good programmers are well aware of this counter-intuitive fact: Simple interfaces are harder to make. When a program seems busy and complicated, it probably took far less time to make than the competing program which accomplishes the same things with fewer moving parts.

Programmers with heart work extra hard to insure that their software is as simple and direct as possible. Their interfaces become nearly invisible, and the user is absorbed in the experience, rather than the tool.

Feature creep can make software needlessly complex and ungainly. Some programmers are turned on by complexity, and add needless
customization features, thinking it makes the software more powerful and desirable. The effect, more often than not, is a kind of unloveliness.

Directness

Software that directly communicates what I desire to know and doesn’t hide behind a layer of abstraction tends to have a more direct emotional appeal. The idea here is to reduce the involvement of higher reasoning and logic, so that the lower parts of the brain are more directly involved in the user experience.

For most of us, to directly manipulate objects with our fingers, using a tablet, is more satisfying and simple than to issue text commands to manipulate those objects on a command line. Now, being a geek, I actually love the command line – but it’s not as counter-intuitive as it seems — I’ve gained a degree of facility with the command line that makes it a more direct means of getting things done.

Judicious Randomness

Never avoid the opportunity to use a random number generator somewhere in a program! I say judicious, because, obviously, you don’t want to employ randomness in computing income taxes or rocket trajectories, but there is always an opportunity to use a little randomness as a means of adding surprise and delight.

For years, I have considered the need for randomness to be one of the most direct predictors of how much I will enjoy working on a software project. When a program requires randomness, it is less likely to be serious and useful, and I am more likely to enjoy it.

One of my favorite examples of Judicious Randomness is the Google logo, which surprises me, every few days, by appearing completely different. The Google corporation has engendered a huge amount of good will from that randomized logo.

Pictures and Sounds

Although they can be horribly misused, in general, pictures and sounds can make software more emotionally appealing, because they more fully involve the brain than text alone, and help to make the experience more direct.

Well chosen icons, photographs, and subtle audio feedback can greatly improve the emotional impact of software. Example: I once traded up for a nicer cell phone. My wife got jealous, not because of the greater utility of the phone, but because it made more pleasing bell-like sounds when the keys were tapped!

A Little Silliness

For me, injecting small amounts of playfulness is an important part of software design. Sadly, it is something that is often scrupulously avoided by serious-minded programmers, who, seeking to make their wares appear professional and useful, carefully drain them of all possible fun. I don’t care how serious the intent of a piece of software is – nobody deserves to live a life devoid of humor. Even accountants and morticians deserve a laugh or two – probably more than most!

I’m not suggesting that everything needs to be hugely silly. But there is a huge difference between a little playfulness, and zero playfulness. When there is zero, I can’t tell that the software has a beating heart behind it. It is software made by mindless, joyless drones.

Back in the 90s, I worked on an avatar chat client, and added a feature that removed all the “props” or additions to the base avatar. I labelled the button “Naked,” and I still believe that little button label was one of my best ideas.

So there you have it – some random musings on software with heart. Got any examples of your own?

Some people have way too much free time on their hands.
– MattK

Someone has a little too much time on their hands – the result is cool.
– specialk420

Who has the time to think something like this up?
– kristen_kish

OK…someone had wwwaaayyyy too much time on their hands…but it is kinda fun! :)
– myron

Do you have too much free time? :-)
– Tom on Formosa

I won’t spoil it for you, the only thing I will say is that someone has waaay too much free time on their hands.
– Jedicraft

While visiting the Gold Bug shop in Pasadena, a wonderful place that more closely resembles a cabinet of curiosity than a gift store, jewelry shop or art gallery, I was reminded of my love for the unclassifiable.

Its a fundamental problem that accompanies our need for taxonomy, I guess. When I used to visit real record stores (remember those?), they had racks for “Rock”, “Jazz”, “Classical” and so on, but often, the music I liked best was the stuff that didn’t fit neatly into one of those racks. Is Laurie Anderson rock? Not really, but that’s where they put her. Unfortunately, the “hard to classify” quality that made her so interesting also made her hard to sell, I imagine. It’s easier to sell something when there’s an obvious shelf to put it on.

The best stores have a special shelf set aside for this stuff. It might say “Other” or “Miscellaneous” or “Weird shit”. This is my shelf — I’m always looking for the “Other” shelf.

If I’m presented with an online store catalog, and it provides an “Other” – that’s the first thing I look at. I know the most interesting things will be sitting in that collection, gathering dust.

For example, the first time I visited the iPhone app store, and was presented with the following categories:

Games
Entertainment
Utilities
Social Networking
Music
Productivity
Lifestyle
.
.
.

The first thing I did was scroll to the bottom of the list. It ended with

.
.
.
Weather
Books
Medical

“Crap!” I thought. “Where’s Other?” The lack of an “Other” shelf means that some remarkably innovative apps are probably getting misfiled (under Enterainment or Lifestyle or who knows what), and they are not being discovered (although I imagine social networks can ameliorate this problem a bit).

By the way, after kvetching for a bit, I checked out the stuff in “Medical”. Woah!

Similarly, when I occasionally find myself filling out surveys, I hate it when I get a series of multiple choice questions that don’t provide an “other” on each and every question whose choices don’t encompass the known universe of possibility. For example, the “What Industry are you employed in?” question on many registration forms appears to have been constructed at some time in the 1980s, and has no actual bearing on the present universe. Yes, I use computers for a living, but I am neither in “High Tech,” nor in “Engineering,” nor “Communications” nor “Entertainment”. For much of my career, I’ve been in businesses which straddle these areas, among others.

If I’m filling out a paper survey that has a question like this, I simply pencil in my own “Z: Other” and circle it.

For online surveys you end up being forced to pick a close but inappropriate answer, which causes the survey to artificially fit into the marketer’s predefined world view. Yuck.

So, back to my hypothetical record store. What causes something to go on the “other” shelf? There are a few principal reasons I can think of:

A) It straddles two or more categories, such as PDQ Bach, which is both classical music and comedy (and often succeeds at being neither).

B) The actual category is so small it’s uneconomical to provide a unique shelf, such as Sound Effects and Bird Song records (both of which I own, due to my penchant for scouring the “Other” bin). Speaking of which, Goldbug, which got me started on this tirade, has a highly desirable, but pricey, collection of ingeniously designed birdcalls. Check ‘em out. I want ‘em all.

C) It is a pioneering work, which may one day have company in its own category. Or it might, if anyone manages to find it.

D) Other.

Etude in G Minor, 1983

I thought it might be a good idea to catalog and record all my old piano pieces, many of which exist solely in my head, and haven’t been notated or recorded. “Etude in G Minor” is something I used to play a lot in 1983, during a period when I was experimenting with a more impressionistic style. These recordings were made yesterday, in my living room, on my creaky old piano, in dire need of tuning and repair.

Here’s a few more:

Hymn (1977)
7 Pianos Theme (1982)
C Jam (1983)
One Zero One Zero (1984)
Happy Song in C (1985)
Janet’s Blues (1986)
Crooked Waltz (1994)
Sedley’s Lament (1994)

9 Piano Pieces by Jim Bumgardner is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 United States License.

I will personally vouch for us: Among all the Crunchie nominees, Topspin is indeed the best new startup of 2008! Okay, seriously, I don’t know a heck of a lot about the other nominees, who I imagine are very fine startups indeed. I do know that Topspin is an amazing company, and that all Topspin employees are crazy-brilliant people, like me, and that we are going to rock your world in 2009.

Want to learn more about Topspin? You can start by reading CEO Ian Rogers’ inspiring keynote address from the Grammy Music Tech Summit a few weeks ago:

And if you feel compelled, please come vote for us here:

http://crunchies2008.techcrunch.com/votes/

Thanks for your vote!

Now, enjoy this lovely video:

I don’t know if this is actually useful, but then, utility is overrated. Meanwhile, the Internet Anagram Server tells me that OBAMA+BIDEN can be reconfigured to make MEDIA NABOB (my favorite), BABIED MOAN, AMOEBA BIND, and many others…

This strikes me as a lazy way to state an opinion, and make it sound more authoritative. If something works, or doesn’t work, explain precisely why. Don’t just invoke the nebulous specter of “Best Practices”.

I love introducing programming concepts to neophytes – it is why I teach. But I must admit, it’s a little daunting, and I’m not entirely successful at it. I figure at least half of my students are like the cook who learns to make a roux, but only uses it for the one dish for which it was initially required. They write down the recipes, but don’t really grasp the concepts.

But in each collection of the unilluminated, there are always a few “ahas”. And each time I hear an audible “aha!”, a thrill runs through me. I imagine the feeling is a little bit like the pleasure of converting the unsaved. Through the newly opened eyes of the convert, I see myself, years ago, when my own eyes were newly opened. I am young again, and feel the spark of new discovery.

I have transformed an enigma into a pocket.

Like most small publishers, Ulysses was blindsided when the Sudoku craze hit, and didn’t manage to get any books in the pipeline before the market was glutted with Sudoku books. They were hoping to cash in on the “next Sudoku” and so were a lot of other publishers, including those that had already made a fortune on Sudoku, and were looking for more of the same.

A good place to look for the next Sudoku was Nikoli publishing, the Japanese publisher that popularized Sudoku. Nikoli’s second-most popular puzzle was Kakuro, so this seemed like a good candidate.

So by Christmas of 1996, there were a ton of Kakuro books on the shelves.

So, did the Kakuro gamble pay off?

I’m thinking “no”.

Last year at this time, my local Vroman’s bookstore had a floor to ceiling bookshelf devoted to Sudoku and similar puzzles, with two of those shelves devoted to the glut of Kakuro books that had just come out. There were about an equal number of books devoted to crossword puzzles, and poker was pretty popular too.

This year, however, while the huge number of Sudoku, Poker and Crossword books remains, those two shelves of Kakuro books are gone. In their place are just 5 volumes, mixed in with the Sudoku books. I’ve noticed a similar situation at the local Barnes and Noble as well.

Why is this? Well, there a few things to consider.

1) Sudoku’s popularity was fueled by its regular appearance in major newspapers. In the Los Angeles market, Kakuro does not appear in newspapers, so most local solvers are still unfamiliar with the puzzle. It’s interesting to me that a medium perceived as dying or “in trouble” plays a major role here.

2) The demand for puzzles follows a power curve, one of those “long tail” things, and Kakuro is definitely further down in the tail. Being a second place puzzle doesn’t mean you sell slightly less, it means you sell a lot less. My web logs show that the demand for Sudoku outstrips Kakuro about 10 to 1.

3) It is my belief that the majority of puzzle solvers are what I would call “comfort solvers” – they are not particularly anxious to try new puzzles out. If they find a puzzle they like, they stick to it for a good long while. Most of these solvers prefer easy and intermediate puzzles. Learning a new puzzle amounts to a “hard” puzzle. Comfort food it ain’t.

The Sudoku craze, I believe, will not be repeated for a good long while. Not in the puzzle arena. The last puzzle that achieved that kind of popularity was the venerable crossword.

I sure am liking these Slitherlink puzzles though, I must admit…

If you read this blog regularly, you know that a lot of the things I make involve circles. My fascination with circles and radial symmetry has extended to kaleidoscopes, fibonacci spirals, music, card tricks, spinning wheels of lunch, and so on.

You may also know that I am prone to develop short term obsessions, which occupy a great deal of my thought during my (increasingly scant) free time.

It was only natural that I should eventually develop an obsession with crop circles (which are both circular, and attractive to the obsessed), and so I have been giving them an inordinate amount of attention, the past two weeks.

I have a lot to say about crop circles, so I’m going to try to spread this out over a small handful of posts. This one will serve as an introduction.

People who haven’t given much thought to crop circles generally think of them in a simple way: either you “believe” in them, or you “don’t.” Of course, I believe in them, just as I believe in pop-tarts. Clearly, crop circles exist.

What people actually mean, when they ask, “do you believe in X?” (be it crop circles, UFOs or jesus-shaped potato chips) is “Do you believe X has a paranormal, extra-terrestrial, or divine origin?” People who don’t “believe” in X, will generally consider X to be not worthy of further attention.

Well, in the paranormal/ET/divine sense, I don’t believe in crop circles. Nor do I believe in UFOs, tarot cards, astrology, bigfoot, miraculous potato chips, or the delusions of the mentally ill. But I find all of them incredibly fascinating, and worthy of further attention and study by disbelievers.

And so I’m studying crop circles.

I am studying them, not as a skeptic, out to convince the believers they are wrong (this is a mean-spirited and fruitless task), but to understand the intricate machinery of art & belief itself.

Crop circles represent an interesting kind of crypto-economy, a “tightly intertwined network of symbiotic relationships” according to Mark Pilkington, an insider in the crop circle making community. The circles fuel a not-insignificant tourist industry in the UK, whose principal benefactors are true believers.

This nature of this symbiotic relationships presents one of the most interesting paradoxes about crop circle creation. Even more than a graffiti artist, the creator of a crop circle cannot take credit for his work. Not only is there a legal issue (the crop circle artist is trespassing and damaging private property), but nearly everyone involved in ‘cerealogy’ has a vested interest in maintaining the mystery and anonymity of the creators.

Crop circles are also temporary art, like sand castles, and etch-a-sketch drawings. As an artist with a typical colossal male ego, it is hard for me to imagine my work lasting mere days, and being unable to take credit. It boggles the mind.

But even if all these things weren’t true, I’d probably still enjoy studying crop circles.

They are circular, after all.