In Designing Interactions — a book detailing the stories that formed the discipline of interaction design — pioneer Bill Moggridge writes of the computer desktop:

“Who came up with that idea? What were they thinking about, and why did they choose to design a desktop rather than a floor, or a playing field, or a meadow, or a river? Why does this desktop have windows in it? You usually think of windows being on the wall, not all over the surface of your desk. Why does it have a trashcan on it? It would seem more natural to put the trashcan on the floor.”

When considered like that, having a desktop on your desk does seem rather peculiar. In the context of 1974 however, it was the product of highly resolved user research conducted by Tim Mott and Larry Tesler — designers at Xerox Palo Alto Research Centre — who faced the daunting task of figuring out how on earth anyone besides software engineers might interact with a computer. Their work led to the creation of the first graphical user interface, based on a skeuomorph of the office — an environment potential users were already familiar with. Desks, paper files, folders — it all made sense in the real world — this was just digital.

Desks, paper files, folders — it all made sense in the real world.

Tesler later joined Apple, which led to the concept continuing into the Apple Lisa, and later — the Macintosh. The Mac was really the first democratised computer — a device that could be used by anyone* (more on that later). It featured icons made by artist Susan Kare, designed to make the interface seem welcoming and inclusive to a market not already sold on the new technology. In the introduction to her book ‘Icons,’ Steven Silberman writes, “To creative innovators in the early ’80s who didn’t see themselves as computer types, her icons said: Stop stressing out about technology. Go ahead, dive in!

The “universally inviting and inclusive” interface that Silberman describes was also regarded as such by Steven Wilson in an article for the Wall Street Journal. “It made the screen feel like a space you wanted to inhabit, to make your own. The Mac was a machine you wanted to live in.”

The success of the graphical user interface is largely thanks to the metaphor of the office and the desktop that Mott and Tesler conceived. This kind of interaction is referred to as skeuomorphic design — design which allows users “to make connections with objects that they are familiar with in the physical world,” as written by James Pannafino in his book ‘Interdisciplinary Interaction Design: A Visual Guide’. “Digital skeuomorphs often show analogue examples of digital theories.”

It’s a design concept closely aligned with the psychological theory of ‘affordance’ — first coined by James J. Gibson in 1979. An affordance is a relationship between the visual cues provided by an object and the capabilities of a person, which determine how said object could be used. Take a door handle for example; the shape of the handle, combined with the ability of a person to grab it and apply force, reveals how the mechanism is operated.

A product designed with particularly strong affordances is a CD player designed by Naoto Fukasawa for Muji. According to the V&A:

“Fukasawa wanted to design an object that would trigger an instinctive or unconscious response in its user. He described this instinctive response as ‘Without Thought’, arguing that products should not need an instruction manual, that their functionality should be evident instinctively.”

The player is inspired by the form of a simple extractor fan — a wall-mounted square object with rounded corners, a circular vent with fan blades spinning beneath and a pull-cord hanging below to activate the rotation — only the rotating blades have been replaced by a spinning compact disc. Of course there are other buttons besides the cord to adjust the volume and move between tracks, but the most important function — play — can be achieved ‘without thought’ as Fukasawa intended.

Having said that, with CDs now gathering dust, Fukasawa’s iconic design has been updated to fit into the age of electronic music, by becoming a Bluetooth speaker, and the affordances are not so clear. While the device is still switched on and off with the pull-cord, there is no placement of the CD in the centre (which is now a speaker grille) and no spinning media to confirm the action worked as intended.

“Much of the magic of Fukasawa’s design came from its central physical interaction,” writes Kyle Vanhemert for Co. Design magazine.

“There was action and reaction, both satisfying. Here, you don’t get that reward. You tug the cord–and then what? You grab your phone and tap through your music app to find the Rihanna song you want to play.”