Remove Barriers to Increase Interaction

Research into postal marketing has found that including a postage-paid envelope with a request for information increases response rates.  Interestingly, including a pen or pencil can also increase the number of responses.  It seems is that by removing barriers to responding, the chances of response are increased.

In email communications, where messages vie for attention with tens or even hundreds of others, the need to remove barriers is even more important if you want your users to respond to you.

Remove barriers in internal email...

Luckily, with email, it's easy to include the envelope and the pen; a clickable link to your website (assuming the recipient's preferred email format supports it).  Yet, all too often, I still receive emails that only direct me towards a site with a URL, but do not make that URL a clickable link.  This reduces the likelihood of me visiting that website. I have to open a browser, copy the link from the email, and paste it into the browser - three steps, with an associated waiting time - which makes me less likely to follow the link. It's a psychological barrier.

In internal email, a message typically directs recipients to an area of the company's intranet, perhaps requiring a visit to confirm some procedural matter or review some personal information. By not providing a clickable link, the business will incur a direct and calculable cost; the cost of every user having to find that place on the intranet themselves.  Because it's not immediately easy to do, some people will postpone, and perhaps miss deadlines for response; then there is the cost of chasing them.

Perhaps the sender didn't include the clickable link because of the additional time it would have taken them to do it. This is a false economy. Whatever time the sender saves is paid for by every recipient of the email that must perform the task themselves, perhaps making mistakes and incurring additional delay along the way.

...and external email

In external communications the lack of a clickable link is less immediately measurable but potentially much more costly.  Convenience of interaction will affect the user's experience of your business. It's also something that users have come to expect.

The other day, after placing an order on line, I received an email confirming despatch of my goods, and informing me it was possible to track my order.  Excellent!  All I had to do was visit the companies website.  On examination, the provided (unclickable) URL was to a generic How to Track Your Order page.  This is ridiculous; the company knows my order number, knows the company they have despatched it with, and could very simply provide a personalised clickable link directly to the courier company's website.  This link might not result in direct benefit to them - it's not driving traffic to their website, but to a third party's (the courier company).  But it vastly improves my user experience; it's a missed opportunity to add another layer to my interaction with them.

Although order tracking is the back end of the sales process, and does not generate revenue for your company, it is still part of the user's experience of your website; and it's a differentiator.  If your competitors manage to tie the knot between two services and include a clickable link for parcel tracking - including the envelope and pen, as it were - and you do not, then you will stand out for all the wrong reasons.

Users expect parcel tracking; they expect it to be easy.  Having to hunt around for a URL and - the horror! - type it in themselves (even using copy and paste) is not acceptable.

Sidenote: It's even worse on websites

If not including the envelope in email is foolish, it's utter folly on websites, where links are the currency of the web. Yet I recently visited a website that included the text "Have you seen our other site?" and didn't link to it. I'll deal with this situation (and website) in another article.

Make it easy for your users to interact with you

Remove barriers to interaction with your users; include a clickable link in your email communications, even if that link is to another website. It's all part of your user's experience of interaction with you.

Users are bombarded by a huge number of calls for communication; they expect it to be easy to interact with a company or service. By making it even that tiny bit harder for them to interact with you reduces the chance that they will do so. And if they find it easier with your competitors, then you may find you have fewer and fewer returning users.

The Weather Gods and Me (Last Week on the Bike)

Day 1: Mist

Last week, I commuted on the bike three out of four days, for a total of 66 commuting miles, which brings the annual total to just over 800 miles.  On the one hand, I'm a bit disappointed as I had a notional target of doing 1,000 miles by the end of September. On t'other hand, my goal of 1,144 miles over the year (based on commuting by bike an average of one day a week) is well within grasp, particularly if the weather holds.

And that seemed like a Big If on Tuesday, which started damp and misty; the kind of fine mist that clings to leg hairs and treetops.  Visibility was perhaps 300 metres at worst, and throughout the ride I was continually wiping the secondary mist off my glasses. More than once, I watched drops fall from the peak of my helmet.

It was a clear message from the weather gods: we're back from our long summer holiday, autumn is here, and we're ready to play.

Day 2: Besting at the Weather Gods

On Thursday, though, proof positive, if it should be needed (and I do need it from time to time) that it's better to get on the bike and get on with the day rather than worrying about what the weather might do, and so not cycle.  When I left the house, it was great and miserable above, clouds heavy with the promise of more of the rain that had fallen throughout the night.  And, as I took my bike out of the garage, a sudden and particularly heavy downpour left me re-considering my ride, wondering if I should have prepared for the rain a little more.

For all that, it proved to be a good ride. The morning was warm, and very quickly the rain eased and stopped, so that the only wetness was the spray on the roads. My heart was buoyed, lifted by the satisfaction of having somehow cheated the weather gods. They're sneaky, lazy gods, preferring to trick us into not doing something by putting on a bit of a show early on, but without the will to carry out the threat. All sabre-rattling and bluster, it seems, and I was happy to have spotted their game, and not been taken in by it.

I suppose that my cheerfulness must have annoyed them, because that evening, a massive cloudburst just before leaving had me re-considering my position, and Mrs F texting with the offer of a lift. As the hour of departure approached, the skies darkened, the heavens opened, and a deluge was deposited; a proper flood of water. For twenty minutes, intensive rain; and then the storm moved on, southwards, the direction of home.

There was, I must admit, a certain amount of humour in the office at my predicament, equipped as I was with but two wheels and a smallish amount of Lyrca, clearly no match for the rain. Nevertheless, I buckled up my resolve and set off.

And guess what? I didn't get the slightest bit wet. Yes, there was a little spray, a few drops of drizzle, but it wasn't as bad as feared; it was much, much better. I arrived home, if not in actual sunshine, then in that better, proverbial kind of sunshine that exists in the minds of the righteous, and shines from their eyes.

Twice in one day! Twice, the weather gods had tried their tricks and had not caught me out.

Day 3: The Weather Gods give me a Nod, and a Nudge

On Friday morning, though, came a gentle reminder that I am in no fashion master of the weather. There was persistent, penetrating drizzle for the first two miles of the Morning Commute. Not enough to soak, not quite. But enough to assure me that, yes, it's good to get out and ride whatever the weather, and quite often it won't turn out to be as bad as feared. But that there are things not within my control; and that every once in a while I will get properly trounced.

A nod to my performance the day before, indeed, but a very clear message. Enjoy your day, the weather gods were saying. Yes, I had got the better of them yesterday, but I would do well to remember that they have a few tricks up their collective sleeves.

I'll take that. Nine times out of ten is good enough for me. That's still nine victories; nine fewer car journeys; nine more days with a smile on my face.

Yes, I'll happily take that.

Coming Soon on this Blog

Well, it's been a month, and we're still here. Right on schedule, right where we said we'd be.

Coming up in the next month: more of the same; at least three articles a week on the Big Three. Book reviews; free web design consultancy; mathematics.

And a re-design. Nothing earth-shattering ('cos, you know, the earth is where I keep my stuff), but definitely something a bit slicker, a bit less out-of-the-box-Blogger.

Oh, and a change of name. For the blog, not me.

Watch this space. It'll be fun.

On the Environmentalism of Pens

When was the last time you threw a pen away because it had run out of ink?

Honestly, how many times have you ever done this?  And, by contrast, how many times have you had a pen that was easily half-full of ink, but just wouldn't write, and so you lobbed it into the bin in frustration? Maybe you snapped one in half, its frail plastic body no match for your sour mood. Or perhaps you chewed your way through it so far that it was no longer usable and prematurely ended its life in the trash.

I'd guess that most of us recognise these scenarios, and each one of us has chucked away tens, if not hundreds of pens. That's an awful lot of pens ending up in landfill; not because they've been drained of the last drop of ink, not because they have come to the end of their life having completely fulfilled their intended purpose.

That's quite a waste.

Once valued possessions, pens have become ubiquitous, cheap, and crap. Disposable. We don't value them because they no longer have any value. Little plastic sticks that come with every other charity envelope, that loiter in mounds on every bank counter. They're so readily available that we're habituated to them, and such poor quality that we expect no more.  And why would we, when the vast majority of what we see are generic, cheap, rubbish?

This is a shame. We can do better.

We Need to Learn to Value our Writing Instruments

I want to reclaim some pride in our writing instruments - even that phrase is more pleasant, more elegant than "pen".  I want to enjoy the writing process once again, not scratch around with a misery-inducing plastic ballpoint, half-chewed, uncared for. Perhaps one of the reasons that there's less and less written word is the crappy little tools we have to do it. Perhaps we value writing so little because of the tiny value we place on the instruments we use to write.

It doesn't need to be this way. A reasonable ballpoint pen costs as little as £10, and will write for miles on a refill (according to the Writing Instrument Manufacturers Association).  I don't have a clear idea of what thousands of feet of writing looks like (I'd love to find out), but that seems like a pretty decent return for a few quid. And they're more often than not metal rather than plastic (yay!) and a pleasure to write with (if not a joy to write with - that costs a little more).  Add to that the satisfaction of using something completely, of spending out. And reducing waste.

Have you ever heard someone say

"I wouldn't spend that sort of money on a pen; I keep losing them."?

To my mind, this is the precise reason to spend more money on a good pen; the careless person will value them more, and keep close track of them, surely never losing them again.

I have a very nice fountain pen, something I get a visceral pleasure from whenever I pick it up.  It's delightful to hold, to write with.  It's refilled using a piston-fill mechanism; no cartridges to fiddle with (and less waste), just glass jars of ink that last a very long time. It's the first pen I have owned that writes first time, every time, no matter how long it's been since I last used it. And fountain pen ink looks beautiful on the page.

It cost a lost of money. I don't lend it out very often. I know where it is right now.

I also have a small selection of all-metal ballpoint pens that I write with day to day, and a half-wooden one that I'm looking forward to seeing change over time, with me; reflecting the way I hold it, the way I write. I use all of them until they run out of ink, then I replace the cartridge.  At time of writing, this event has occurred perhaps three or four times.

Good pens, like watches, get noticed; they attract attention. A great pen is a statement, a talking point. And they're enduring, something to use for years to come, to treasure, to take pride in.  It's time to reclaim our pride in our writing instruments. Let's choose ones we can take pride in, that will last us years, that don't perpetuate habitual, casual, wanton wastefulness.

I think that's something worth spending a few pounds on.

(And if you answered "lots" to the first question, why aren't you using refillable pens?)

Wednesday Bonus: BBC's One Show on Excess Food Packaging

I publish articles every Monday (cycling), Wednesday (user experience) and Friday (pragmatic environmentalism). Other days I might write if I've something particularly burning-important to say.

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This evening's episode of BBC's The One Show featured a segment on excess food packaging that, once again, missed the point.

In the piece, a spokeswoman from the Industry Council for Packaging and the Environment (INCPEN) argued that the use of plastic packaging was a Good Thing as it helped to prevent food waste. She claimed that "our" buying habits (that is, buying weekly or less frequently, rather than daily) means that we need packaging to keep food fresh until we eat it.

The point she so neatly dodged is that food waste - whilst lamentable and quite avoidable - is both bio-degradable and produced from sources that are entirely renewable.  The vast majority of food packaging, by contrast, is plastic-based; derived from oil and neither bio-degradable nor renewable.

In fact, food waste is quite often perpetuated by the supermarket habit of packaging food into "conveniently-sized" portions that suit their transport and shelf space arrangements rather than the needs of customers.

User Experience is About Layers

What Makes a Great Experience?

What makes for a great meal out? Or, to frame the question a little more specifically, a great dining experience?

Think of the last really enjoyable meal you went out for; the last really memorable time. What made it so great? There's the food and drink, obviously, but there's also an awful lot more. Was your experience affected by the atmosphere, the surroundings, the ambience? How about the company at your table, your fellow diners?

How easy was the restaurant to find? Was there good parking? How were you greeted? Welcomed? Seated? What was the dress code? Did you feel out of place? At ease? Welcome? Relaxed?

Did you like the way the tables were set? The cutlery, the glassware? Were the napkins paper or cloth? Paper, polyester or cotton?

Were the staff courteous when you asked questions? Helpful? Attentive to your needs? Was service timely?

What about cleanliness? Were there any marks on the wine glasses, on the tablecloths, the cutlery? How were the toilets/restrooms? The bar?

And what of the food? Did you like the presentation, the flavours, the quantity, the choice, the flavour? Or perhaps the seasonality of it? The details about where it was sourced?

And then there's the price...

Experiences are Built of Layers

In short (too late?), the dining experience - like any user experience (whether on the web, or in the physical world) - is about layers of detail, about layers of attention to detail (or what Eric Reiss calls a series of interactions). Some of these layers deal with the Big Stuff: the style of food, the topic and content of a website. We might relate these to the structure, scope and strategy elements of a website.

Other layers are much finer, and it's these layers that make the difference between a good experience and a great experience. These are what users notice when everything else is working well.

In a restaurant, some diners will immediately notice what to others are irrelevant details, like the thickness of napkins. Others will be more concerned with the quantity of the food.

Similarly, some website users will notice spelling mistakes, colour scheme or fonts more readily than others. Users are quick to notice those aspects of the experience that are specific to their own needs or interest; perhaps they have particularly large (or small) monitors, and so suffer from a fixed layout, or awkward navigation. Other users will have particular requirements, whether they be dietary or accessibility.

The fact is that all of the layers, no matter how fine, how seemingly trivial, contribute to the user experience.

As users become more sophisticated, the more they notice the finer layers; and all too often these are the layers that get ignored by designers and developers because they're too trivial, not important enough to spend time getting right. Sadly, they're often among the easier things to get right.

The difference between good and great is in the fine layers. After all, no one complains about correct spelling.

The Move from Summer to Autumn

After the recent Mechanical, I only got the bike back from the LBS in time for one day's commute, last Friday. And what a ride! Shifting was a dream; smooth and precise on the new rear mech, cassette and chain. The newly-replaced brakes were sharper, more responsive - the whole bike feeling restored, like new.

And what a morning for a bike ride: cool (8 degrees Celsius) but not yet that autumnal crisp that comes with the colder days; the morning sunny, the air still. It was the kind of day for flying along in that beautiful cadence, where the legs are moving easily and effortlessly, turning the wheels, speeding the bike along. The kind of day that was made for cycling. A glorious ride, in both directions. The evening was warm enough that I didn't need my jacket, a pleasant reward for making the effort in the morning.

These are the days to seize at this time of year, before the long dark days of battle begin; the battle against the little voice that suggests it's too cold, too wet, too dark to cycle. This is the battle that is fought every dreary morning through the next few months, and such bright days are welcome respite, a reminder of all the good and great reasons to cycle. These are the memories I keep in stock, and draw on those darker days to come.

Despite the sunshine, though, I did feel the need for my now very battered and grimy Altura NightVision Waterproof Jacket, to keep the chill of the wind off at the start of the day. And because I've just cut my hair again, I added a skull cap below my helmet - adding more welcome warmth. Happily the morning wasn't so cold that I experienced the fierce pain of the ice cream headache as I cruised down the hill at the start of the Morning Commute.

Even so, I guess this ride marks the transition from the summer wardrobe to the spring/autumn wardrobe, the need to switch to longer gloves, a waterproof jacket; the need to add those extra layers against the autumnal weather.

Cycle Commuting: What to Wear

Because my commute is relatively short (just 20km each way, around 11.75 miles), and the terrain not particularly challenging, I have no need of particularly specialist clothes for cycle commuting. But I am convinced of the benefits of having cycle-specific clothing. Sure, some people are happy to wear their workday clothes on the bike, but I don't like the idea of arriving grubby and wet if the weather's a bit miserable. I like the option to push hard if I feel like it on that ride, without arriving sweaty and smelly. And I like avoiding the excuse not to ride if the weather looks a bit questionable; just the chance of rain, and the thought of spending a miserable day in wet clothes would be enough to put me off. By wearing dedicated clothes (and keeping my workday clothes in a waterproof dry bag), I remove one more excuse not to take the bike to work.

My summer wardrobe, then, looks like this:

• dhb M1 MTB Shoes - a great pair of reliable, comfy shoes
• My Endura/Osso shorts - now very aged, and in need of replacement
• A short sleeve jersey yellow jersey, currently the Altura Airstream [EvansCycles]
• dhb Earnley Roubaix arm warmers - very warm
• Endura FS260 Aerogel mitts [EvansCycles]
• Bell Sweep Helmet

For my spring and autumn commute, I add my Altura NightVision Jacket as my waterproof and windproof layer to keep me warm and if need be, dry; I have waterproof leggings that I'll keep handy, and I choose gloves that have fingers.

In the very cold weather that winter sometimes brings, I can survive quite happily with a merino wool base layer underneath my jersey, and my Altura NightVision Waterproof Gloves are so toasty warm that my hands are positively glowing by the end of the ride. A Gortex skull cap keeps the water and wind off my head, and a pair of SealSkinz waterproof socks guard against wet feet.

Nothing fancy or expensive here, then; solid, reliable kit for a year of cycle commuting.