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From hardware to software to that new robot that mops the floor and scares the cat—nobody ever wants to read the manual that comes with a new widget.
And why should you? Most product manuals are either flimsy pamphlet
things with terse, tiny-type instructions in eight different languages
or thick, impenetrable softcover doorstops that have all the visual
excitement of a real-estate contract. Hardcore techies who read and
write these things came up with a snarky, online abbreviation to smack
down people who skipped the instruction book, but showed up in user
forums asking obvious questions. You may have heard of it: RTFM, which
stands for Read The [Really Bad Word] Manual.
Easier said than done. I write about computers and technology for a
large part of my income, and I can barely get through some of the
mind-numbing documentation out there. Much of it is unreadable
and also boring to look at. If I want to look at walls of gray, I’ll go
meditate on the Munsell in a photo-retouching lab.
But whether it’s deciphering Adobe Photoshop Elements or trying
to set up a wireless home network, many people have ditched the
official documentation and turned to a friendlier alternative: the
sassy, savvy, consumer-oriented technical book that explains a program,
process or product in regular ol’ English—aided by slick graphic design
that keeps the harried reader comforted and entertained as he or she
scales the learning curve.
Hitting the shelves in 1991, DOS For Dummies was the granddaddy
of the User-Friendly User Manual. With conversational chunks of text
peppered with cartoons, friendly icons and jaunty typefaces, this ur-Dummies
title proved that non-nerds could cuddle up with a technical tome. The
series, from Wiley Publishing, now boasts 125 million books (on a
gajillion topics) in print, so it’s safe to say somebody out there finds the Dummies pretty darn smart.
This combination of elements gently eases the reader into the technical
information. It’s sort of like how people, intimidated by the columns
and columns of type in The New Yorker, feel secure knowing
there’s a cynically whimsical Roz Chast cartoon to rest upon during the
long eyeball march through an intense 10-page burst of short fiction.
In addition to the predictable interior design that anchors every book
in the series, each volume in the Dummies brand screams for
attention on the store shelf with its loud, proud, yellow-and-black
cover. (Wiley must get some sort of yellow ink bulk discount since they
also publish the Cliffs Notes literary guides, the main reason most
high-school sophomores can pass a test on Silas Marner.) There’s comfort in consistency.
Needless to say, the concept of the saucy, snappily designed guidebooks took off. Witness the proliferation over the years: the Complete Idiots Guides from the Penguin Group, the Visual QuickStart books from Peachpit Press and the Missing Manuals from Pogue Press/O’Reilly Media.
I was heavily biased towards the Missing Manual series even before I was asked to write one about the iPod, as it’s the brainchild book line of David Pogue, who wrote Macs for Dummies
before incorporating Pogue Press and joining forces with computer-book
giant O’Reilly Media in 2000. If you’re into graphics arts, digital
video or publishing, odds are you’ve got at least one edition of his Mac OS X: The Missing Manual next to your computer by that can of Coke.
Thanks to designer Phil Simpson, the Missing Manual series has
its own distinct look, with sidebar boxes, blurb-like tips and
attention-getting graphics on just about every page. A lot of thought
went into that design, particularly because most of the books in the
series are printed in economical monochrome. Without the pedagogically
proficient use of color within the text to call out specific points or
display illustrations, the books have to make due with varying amounts
of black ink on the page.
“The original idea behind Phil’s design,” recalled David when I called
him to ask about the look of the Missing Manuals, “was how can we make
it look like color just with shades of gray. If you look through the
books, you’ll see six or seven different, distinct shades of gray used
as basically color elements to make it a little more vivid and lively.” (See for yourself.)
While imparting technological wisdom in short humorous sections, the
text itself also becomes something of a visual element within a Missing
Manual. The discussion in any given chapter intertwines around short
sidebars focused on one aspect of the topic at hand. Boxed graphics
displaying captioned screenshots and brief “tips ‘n’ tricks”
info-nuggets centered between horizontal rules also serve to enhance the
“On the Missing Manual series, our idea was to let you open the book in
the bookstore and stick your finger in at random and you will find three
or four different entry points to the page,” said David, citing the
various elements mentioned above. “We never wanted to have just two
pages of plain text.” In a Missing Manual, the reader has plenty of
graphical rest stops on the road to enlightenment.
“From my personal-training history of teaching people computers,” David
continued, “I know that it’s wearying to be fed a nonstop river of new
information in something that it’s not immediately apparent to you how
you need it yet. We’re basically bending over backwards to keep the
interest level high and the entertainment level high.”
So fear not, gentle nontechnical reader. There are computer
books out there that will not put you in a state of visual vegetation.
With the Missing Manuals, Dummies books, Complete Idiots Guides and all
the rest here to help, maybe that old techie snark will morph into a new
meaning: “Read That Fantastic Manual!”
Ann Willoughby is recognized with the AIGA Medal for her inquiring design mind, social responsibility, sustained leadership and influence in the design community, and for championing the role of women in the profession.
Section: Inspiration -
AIGA Medal, interview
While in school, design students learn many things, from design concepts like gestalt, processes from brainstorming to production, and even the technical aspects of software and code. All of that is essential to becoming a designer, but there’s one thing the typical curriculum may not cover: How to give—and receive—a good design critique.
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