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Published by the University of Pennsylvania.

Copyright © 2005–2011 by Karl T. Ulrich

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 DESIGN
creation of artifacts in society

Karl T. Ulrich

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 Contents
Preface
1. Introduction to Design
2. Problem Solving and Design
3. Design Problem Definition
4. Exploration
5. Users, Experts, and Institutions in Design
6. The Architecture of Artifacts
7. Aesthetics in Design
8. Variety
9. Conclusion
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Colophon

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 ii

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 Preface
As a freshman entering MIT I intended to be a physician, but early in my first year I made new
friends who were taking mechanical design courses. They were always carrying around bags of
interesting components and displaying metal parts they had made in the machine shop. I was
bitten early by the design bug and took all the courses I could on the subject. My identity as
designer was solidified in 1979 as a winner of the MIT “2.70” design contest (now 2.007), an
outcome that gave me near celebrity status in the hacker-designer crowd at MIT. I was
fortunate to have as professors Ernesto Blanco, Woodie Flowers, David Jansson, Warren
Seering, and others who were deeply committed to design education.

Karl Ulrich, age 19, winning the MIT “2.70” design contest. Source: MIT.
I did my doctoral work in the MIT Artificial Intelligence Lab, focusing on fundamentals of
design theory and machine learning, and developed a whole new perspective on problem
solving and design from Randy Davis, Marvin Minsky, Patrick Winston, and many other really
interesting students and faculty in that lab. The AI Lab also had the best shop on campus, so
after hours I designed and built cool stuff like a recumbent bicycle.
In the 25 years since I was a student at MIT, I’ve been lucky to lead a professional life that
blends teaching design, doing design, and researching design, a luxury afforded by the culture
of the Wharton School and the University of Pennsylvania.
My roots are in engineering design, and much of my professional life has been centered on
product design. However, in the past 15 years, stints as an entrepreneur and a university
administrator have broadened my conception of design to include the creation of services,
businesses, and organizations. I intend for this book to be a synthesis of what I know about
design based on the varied perspectives of teacher, researcher, and practicing designer.
Narberth
Pennsylvania
United States

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 iv

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 ONE

Introduction to Design

Here are some of the human activities characterized as design:

Architectural design Interior design

Automotive design Landscape design
Business design Lighting design
Ceramic and glass design Machine design
Color design Mechanical design
Communication design News design
Engineering design Packaging design
Environmental design Product design
Experience design Production design
Fashion design Service design
Floral design Software design
Furniture design Sound design
Game design System design
Garden design Theatrical design
Graphic design Type design
Industrial design Urban design
Information design User experience design
Instructional design User interface design
Interaction design Web design
The word design presents definitional challenges. Designers tend to view their own
particular sphere of activity as the universe of the human activity of designing. For example,
one of the twelve schools at the University of Pennsylvania is the School of Design. The
school does comprise two clearly recognizable design activities—architecture and urban
design—but also fine arts and historic preservation. At the same time, the trade journal
Design News, with a subscription base of 170,000, focuses quite narrowly on engineering
design, a domain not included in Penn’s School of Design. I can’t think of another human
endeavor with such confusing intellectual jurisdictions.
Part of the problem is the English language. What we call design in English goes by
several different words in other languages. For example, in German the words konstruktion,
bauart, entwurf, planung, and design all refer to different activities that we call simply “design”

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in English. (See the appendix to this chapter for an overview of the etymology of the word
and synonyms in other languages.)
Fortunately, at the level at which I treat design in this book, the activity of design is
fundamentally similar across a wide variety of domains.

Design is conceiving and giving form to artifacts that solve problems.1

I use artifact in a broad and atypical sense to describe any product of intentional creation,
including physical goods, services, software, graphics, buildings, landscapes, organizations,
and processes. These artifacts can be categorized into domains, within which specialization
of design methods can be useful.
Exhibits 1-1 through 1-8 are some examples of artifacts in different domains, all
designed.2 Each artifact was conceived and given form to solve a problem. The form for
artifacts need not be geometric. For example, the computer program in Exhibit 1-1 takes the
form of a nested list of symbols. The problem need not be a pressing societal need, but rather
any perceived gap in a situation or experience. For example, the Insalata Caprese is a
wonderful artifact, but hardly addresses a problem in the deepest sense of the word.

Exhibit 1-1. A computer program to find the smallest divisor of

an integer N, written in Scheme, a dialect of the programming lan-
guage LISP. Source: Abelson and Sussman, 1996.

Exhibit 1-2. Insalata Caprese, allegedly originally from the island

of Capri in the Campania region of Italy.

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Exhibit 1-3. Connecting rods for an automotive engine. Source:
LN Engineering.

Exhibit 1-4. The logo for Xootr brand scooters. Source: Lunar
Design.

Exhibit 1-5. A glass staircase for the Apple Store in Osaka, Japan.
Source: Koji Okumura

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Exhibit 1-6. The Sony Cyber-shot digital camera. Source: Sony
Corporation.

Exhibit 1-7. The Eclipse jet. Source: Eclipse Aviation.

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 Exhibit 1-8. Fisher Fine Arts library at the University of Pennsyl-
vania. Designed by Frank Furness and completed in 1890. Source:
Wikipedia.

Unifying Framework
From code to cameras and logos to libraries, design domains are highly diverse, and the
tools and methods used by designers in these domains can be highly specialized. However,
the activity of design across all domains can be usefully unified by a single framework.
I adopt an information processing view of design, largely consistent with that articulated
by Herbert Simon in the 1960s (1996). From this perspective, design is part of a human
problem-solving activity beginning with a perception of a gap in a user experience, leading
to a plan for a new artifact, and resulting in the production of that artifact (Exhibit 1-9).3 This
problem-solving process includes both design and production of the artifact. Design
transforms a gap into a plan, which might, for instance, be represented with drawings,
computer models, recipes, or parameter values. Production transforms a plan into an
artifact.
Note that the same word design is used in English as both noun and verb. The noun form
may refer to both the activity of designing (e.g., Sammy is responsible for design of the
Alpha 2000) and the plan that results from that activity (e.g., Sammy completed the design
of the Alpha 2000).
In my model, the user is positioned at the start of the design process. The word user,
while awkward, is a term of art in professional practice. Equally ugly synonyms include
customer, client, stakeholder, and consumer. We can’t even reliably substitute the term human,
as users can be animals or aliens. (Instances of design for aliens are exceptional, of course,
but consider that NASA’s two Voyager spacecraft carry with them “golden records”
designed in part for extraterrestrial users.)

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 Exhibit 1-9. Design and production are the two activities that
deliver artifacts to address gaps in the user experience.
Exhibit 1-10 further decomposes the design portion of the model into four steps. This is a
codification of a process that may be implicit for many designers, yet these elements can be
discerned in some form in most design efforts:
 Sense gap. Design begins with a perception of a gap in the user experience. Without
a gap, there is no motive for design. The gap may be perceived by users themselves
or by observers.
 Define problem. In effect, problem definition is the creation by the designer of an
explanation of why the user experiences a gap. This diagnosis can be thought of as
an identification of user needs that are not being met in the current state and/or the
recognition of criteria for a high-quality solution. Problem definition is implicit in
many design efforts, particularly when users are themselves designers, but is
generally an explicit part of professional design efforts, expressed in the form of a
design brief, customer needs list, or other document. Chapter 3 focuses on problem
definition.
 Explore alternatives. Given a problem, designers almost always explore
alternatives. (This step is sometimes called search.) I devote Chapter 4 to exploration.
 Select plan. Exploration typically exposes more than one solution, so design requires
some sort of evaluation and selection from among alternatives. Some designers
consider many alternatives simultaneously when selecting a plan. Others articulate,
evaluate, and refine plans iteratively and select the first plan that is good enough.

Exhibit 1-10. Design can be thought of as four information pro-

cessing steps.

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 Exhibit 1-10 shows design as proceeding from left to right, from gap to plan. While this
general flow is typical, the steps are rarely completed in a strict sequence. Exhibit 1-11
reflects the coding of a particular episode of design into three categories (roughly
corresponding to my steps defining, exploring, and selecting) as a function of time (Günther
1996). In this instance, the designers jumped back and forth considerably among activities of
the three types.

Exhibit 1-11. Actual allocation of design team time to three cat-

egories. Source: Günther 1996.
In addition to the iteration occurring among steps, the overall design process is typically
executed multiple times, as the first artifact produced rarely results in a complete closing of
the gap in the user experience. This iteration may occur across different time scales, ranging
from high-frequency iterations by a single individual, perhaps over minutes or hours, to low-
frequency iterations over multiple generations of artifacts within an entire society. For
example, Rybczynski (2000) provides a detailed chronicle of the evolution of the screw and
screwdriver as many iterations of problem solving over hundreds of years.
In the model I present here, design proceeds from gap to plan to artifact. In modern
enterprises, the order is sometimes reversed. The designer sometimes begins with an artifact
and searches for a gap that it might fill. For instance, DuPont discovered the compound
polytetrafluoroethylene (i.e., Teflon) accidentally and then proceeded over many decades to
find gaps that the artifact could address. This approach is typical of endeavors for which
effective exploration methods are lacking—for example, pharmaceuticals and basic
materials. The reverse sequence of design steps is sometimes called technology push because it
begins with a solution rather than with a gap.4

What Is Good Design?

Design is difficult in that it absorbs substantial cognitive effort, typically requires multiple
iterations, and rarely results in an optimal artifact, even in situations for which the notion of
optimality can be defined. The few design domains that have been described by formal
mathematical languages are, in the nomenclature of computational complexity, NP-complete
search problems, meaning that the theoretically optimal solution cannot reliably be found.5
Most design domains have not even been formalized, making the inherent complexity even
greater and the prospect of optimality even more distant. However, users can generally still

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evaluate the quality of the outcome of the design process, and different artifacts designed to
address the same gap can certainly exhibit markedly different levels of quality.
Design quality is derived from how well the artifact satisfies user needs, and thereby
closes the perceptual gap in the user experience. The quality of an artifact is linked to at least
these characteristics of the design process:
 How well did the designer diagnose the gap in the user experience? Is the problem as
understood by the designer consistent with the causes of the gap experienced by the
user? In simple terms, did the designer understand the problem?
 Has the scope for exploration been defined in a way that the space of possibilities
includes high-quality solutions? In the nomenclature of cognitive psychology, has the
design problem been framed in a way that allows for the discovery of high-quality
solutions?
 Did the designer succeed in finding high-quality designs within the solution space
that has been defined? Often this result depends on both the skill and knowledge of
the designer and on the ease and accuracy with which the designer can forecast the
quality of a design without actually having to produce it.
Of course, although not an attribute of the design process per se, the fidelity of
production of the plan is also a determinant of user satisfaction.
In sum, did the designer understand the problem, frame it in a way that exploration
could potentially lead to a good solution, find such a solution within the solution space, and
deliver an artifact consistent with the plan?
Another way of thinking about design quality is to identify defects that can arise in the
design process. For each element of the process, there is at least one potential defect: The
designer may fail to accurately diagnose the gap in the user experience. The designer may
frame the exploration problem in a way that excludes many high-quality designs. The
designer may only be able to explore a limited portion of the solution space, finding only a
few relatively lower-quality solutions. The artifact produced may not be an accurate
embodiment of the plan.

Design Is Everything?
The marketing consultant Regis McKenna wrote a famous article in Harvard Business Review
entitled “Marketing Is Everything” (1991). I know several designers whose blood boiled in
response to this title. A common refrain among designers is that indeed design is everything
(and certainly subsumes marketing). I’m sympathetic to this view, having observed a lot of
dysfunctional managerial and political processes that would have been substantially
improved by posing a challenge as a design problem and then applying the basic design
process. (How often have you participated in a group effort for which no one had clearly
articulated the problem, explored alternatives, or carefully selected a plan from the
alternatives?)
However, a lot of human problem solving is not really design. The interactive,
incremental, ongoing development and refinement of abilities that occurs between a coach
and a performer doesn’t quite strike me as design. Trading of financial instruments on Wall

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Street does not involve much of what I think of as design. Construction of a building to
faithfully execute a plan, even with the application of remarkable skill and craft, is hardly
design.
The next chapter takes on directly the question of how design relates to human problem
solving more generally. For now, let me just state that I believe that much of human
problem solving would benefit from more design process, not less; however, I don’t believe
that “design thinking” addresses all challenges we face as individuals, managers, politicians,
organizations, and institutions.

This Book
The central theme of this book is that a unifying framework informs the human activity of
design across all domains. With few exceptions, each idea in this book applies to graphics,
environments, products, software, services, machines, and buildings. I dream that the design
process could be integral to the primary, secondary, and postsecondary education of all
individuals in modern society. This book is an attempt to lay out some of the ideas that
would form that education.
Earlier I alluded to the Nobel Prize–winning economist Herbert Simon and his
information processing view of design. Simon was brilliant, and his book Sciences of the
Artificial contains some beautiful ideas about design. In some ways it was the first serious
intellectual treatment of design as a problem-solving activity across domains. But, despite all
his merits, Simon didn’t connect theory tightly to the practice of creating real artifacts. With
this book I aim to marry deep concepts to the way real artifacts are created in society. I also
hope to cover some of the big ideas that have been developed in the fifty years since Simon
wrote about design.
This is a book about ideas. It is not a handbook for doing design. I am writing for three
audiences. First, I am writing for designers with an interest in ideas about the design
process. This isn’t a huge population. I have spent my whole professional life working with
the nuts and bolts of design, and I know that few designers have much patience for ideas
like those in this book. One of the reasons they became designers was to do design, not think
about design. Second, I am writing for those who do not think of themselves as professional
designers, but who have an intellectual interest in design. This is a bigger group than the
first, but clearly still not a mass audience. Third, this book is intended for university students
and their instructors. There are very few design courses that are part of what might be
considered general education in universities. This is unfortunate. However, there are a lot of
courses on design or related to design in which one or more of the chapters in this book will
be useful. For example, I use the chapters on aesthetics and variety in my product design
course, which is intended to develop professional skills in those who want to design
products.
This book assumes no specific disciplinary training. Economic principles are typically
defined and any engineering concepts used are explained. The mathematics, though scarce,
is basic. However, there is certainly an underlying tone to the book that arises from my own
training and worldview as a structured thinker with education in engineering and computer
science.

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 The book has eight more chapters:
2. Problem Solving and Design
3. Design Problem Definition
4. Exploration
5. Users, Experts, and Institutions in Design
6. The Architecture of Artifacts
7. Aesthetics in Design
8. Variety
9. Conclusion
Not all issues related to design are included here. For example, I don’t write much about
organizations, within which most real design gets done. I may address this and other topics
in future editions. I believe good designers have a bias for action and learn through iteration.
I created this book in that spirit.

Notes
1
This definition draws on those proposed by at least two others. Edgar Kaufmann Jr.,
curator of the industrial design department at MOMA 1946–1948, wrote that “design is
conceiving and giving form to objects used in everyday life” (Kaufmann 1970). Klaus
Krippendorf and Reinhart Butter (1984) wrote, “Design is the conscious creation of forms to
serve human needs.”
2
See the three-volume set Phaidon Design Classics for 999 “industrially manufactured objects
of aesthetic value and timeless quality” (2006). Although they assume a more limited
definition of design than I adopt in this book, the Phaidon Classics are nevertheless a
fascinating collection of artifacts.
3
Terwiesch (2007) provides a comprehensive discussion of product development as problem
solving. Product development is a specific economic activity that includes design tasks.
4
See Terwiesch and Ulrich (2009) for a more comprehensive treatment of various modes of
innovation in industrial practice.
5
NP means that the time required for an agent to find a solution increases with the size of
the problem according to a relationship that is not polynomial (e.g., exponential, factorial,
etc.). In other words, the problem “explodes” in magnitude in a way that finding a truly
optimal solution is impossible in a reasonable amount of time, even with very fast
computing.

References
Abelson, H., and Gerald Jay Sussman. 1996. Structure and Interpretation of Computer
Programs. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Günther, J., E. Frankenberger, and P. Auer. 1996. “Investigation of Individual and Team
Design Processes in Mechanical Engineering.” In Analysing Design Activity, eds. N. Cross et
al. Chichester, UK: John Wiley and Sons Ltd.
Kaufmann, Edgar. 1970. Introductions to Modern Design: What Is Modern Design & What Is
Modern Interior Design. New York: Museum of Modern Art Publications in Reprint.

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Krippendorff, K., and Reinhart Butter. 1984. “Product Semantics: Exploring the Symbolic
Qualities of Form.” Innovation 3 (Spring): 4–9.
McKenna, Regis. 1991. “Marketing Is Everything.” Harvard Business Review 69 (1): 65–79.
Phaidon Design Classics. 2006. Vols. 1–3. London: Phaidon Press.
Rybczynski, Witold. 2000. One Good Turn: A Natural History of the Screwdriver and the Screw.
New York: Scribner.
Simon, Herbert A. 1996. The Sciences of the Artificial. Cambridge: MIT Press.
Simpson, John, and Edmund Weiner, eds. 1989. The Oxford English Dictionary. New York:
Oxford University Press.
Terwiesch, Christian. 2007. “Product Development as a Problem-solving Process.” In
Blackwell Handbook on Technology and Innovation Management, ed. Scott Shane, 143–172. New
York: Wiley-Blackwell.
Terwiesch, Christian, and K. T. Ulrich. 2009. Innovation Tournaments: Creating and Selecting
Exceptional Opportunities. Boston, MA: Harvard Business Press.

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 Appendix: The Word Design
The word design comes to English via French from the Latin root signum and means literally
to mark out. It was first used in English in the sense I use it in this book in the seventeenth
century (OED 1989). By now, the word has assumed many meanings and covers a lot of
territory in the English language. Exhibit 1-12 shows the words in several other languages
that are used similarly to the way design is used in English. German has perhaps the most
different terms for more precisely characterizing the different notions of design. Many of
these words come from Latin roots, which are probably recognizable to most readers. Inter-
estingly, the English word design is popular in other languages and has been adopted either
exactly or phonetically (e.g., dezain in Japanese). In some of these languages, a word similar
to design derived more directly from Latin and/or French has a different meaning. For ex-
ample, in Italian, disegnare has the very narrow meaning “to draw,” and either the English
word design or the word progettazione (verb progettare) is used to refer to the activity of design;
in French, the word désigner means to designate, not to design, and either design, dessein, or
conception is used.

Exhibit 1-12. Words in several other languages used in a way

similar to the English word design. The most similar terms are
outlined with boxes.

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 TWO

Problem Solving and Design

Benjamin Franklin was an irrepressible problem solver, tackling challenges as diverse as fire
prevention, higher education, and home heating. Yet I don’t think of him as first and
foremost a designer, perhaps because of some significant differences between problem
solving and design. This chapter attempts to disentangle the real and perceived differences
between design and problem solving and to elucidate both barriers and opportunities for the
application of “design thinking” to problem solving more generally.
Exhibit 2-1 is a photograph of a pair of bifocals from Benjamin Franklin’s time. Franklin
is widely credited with the invention of bifocals, although there is some controversy about
this attribution. In a letter to George Whatley in 1785 (Exhibit 2-2), he explains the
difficulty of seeing both the food on his plate in front of him and the faces of his guests at the
end of the table. He describes a way to address this difficulty by combining lenses in the
now familiar bifocal configuration.

Exhibit 2-1. A pair of “Franklin-type” bifocals from the late eighteenth century.
Source: The College of Optometrists (British Optical Association Museum),
London.
Franklin’s narrative (provided in the appendix) follows the design process I described in
Chapter 1 and that is articulated in Exhibit 2-3. Franklin sensed a gap (vision out of focus),
defined a problem (objects at different distances require different optical correction),
searched for a solution, and then selected a plan (a lens formed from two halves, each with a
different diopter).
This process is almost exactly the way I describe problem solving in a course I teach on the
subject. Exhibit 2-4 shows how I articulate the problem-solving process to my students. An
agent operating in the world senses a gap between the current state and some desired state.

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The agent then defines a problem or problems, generates alternative solutions, selects an
approach, and finally takes action by implementing the solution. In most cases the problem
solver then assesses whether the gap has indeed been closed and, if not, the problem-solving
process may be repeated iteratively.1 This problem-solving process is almost exactly the
design process in Exhibit 2-3. There is one conceptual difference and several practical
distinctions. The conceptual difference between design and problem solving is the difference
between plans and outcomes. The design process results in a plan for action, but not
necessarily in a realization of that plan. One nice aspect of the way problem solving is
typically taught and practiced is the relative emphasis on action, learning from that action,
and improving on the initial solution as a result of that learning. Of course, many good
designers are also complete problem solvers, remaining engaged in their challenges through
the implementation, testing, and refinement of the artifacts they design. Because problem
solving essentially includes the steps in the design process, problem solving is the more
general human activity of which design is a critical element.

Exhibit 2-2. Letter to George Whatley from Benjamin Franklin describing the
creation of bifocals to address the problem of vision correction for both near
and far distances. The text of a portion of this letter is in the appendix. Source:
United States Library of Congress.

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 There are other practical distinctions, though, beyond that of implementation and
action. They derive from the relative emphasis of design on the creation of new artifacts and
from the relative importance of time in some problem-solving challenges. These and other
distinctions are clarified by a taxonomy of problem types, which includes design problems.

Exhibit 2-3. Design and production address gaps in the user ex-
perience. The design process can be thought of as four steps.

Exhibit 2-4. A generic problem-solving process. Problem solving

addresses a gap between the state of the world and a desired
state from the perspective of an agent.

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 Taxonomy of Problems
While pretty much all problem solving can be thought of as a process by which a gap in an
agent’s experience is closed, a taxonomy of problem types allows us to tighten the
distinction between design problems and other types of problems. The categories in the
taxonomy and their relationships are illustrated in Exhibit 2-5. The first distinction in the
taxonomy is between problems for which there is an existing artifact or operating system
and those for which there is no such artifact. This distinction separates all problems into two
broad categories: design problems and system improvement problems. The other categories
map either across or within these two divisions.

Exhibit 2-5. Six types of problems, one of which is design prob-

lems.
Design problems
The bulk of the book focuses on design problems. The hallmark of design problems is that
the designer creates a plan for a new artifact in response to a gap. A central feature of design
problem solving is the exploration of alternatives.
Selection problems
Selection problems are a subset of design problems in which the alternatives are already well
articulated or relatively easy to discover. The central challenge is to select from among those
clearly articulated alternatives. For example, when a firm needs to install a new accounting
system, the problem solver can typically readily identify the available alternatives. These
alternatives are the systems available on the market, as the firm would rarely create its own
accounting system from scratch. The challenge is evaluating the alternatives and then
selecting one. I include selection problems within the larger category of design problems
because even with the most straightforward selection problems, the problem solver does
have to at least articulate the alternatives, which is a form of exploration.
System improvement problems
Unlike design problems, system improvement problems concern modifications to existing
artifacts or systems. The problem-solving process for system improvement problems
typically involves the comparison of existing performance with some notion of ideal
performance. Then, the problem solver focuses on exploring alternative approaches to

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improving performance. For example, the admissions process for business schools is a tricky
undertaking requiring high levels of efficiency, fairness, and predictive accuracy. Most
schools are continually attempting to improve the performance of the system. While
creating an admissions process from scratch is clearly a design problem, improving an
existing admissions process is qualitatively different. Some elements of difference, for
example, are that improvement tends to comprise several incremental changes, often
applied sequentially; the focus of problem solving is often defect reduction, which has a
forensic quality to it; and system improvement typically benefits from a wealth of data from
the existing system. None of these attributes is typical of design problems.
Tuning problems
A particular flavor of system improvement problems is tuning problems. Tuning problems are
limited to incremental adjustments to parameters of an existing artifact. For example,
consider the process for making plywood. A log is positioned on a machine (essentially a
large lathe) that spins the log while a wide blade peels off a 2.5-meter-wide ribbon of wood
veneer. That ribbon is subsequently cut into rectangular pieces, stacked into a sandwich
with glue between the layers, and then squeezed in a heated press to cure the adhesive. Like
most manufacturers, plywood makers are continually engaged in system improvement
problems. One such problem is the tuning problem associated with the veneer-making
process. The process parameters include, among others, rotational speed, blade shape,
cutting angle, cutting pressure, and log moisture content. There are of course infinite
possible combinations of these variables. The tuning problem is to find the combination that
both achieves the best performance (wood utilization, consistency, surface finish, etc.) and
delivers consistent results under varying conditions. A variety of methods have been
developed for solving tuning problems. See particularly “optimal design” methods, which
are appropriate in cases where mathematical models of the artifact exist (Papalambros and
Wilde 2000) and experimental methods, which are appropriate for cases where analytical
models are elusive (Ulrich and Eppinger 2011).
Crises
A crisis is simply a problem that must be solved quickly. In economic terms, the opportunity
cost of time is very high for crises (e.g., a patient is bleeding, a company is failing, coal
miners are trapped, public opinion is forming in the wake of an event). Crises can be design
problems or system improvement problems. For example, when the crew of Apollo 13 said,
“Houston, we have a problem,”2 everyone soon knew that the problem had to be addressed
quickly or the astronauts would die. The Apollo 13 crisis comprised, among others, a design
problem—how to create an air filter from available materials (Exhibit 2-6)—as well as a
system improvement problem—how to minimize the electrical current draw from the
systems in the aircraft.
Wicked problems
Rittel and Webber (1973) defined a class of problems as wicked, kind of a catch-all term for
problems that are extraordinarily hard to solve, and for which even clear definition is
difficult. I like the term wicked problem, but have never felt it was defined with adequate
precision. Here I use the term to refer to problems for which stakeholder objectives are
fundamentally in conflict. Examples of such problems include territorial disputes in and

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around Jerusalem, global warming, public school reform, and terrorism. Like crises, wicked
problems can be either design problems or system improvement problems.

Exhibit 2-6. The air filter designed and built by the Apollo 13
crew from available materials when faced with a crisis. Source:
NASA.

Deliberate Process, Importance, and Time

My view of problem solving and design is process oriented. My students often ask whether a
deliberate process is always the best way to solve a problem.
I know of only two studies that have looked at the question of effectiveness of structured
problem solving processes. Griffin (1997) studied the effectiveness of structured product
development processes, a fairly close cousin of design processes (Terwiesch 2007). She
found that firms that adopted structured development processes completed complex projects
more quickly than those that did not.
Tyre and colleagues (1993) studied the effectiveness of structured problem-solving
processes in addressing manufacturing problems at the Saturn division of General Motors.
They found that the use of structured problem-solving processes (essentially the process
articulated in Exhibit 2-4) was associated with both better solutions and faster completion.
This limited scientific evidence is consistent with my beliefs based on experience. At a
minimum, structured processes act as checklists to ensure that no critical information
processing task is omitted.

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 The question of whether a deliberate process is always warranted can be illuminated
with some conceptual thinking. Exhibit 2-7 lays out two relevant dimensions. First, how
important is getting the right solution? Second, how urgent is the problem? These two
dimensions can be thought of in economic terms for the sake of relative quantitative
comparisons. The first (horizontal) dimension can be thought of as the economic value of
getting a near-optimal solution compared to the value of getting a typical solution.3 For
example, in branding a video recording and storage product, how much is the name TiVo
worth compared to Replay? (My answer on that one is “millions.”) Compare this to the
value of figuring out exactly what to eat for breakfast one morning. (It’s worth something to
me, but not much.)

Exhibit 2-7. The use of deliberate process depends on the op-

portunity cost of time and the relative value of achieving the op-
timal outcome.
The second (vertical) dimension represents the opportunity cost of time. What is the cost
of not having a solution? We can think about this in terms of cost per hour. For example,
when formulating a solution for how to turn around a troubled company, one can think
about the negative cash flow to be averted by that plan, which might be a million dollars per
day (i.e., tens of thousands per hour).
The relative position of a problem on these two dimensions informs the question of
whether to apply a deliberate problem-solving process, and if so, what type. For problems
for which the value of an excellent solution is worth not much more than that of an average
solution, there isn’t much point to investing in problem solving, and so problem solvers may
resort to just picking default solutions or to automated problem-solving techniques based on
simple heuristics.

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 In the upper right portion of the exhibit, an excellent solution is valuable and time is
extraordinarily precious. Examples of such settings would be action sports like soccer or
hockey, or at the extreme, life-or-death military engagement, such as dogfighting between
aircraft. In these settings, there is not time for even the most streamlined deliberate problem
solving. Action must be reflexive and instantaneous. Humans cope with such situations only
with extreme levels of skill, specialization, and practice, and they perform well only within a
narrow range of problem types.
In the middle right portion of the exhibit, outcomes are still quite valuable, but time is a
little less costly. Even in a life-or-death setting like a rescue in a collapsed coal mine, the
problem solver has hours to deal with the crisis, not seconds. Some use of problem-solving
process is warranted (e.g., the exploration of alternatives), but typically the problem solver
will deploy a great deal of resources, perhaps pursuing several potentially redundant
solutions at once. Typically, problem solvers responsible for addressing crises are deeply
experienced, and so do not need to learn and adapt their problem-solving methods as they
go.
Most of us spend most of our professional lives in the lower right portion of the exhibit.
Problems are important, with the best solutions typically worth thousands or millions of
dollars more than average solutions. And problems typically are not so urgent as to prevent
us from devoting days, weeks, or months to their solution. We plan events. We brand
products. We form new ventures. We design buildings. We staff organizations. For these
problems, deliberate process is warranted. There is no reason not to carefully define the
problem, explore alternatives, evaluate and select from the alternatives, and iteratively refine
a solution.
Why the resistance to structured processes?
If a deliberate problem-solving process is warranted for a large fraction of the problems we
face as professionals, why do humans so resist such processes? This resistance ranges from
passive neglect to active loathing. I believe there are at least three reasons for the resistance.
First, the application of structured processes is hard work, and most of us resist hard work
when possible. Second, problem solvers rarely observe how well they might have done with
the application of a structured process. That is, the opportunity cost of not applying a
structured process is rarely obvious, and so the impetus for applying a process may not be
well understood. The third reason is largely a conjecture on my part, but is interesting to
think about.
I believe that for most of our evolutionary past, humans benefited from a bias for action.
When faced with a decision of whether to flee or fight in the face of an enemy, those who
reflected carefully on the problem and explored alternatives did not survive long enough to
reproduce. This is an oversimplification, of course. One of the hallmarks of human
behavior, going back tens of thousands of years, is that we use our brains to plan for the
future. However, until the most recent few thousand years, this planning applied to small
groups of people, perhaps over a time period of just one season. We were not prepared
biologically for managerial life in a mass society. Today, we often make decisions as
professionals that matter to thousands of people over time scales of many years. When faced
with such decisions, deliberate processes are fully warranted, and yet our biological impulse
may be to just act.

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 Design and Innovation
I wrote the bulk of this book at the same time I was coauthoring a book on innovation
(Terwiesch and Ulrich 2009). Because of this confluence of activities, I was forced to reflect
on the similarities and differences between design and innovation. Design and innovation are
quite similar endeavors, but there are at least three distinctions.
First, innovation is typically broader in scope than design, and includes the entire set of
activities that create a new match between a solution and a need. Design is often one of
these activities, but so are market launch, the ramp-up of operations, and the management
of regulatory issues.
Second, and related closely to the first distinction, innovation is often thought of as an
economic activity whose basic unit of analysis is the innovation system, whereas design is
an activity typically thought of at the level of a particular artifact or project. This is a
tendency in practice more than a theoretical distinction. General managers in firms and
other institutions worry about their innovation “pipelines” or “systems.” When viewed as a
system, innovation includes the more focused activity of design.
Third, design usually proceeds from the identification of a gap to the creation of a
solution. Innovation can frequently proceed in the other direction, an approach sometimes
called technology push. With technology push, an innovator begins with a new or existing
solution and then searches for possible applications of that solution. This approach is typical
of the pharmaceutical innovation process, in which a newly discovered chemical compound
is screened for possible medically useful properties. Technology push also occurs frequently
in innovation involving basic materials.

The Culture of Designers

Designers share some elements of common culture, even though diverse design domains
typically possess idiosyncratic subcultures. Design culture sometimes clashes with, for
example, the cultures of politicians, lawyers, and some managers. As I reflect on the unique
aspects of design culture, I identify three key elements.
Optimism versus criticism
Designers are optimistic. They are accustomed to facing problems and solving them. This
optimism contrasts with the culture of criticism one often finds in some other professions.
For example, lawyers are trained to imagine the worst possible outcomes and protect
against them. Designers are trained to imagine the best possible outcome that one might be
able to create with a novel artifact. It is no surprise that these two groups of professionals
often find themselves in a clash of cultures.
Prototyping and iteration
Good designers tend to have a bias for building, trying, and refining artifacts, rather than
perfectly refining a theoretical plan. The design culture is one of prototyping and testing as
much as it is one of conceptual exploration. This bias makes sense when faced with a high
level of uncertainty and a lack of theory, as is often the case for design problems. The bias
for action can be detrimental for problems in which data and analysis are powerful tools for
finding solutions, as is the case for some problems in engineering and management.

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Elegance
Designers tend to strive for elegance. It bothers most designers to create something sloppy
even if it works. While elegance is an ill-defined concept, I think it tends to comprise
originality, beauty, surprise, and an efficient use of resources. Many have tried to articulate
what makes for good design. One effort I like is by Paul Graham (2004), a software
entrepreneur, who argues that good design is, among other things, daring, timeless, slightly
funny, and hard (but looks easy).

Nontraditional Design
This book is mostly focused on designed physical objects, although in Chapter 1 I offered a
more general view of design and a more general notion of artifacts. I believe that most of the
ideas in this book apply to the design of organizations, social systems, business models, and
services as well as they do to the design of physical goods.
For example, consider the design of a business model. Exhibit 2-8 includes a template
for essentially any business (Panel A). The template includes a customer acquisition process
and a solution delivery process. An infinite number of possible business models can be
created through exploration of the various alternatives for the elements of this generic
model. For example, NetJets is a company that pioneered the commercialization of
fractional jet ownership. Panel B in the exhibit shows the instantiation of the template with
the key elements of the NetJets model. Panel C is a potential new business model that is an
incremental perturbation of the existing NetJets model.
I believe that a structured process of exploration can be applied to the creation of new
business models like that of NetJets as well as to the exploration of alternative models. This
process is essentially similar to the way many effective designers explore alternatives for the
design of physical objects and systems. Although most good designers of physical goods
exhibit great discipline in exploring many alternatives, this discipline seems less well
developed in the creation of businesses. In a course I teach in the MBA program at
Wharton, I have tried to develop design thinking among business students faced with
nontraditional design problems, and I believe this effort has been largely successful. An even
further extension of design thinking to the creation of social systems and government
policies seems quite promising.

Concluding Remarks
There is a lot of human problem solving that is not really design. However, I believe that
much of human problem solving would benefit from more design process, not less. The
hallmark of design is an exploration of alternatives and careful selection from among those
alternatives, an approach that tends to make for good problem solving. I would also like to
see greater diffusion of the culture of design, one of optimism, elegance, and a bias for
action.

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Exhibit 2-8. Design applied to business models.

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 Notes
1
Karl Popper (1999) argued that “all life is problem solving” and that the basic elements of
all problem solving are (1) recognizing the problem, (2) attempting alternative solutions, and
(3) eliminating approaches that do not work.
2
This quote isn’t quite right. Astronaut James Lovell actually said, “Houston, we’ve had a
problem,” but the present tense sounds better.
3
The notion of optimality is a bit loose here because most problems cannot be formalized in
a way that optimality can really be defined. One way to think about the definition of the
value of a near-optimal solution is to think about the probability distribution over the quality
of solutions for a given problem. One might think of the horizontal axis in Exhibit 2-7 as the
value of the standard deviation of this distribution.

References
Graham, Paul. 2004. “Taste for Makers.” In Hackers and Painters: Big Ideas from the Computer
Age, 130–145. Sebastopol, CA: O’Reilly Media. http://www.paulgraham.com/taste.html.
Griffin, Abbie. 1997. “The Effect of Project and Process Characteristics on Product
Development Cycle Time.” Journal of Marketing Research 34 (1): 24–35.
Papalambros, Panos Y., and Douglass J. Wilde. 2000. Principles of Optimal Design: Modeling
and Computation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Popper, Karl. 1999. All Life Is Problem Solving. London: Routledge.
Rittel, H., and M. Webber. 1973. “Dilemmas in a General Theory of Planning.” Policy
Sciences 4: 155–169.
Terwiesch, Christian. 2007. “Product Development as a Problem-solving Process.” In
Blackwell Handbook on Technology and Innovation Management, ed. Scott Shane, 143–172. New
York: Wiley-Blackwell.
Terwiesch, Christian, and K. T. Ulrich. 2009. Innovation Tournaments: Creating and Selecting
Exceptional Opportunities. Boston, MA: Harvard Business Press.
Tyre, M. J., S. D. Eppinger, and Eva M. H. Csizinszky. 1993. “Systematic Versus Intuitive
Problem Solving on the Shop Floor: Does It Matter?” Working Paper 3716, MIT Leaders
for Manufacturing Program, July.
Ulrich, K. T., and Steven D. Eppinger. 2011. Product Design and Development. New York:
Irwin/McGraw-Hill.

Appendix
Following is an excerpt from Benjamin Franklin’s letter to George Whatley dated May 23,
1785. Whatley was a philanthropist and close friend of Franklin’s.
By Mr. Dollond’s saying, that my double Spectacles can only serve particular Eyes, I
doubt he has not been rightly informed of their Construction. I imagine it will be
found pretty generally true, that the same Convexity of Glass, through which a Man
sees clearest and best at the Distance proper for Reading, is not the best for greater

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Distances. I therefore had formerly two Pair of Spectacles, which I shifted
occasionally, as in travelling I sometimes read, and often wanted to regard the
Prospects. Finding this Change troublesome, and not always sufficiently ready, I had
the Glasses cut, and half of each kind associated in the same Circle, thus, [Franklin’s
sketch follows].
By this means, as I wear my Spectacles constantly, I have only to move my Eyes
up or down, as I want to see distinctly far or near, the proper Glasses being always
ready. This I find more particularly convenient since my being in France, the Glasses
that serve me best at Table to see what I eat, not being the best to see the Faces of
those on the other Side of the Table who speak to me; and when one’s Ears are not
well accustomed to the Sounds of a Language, a Sight of the Movements in the
Features of him that speaks helps to explain; so that I understand French better by
the help of my Spectacles.

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 THREE

Design Problem Definition

As I explained in the preceding chapters, I decompose the activity of design into four steps.
This chapter focuses on problem definition and Chapter 4 focuses on exploration, the two
middle steps, shown again in Exhibit 3-1.1

Exhibit 3-1. The design process can be thought of as four steps.

In a confusing mix of terminology, designers in different domains use different labels for
problem definition. In architecture, problem definition is called programming (Duerk 1993).
In industrial design it is research. In product design, problem definition is termed identifying
customer needs. In engineering design, it is called establishing specifications.
Fundamentally, defining the problem is an articulation of what the designer sets out to
accomplish, what gap the designer is attempting to close. The problem definition is the what
but not the how. Conceptually, the definition of a design problem can be thought of as
comprising two elements: (1) the basic function of the artifact and (2) the desirable qualities
of an artifact that performs that function. For instance, Exhibit 3-2 is a new wood-fueled
stove for use in developing regions of the world. The basic function of the artifact is to
provide heat for cooking. The desirable qualities of the artifact include minimizing wood
consumption, minimizing emission of pollutants, and providing stable support for cooking
vessels. In this chapter I treat these two elements of product definition in turn, and then
address the iterative nature of most problem definitions.

The Function of the Artifact

The function of an artifact is what it does as opposed to its structural characteristics (Crilly
2010). A theoretical ideal in design—one that avoids predetermining the solution—is to

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describe function in a way that does not imply a particular approach. Yet, describing
function necessarily requires some such assumptions.

Problem Definition

Basic Function:
Provide heat for cooking

Desirable Qualities:
Minimizes wood consumption
Minimizes emissions of pollu-
tants
Provides stable support for
cooking vessels
Etc.

An artifact developed in response to a prob-

lem.
Exhibit 3-2. The wood-fueled Biolite cooking stove for develop-
ing regions of the world. The stove includes a fan for enhancing
the flow of combustion air, which is powered by a thermoelectric
device. Source: Biolite.
Problem hierarchies as a way to describe function
Theodore Levitt famously wrote that “people buy ¼-inch drill bits but need ¼-inch holes”
(Levitt 1977). Of course, people don’t really need ¼-inch holes either, but rather, they need,
for instance, to fasten a book shelf to the wall. Indeed, any statement of a design problem, of
the basic function of an artifact, reflects a decision about the level of abstraction at which the
problem will be tackled, and assumptions about how the function will be addressed.
Exhibit 3-3 illustrates some possible levels of abstraction for a restatement of the Levitt
problem “drive a 6 mm drill bit at 1000 rpm.” The function can be stated more broadly by
asking why as follows.
Q: Why do you want to drive a drill bit?
A: Because I want to make a hole.
Q: Why do you want to make a hole?
A: Because I want to fasten a book shelf to the wall.
and so forth…
The answers to a sequence of “why” questions form an abstraction hierarchy of design
problem definitions. One such hierarchy is shown in Exhibit 3-3.

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 Exhibit 3-3. Problem hierarchy for the initial problem definition
“In what way might we drive a 6 mm drill bit at 1000 rpm?”
The simple hierarchy of Exhibit 3-3 belies a more complex relationship among
problems. There are typically multiple motives for solving a particular problem and there
are multiple approaches that can be taken to solve it. Exhibit 3-4 illustrates a portion of a
network of problem statements emanating from one of the more abstract problem
statements in Exhibit 3-3— “In what way might we educate ourselves?” Articulating a
design problem unavoidably reflects the designer’s decision about the level of abstraction at
which the design effort will focus.
Is there a correct level of abstraction? On the one hand, making design problems more
abstract is good because doing so opens up additional avenues for exploration, broadening
the range of solutions the designer considers. On the other hand, the more abstract the
problem becomes, the less likely the designer will be able to significantly close the gap in the
user experience. A power tool designer had best not abstract the design problem so much

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that he or she is trying to close gaps in higher education, a challenge for which the designer
is likely ill suited. In the Toyota Production System, one of the techniques for problem
solving is called the “five whys method,” which is intended to get to the root cause of a
problem (Ohno 1988). That method, of asking “why” five times, appears to be a good
heuristic in design as well, forcing the designer to consider alternative definitions of the
design problem, which may be somewhat more abstract than initially assumed.

Exhibit 3-4. Problem network based on the question “In what

way might we educate ourselves?”
Formal descriptions of function
In most cases, the basic function of artifacts is described using unstructured text, as in “drive
a 6 mm bit at 1000 rpm.” However in some domains, problems can be described more
formally. For instance, in architecture, problem definition, or programming, often includes an
adjacency diagram as shown in Exhibit 3-5. The most basic function of the facility for the
Camden Community Center might be stated as “provide a physical space for programs that
enhance the health and well-being of the San Jose community.” An elaboration of that basic
function specifies the types and sizes of spaces required and the desired relationships among
those spaces. It does not contain any description of the form, position, orientation, or
materials that would comprise the eventual building. In this sense it is still the what and not
the how.
There have been several attempts in the design theory community to create formal
languages for describing function (Finger and Dixon 1989), and there have been modest

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successes in narrow domains of application, such as electro- and fluid-mechanical systems
and digital circuits (Mead and Conway 1980). There have also been efforts to create
informal functional languages to facilitate the practice of design (Fowler 1990; Hubka and
Eder 1988). These languages are sometimes used to create diagrams consisting of functional
elements, expressed as linguistic terms like convert energy, connected by links indicating the
exchange of signals, materials, forces, and energy. Some authors of informal functional
languages provide a vocabulary of standard functional elements, while others rely on users
to devise their own. Functional elements are sometimes called functional requirements or
functives, and these diagrams have been variously called function diagrams, functional
descriptions, and schematic descriptions (Pahl and Beitz 1984).

Exhibit 3-5. Bubble, or adjacency, diagram for Camden Commu-

nity Center (San Jose, California). Source: Sabrina Phillips.

Desirable Qualities in the Artifact

The basic function of an artifact is rarely all the user cares about. For instance, even if a
paperweight does its job of preventing paper from blowing about, the user probably also
cares how it looks. In this case, while aesthetics is not a basic function of the paperweight, it
is a quality of that artifact that must concern its designer.
Needs
In the field of product design, the desired qualities in an artifact are called needs, a term I’ll
adopt here. User needs are usually represented as a list of thirty to one hundred desired
qualities of an artifact. That list is in essence a causal model of the relationship between

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artifact characteristics and user satisfaction. The list is an understanding by the designer of
what the user cares about and what characteristics drive preference and satisfaction. If the
artifact possesses those qualities, the user will be satisfied. Exhibit 3-6 is a list of 66 needs for
a hand cart, derived from one-on-one interaction with potential users using the methodology
of Ulrich and Eppinger (2011). In practice, needs are derived from both verbal interaction
with potential users and from passive observational studies of potential users grappling with
the basic problem the designer is trying to solve.
While needs are desired qualities of a solution, and ideally do not embody a
preconceived design concept, they clearly reflect some assumptions about the direction of
the solution. The qualities listed in Exhibit 3-6 suggest a human-powered, wheeled device.
Many of the qualities in Exhibit 3-6 would be irrelevant for a different assumed design
direction; for instance, a valet service that transported belongings on behalf of the user.
Similarly, additional needs would almost certainly be important if the designer pursued a
remote-controlled, electric-powered cart.
Stakeholders
When user-innovators create artifacts for themselves, the activity of defining the problem
and articulating needs may never be formally conducted—needs remain implicit for the
designer. When professional designers create artifacts for others, some process of
understanding and documenting needs is almost always adopted in practice. When potential
users are essentially aligned in their interests, they may be thought of as a market segment or
user community and treated somewhat alike. However, in some cases, an artifact is intended
to address the needs of a collection of stakeholders whose needs are not aligned. The same
prison must serve both inmates and guards. The same school lunch must be tasty (for kids),
healthy (for parents), and inexpensive (for school districts). Problem definition therefore
benefits from a deliberate identification of stakeholder groups with interests in the resulting
artifact, and from an articulation of the distinct needs of those stakeholder groups.
Do users really need most artifacts?
In the context of this chapter, needs are desired qualities of an artifact, rather than the
attributes of the artifact that are needed in some fundamental sense. For instance, Exhibit 3-
7 is the Hardee’s Monster Big Burger, which features two 1/3-pound patties of beef, three
slices of cheese, four strips of bacon, and mayonnaise on a buttered roll. No one needs this
artifact, yet it clearly delivers satisfaction to individuals in the market segment targeted by
Hardee’s. (Incidentally, I am not arguing against the creation of the Hardee’s Big Burger;
I’m only observing that it is clearly not a healthy solution to meeting the basic need for
everyday calories.)
Designers adopt a moral stance when creating artifacts. The dominant perspective in the
practice of product design is of the designer as agent for a for-profit enterprise, and “needs”
are those qualities that will lead to the greatest satisfaction for target consumers. Other
perspectives are common and valid, including the perspective that designers have an ethical
responsibility to create artifacts that are “good” for users. Of course, in doing so, designers
are forced to make tricky judgments. Should Hardee’s really not offer users the possibility of
an occasional fatty, salty, and yummy (to some) experience? If not the Monster Big Burger,
what about buttered popcorn, or premium ice cream?

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 Meeting the needs of mindful adults possessing full information can probably be
reasonably justified by some designers, even if addressing those needs may detract from
health or other desirable objectives. Designers can probably not reasonably justify
addressing needs in ways that are manipulative or deceptive.

The Cart handles most terrain The Cart fits unobtrusively into my life
The Cart handles rough urban terrain The Cart consumes little of my living space when stored
The Cart cargo is retained over rough terrain The Cart is affordable
The Cart works on grass The Cart works well with my gear storage solution
The Cart works on sand
The Cart works on off-road trails The Cart is my single stuff-hauling solution
The Cart load remains stable when nudged or bumped The Cart handles stuff of different sizes and shapes
The Cart can traverse steps The Cart transports a cooler
The Cart can traverse curbs The Cart can transport a longish object like a collapsible chair
The Cart remains stable over cross-sloped terrain The Cart can be used as a baby jogger
The Cart works in snow The Cart holds the gear for a family of four at the beach
The Cart works in icy conditions The Cart holds a 5-gallon water jug without spilling

The Cart goes where I go The Cart evokes admiration from onlookers
The Cart works with all my travel modes The Cart is not geeky
The Cart can be used inside a grocery store The Cart is a rugged piece of gear, not a cheap gadget
The Cart works with my bike The Cart is practically invisible when not loaded with stuff
The Cart can be locked up on the street The Cart is distinctive yet cool
The Cart is allowed in fancy office buildings
The Cart can be taken on Amtrak The Cart is a mobile base of operations
The Cart can be checked as luggage The Cart provides a temporary “table top” when outdoors
The Cart accommodates little, easily lost items like pocketknives
The Cart navigates tight spots and flashlights
The Cart can be used in crowded urban spaces The Cart identifies home base at the beach
The Cart can be used on a crowded subway The Cart provides a temporary seat
The Cart fits through narrow gaps—e.g., doorways, be- The Cart allows convenient access to all my stuff when loaded
tween file cabinets The Cart rests in a stable position

The Cart makes transporting stuff a lot easier than The Cart protects my stuff
carrying it The Cart doesn’t collect water
The Cart requires minimal user effort The Cart protects my groceries from damage
The Cart carries all my stuff in one trip The Cart keeps my stuff dry in the rain
The Cart can be loaded quickly The Cart keeps critters from my stuff when camping
The Cart can be unloaded quickly The Cart protects my stuff from dirt and mud on the ground
The Cart (and stuff) can be easily loaded in the car
The Cart (and stuff) can be easily unloaded from the car The Cart enhances rather than detracts from my safety on
The Cart can be deployed in seconds the streets
The Cart can be deployed without instruction
The Cart transports heavy stuff like file boxes The Cart can be uniquely identified as mine
The Cart can be conveniently lifted and moved when loaded

Exhibit 3-6. A list of needs for a personal hand cart. The needs
in boldface are the primary needs, generalizations of the more de-
tailed secondary needs.

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 Exhibit 3-7. The Hardee’s Monster Big Burger.
What need does this artifact address? Source: Hardee’s.

Specifying and Quantifying Design Problems

Measurement is part of the religion of modern management. As annoying as attempts to
measure everything can be, measurement has unambiguously led to dramatic and
remarkable performance improvement in many human endeavors, including
manufacturing, athletics, science, and medicine.
In design, quantification and measurement allow precision in defining problems. For
instance, while a desirable quality of an automobile might be economical operation, that
need can be made precise by specifying that the fuel economy exceed 20 kilometers per liter
of fuel. In product design, these quantified needs are often called specifications (Ulrich and
Eppinger 2011). In architecture, they are often called performance requirements (Duerk 1993).
Certainly attempts have been made to quantify pretty much every kind of need,
including aesthetic responses and brand loyalty. While some of these attempts probably
yield little benefit, quantification of needs in the form of metrics and values does allow for
precise comparisons among artifacts and the use of the scientific method to refine and
improve satisfaction.
In the academic field of marketing, the ideal point model leverages the notion of metrics
and values. It holds that every user prefers a particular combination of performance values
and that this combination is their ideal point. For instance, a mobile computing device
display can be characterized by its area and resolution. A particular user will most likely
prefer one combination of area and resolution. Market research techniques such as conjoint
analysis can be used to estimate the ideal point for a target customer, and then these
estimates can be used to characterize market segments and to decide on the target values for
the specifications of the device.

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 Issues of translation dog the notion of an ideal point. Exhibit 3-8 illustrates this
challenge conceptually. The user has an actual ideal point. However, the user expresses that
ideal point with some error; he or she does not really know its precise location. Further error
is introduced by the designer in attempting to understand the user’s expression of needs. A
final error is introduced in what the artifact actually delivers to the user. The resulting gap
may be quite large for new categories of artifacts with which users and designers have little
experience. In mature categories (e.g., cameras, computer monitors, automobiles), users and
designers are much more likely to estimate ideal points accurately.

Exhibit 3-8. A user may have an ideal point, but errors in articu-
lation, understanding, and translation may result in a persistent
gap in the user experience.

Iterative Refinement and the Spiral Model

Recognizing the challenge of closing the gap in the user experience on the first try, Boehm
(1984, 1986) articulated the Spiral Model of development. Although the Spiral Model was
aimed at software development, the idea is valid in all design domains. Exhibit 3-9
illustrates the model. The designer engages in successive iterations of defining, exploring,
building, and testing. During each iteration, a prototype is used to assess the extent to which
the design problem has been properly defined and whether the designed artifact closes the
gap in the user experience. The spiral aspect of the diagram arises from plotting cumulative
investment in the design effort as the distance of the path from the origin as the designer
cycles through the four steps. The Spiral Model was established in contrast to the Waterfall
Model, in which design proceeds without iteration from one step to the next.
Boehm’s Spiral Model is essentially a version of the Shewhart Cycle of plan, do, check, act
(i.e., PDCA) which is a mainstay of the practice of quality improvement (Shewhart 1939).
The Shewhart Cycle, in turn, is essentially derived from the scientific method, whose roots
extend at least as far as Francis Bacon (Novum Organum, 1620).
Central to the Spiral Model is the use of prototypes. Prototypes are approximations of
the intended artifact on one or more dimensions of interest. In this context they serve as
instruments for measuring the extent to which the designer has understood the user’s true
needs and the extent to which the design actually addresses those needs.

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 Exhibit 3-9. Spiral Model, adapted from Boehm (1986).

Concluding Remarks
A common defect in design is a failure to understand the gap the user is experiencing. By
deliberately defining the design problem, this defect can be avoided. An additional defect is
a failure to pose the design challenge broadly enough to allow the exploration and discovery
of a wide range of potential solutions. The use of the five-whys method is one approach to
balancing the benefits of a more abstract problem definition and the benefits of posing a
tractable problem the designer is capable of addressing in a meaningful way.

Notes
1
I do not address the problem of sensing gaps or of selecting plans, although I may do so in
a future edition. Sensing gaps in a commercial setting is often called opportunity
identification, and my book Innovation Tournaments (Terwiesch and Ulrich 2009) contains
two chapters on that topic. Selecting a plan is a fairly straightforward activity once good
alternatives have been identified. My book Product Design and Development (Ulrich and
Eppinger 2011) contains a chapter called “Concept Selection,” which describes some tools
for effective selection.

References
Boehm Barry. 1986. “A Spiral Model of Software Development and Enhancement.” ACM
SIGSOFT Software Engineering Notes, 11(4):14–24.

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Boehm, Barry W., Terence E. Gray, and Thomas Seewaldt. 1984. “Prototyping vs.
Specifying: A Multi-Project Experiment.” In Proceedings of the 7th International Conference on
Software Engineering, Orlando, Florida, 473-484.
Crilly, Nathan. 2010. “The Roles That Artefacts Play: Technical, Social and Aesthetic
Functions.” Design Studies 31 (4): 311–344.
Duerk, Donna P. 1993. Architectural Programming: Information Management for Design. New
York: John Wiley & Sons.
Finger, Susan, and John R. Dixon. 1989. “A Review of Research in Mechanical
Engineering Design.” Research in Engineering Design 1: 121–137.
Fowler, T. C. 1990. Value Analysis in Design. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold.
Hubka, Vladimir, and W. Ernst Eder. 1988. Theory of Technical Systems. New York:
Springer-Verlag.
Levitt, Theodore. 1977. “Marketing When Things Change.” Harvard Business Review,
November–December: 107–113.
Mead, Carver, and Lynn Conway. 1980. Introduction to VLSI Systems. Boston, MA:
Addison-Wesley.
Ohno, Taiichi. 1988. Toyota Production System: Beyond Large-Scale Production. Portland, OR:
Productivity Press.
Pahl, G., and Wolfgang Beitz. 1984. Engineering Design, trans. Ken Wallace, Lucienne
Blessing, and Frank Bauert; ed. Ken Wallace. London: The Design Council.
Shewhart, Walter Andrew. 1939. Statistical Method from the Viewpoint of Quality Control. New
York: Dover.
Terwiesch, Christian, and K.T. Ulrich. 2009. Innovation Tournaments: Creating and Selecting
Exceptional Opportunities. Boston, MA: Harvard Business Press.
Ulrich, K. T., and Steven D. Eppinger. 2011. Product Design and Development. New York:
Irwin/McGraw-Hill.

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 FOUR

Exploration

Exhibit 4-1 shows a few of Frank Lloyd Wright’s sketches for a collection of cabins
contemplated for a development at Lake Tahoe. Wright’s sketches reveal a process of
exploration of design alternatives, which is a hallmark of the activity of design. This chapter
describes the essential elements of the exploration process. After explaining why exploration
is necessary, I describe the concepts of representation and abstraction. I then discuss evaluation
of design quality normally required to guide exploration. Next, I articulate the exploration
strategies used most frequently to reduce the cognitive complexity of design problems.
Finally, I connect these concepts to practice by touching on several examples.

Design Requires Exploration

Exploration inevitably involves consuming resources to develop and evaluate alternatives
that will eventually be abandoned. We would of course prefer to avoid this wasted effort
and just pick the right answer directly. Why do we need to explore, as opposed to
determining the right answer analytically or with some other technique?
To illuminate the need for exploration, consider a counterexample, a design problem
that can be solved without exploration: Design a beam—a structural element spanning some
distance—to support an antenna on a space station. The antenna will be mounted in the
center of the span and will apply inertial loads of up to 100 N perpendicular to the axis of
the beam. The beam must not deflect more than 2 mm under that load in order to maintain
signal quality and to limit vibration. The beam must span a 2 m wide opening and can be
attached rigidly to both sides of the structure. The beam must be lightweight, but as
inexpensive as possible. Assume that, like most other elements of the space station, the
beam will be made of aluminum.
Because the beam design problem is simple, well defined, and highly constrained, and
because it is informed by two centuries of development in the field of engineering science, it
can be solved without exploration. The solution is a round aluminum tube, 2 m long and
43.5 mm in diameter, with a 1 mm wall thickness.1
However, let us make the problem slightly more realistic. Why constrain the solution to
be aluminum? Why not allow titanium, or fiberglass, or steel, or carbon-fiber reinforced
plastic? Why does the tube have to be a constant cross-section? Couldn’t the wall be thinner
in the middle? Given the attachment conditions at the ends of the gap, would a truss
structure perhaps be more efficient than a tube? Could some additional structure be added to

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the antenna itself so that it could span 2 m instead of requiring a separate beam? With these
simple questions, we have posed directions for exploration that would require a minimum
of 32 different analyses, each with substantially different assumptions. Given a few
moments of thought and a handful of questions, the design problem we could solve without
exploration has been exploded into something that will require substantial exploration by
even the most gifted designer. And even with complications, this is a relatively simple
design problem.

Exhibit 4-1. A page of sketches by Frank Lloyd Wright that ex-

plore the design space for a cabin at Lake Tahoe. Note the use of
plan and perspective views to represent design concepts and the
varying levels of abstraction employed in different sketches.
Source: U.S. Library of Congress.
Practical design problems can rarely if ever be solved effectively without exploration.
The problems simply cannot be fully formalized, there are too many discrete alternatives to
consider, and the mathematical complexity would be overwhelming even if the problems
could be formalized. And yet humans manage to design artifacts. The design strategy

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employed essentially universally by skilled designers is to explore a space of possibilities
using a collection of heuristics that reduce the complexity of the task and to rely on
knowledge to direct the exploration.

Representation and Abstraction

A representation is a language for describing designs using symbols. Consider Exhibit 4-2.
The sketch on the right uses 13 line segments to denote the important edges of the geometry
of a shed. Humans in general, and most designers specifically, are quite adept at interpreting
such sketches as a representation of a geometric form.2
Most design involves a symbolic representation of artifacts. The alternative would be to
explore directly in the physical world with the actual construction materials of artifacts. For
example, to design a shed without the use of a symbolic representation, one would just start
building. When the design proved unsatisfactory, the designer would either abandon the
partially completed shed and start a new one or tear down portions of the shed and replace
them with an alternative. The direct approach is quite rare in most domains because the cost
in time and materials of manipulating the world directly is quite high. The designer can
move much more quickly and with much less expense with pencil and paper, or with
cardboard, glue, and a razor knife. (Curiously, design without representation may actually
be the best approach in a few rare instances. For example, the details of dry-laid stone walls
are largely designed by direct manipulation of the stones. This is because representing the
detailed geometry of each stone would be more tedious than just looking at the array of
stones on the ground and trying a few alternatives.)
Representation requires abstraction. An abstraction is a limited description of an artifact.
A real shed can be described with essentially infinite detail. Imagine, for example,
describing the precise geometry of the surface of each shingle on the shed. With detail
comes complexity, which increases the cognitive burden of design. To manage cognitive
complexity, designers employ representations that are abstract, encoding only the essential
information about a possible artifact. Suppressing the details of materials, finishes, colors,
trim, decoration, and adjacent plantings makes the shed design problem more
straightforward. Good abstractions suppress details that have little relevance for the central
design decisions at hand.
In addition to reducing the complexity of the design space by focusing attention on the
key design decisions, representations are used to record design alternatives in external
memory. Humans do not have the cognitive ability to store and recall the dozens or hundreds
of alternatives typically explored during the design process. In contrast, paper, digital files,
and physical models are quite effective storage devices for that task.
Representation and abstraction are important for exploration in nonphysical domains as
well. Services and computer programs are often designed using flowcharts. Advertisements
are designed using storyboards. Songs are designed with musical notation.
Most representations used in design exploration are informal, meaning that neither the
syntax nor the semantics are defined precisely. Representations used to communicate a
design for the purposes of fabrication are typically more formal (e.g., digital solid models or
architectural drawings), but even these representations are not typically formal in a

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mathematical sense. To aid in illustrating some of the key ideas in this chapter, I employ a
relatively formal representation and abstraction I call shed world.

Exhibit 4-2. A real shed and a shed abstraction.

Shed world
Imagine a design problem posed by the need for a garden shed. The basic function of the
shed is to shelter outdoor belongings. The user needs to store two trash cans, three bicycles,
a wheelbarrow, and a stack of lawn chairs. The shed needs to fit on the edge of a terrace and
harmonize aesthetically with the house. It needs to protect the contents from the weather in
northern latitudes.
Shed world, shown in Exhibit 4-3, is a representation for describing sheds. Shed world is
a particularly simple formal representation in which a shed is described by a quintuple: wall
height, floor plan aspect ratio, roof type, roof orientation, and roof pitch. These five
elements fully describe a shed in this formalism. A tuple is a simple form of a design grammar,
a set of rules for constructing “legal” designs in a design space. A more complex grammar
might allow for floor plans that are Ts or Ls or Hs or might allow for roofs that have
nonconstant pitches. However, for our purposes, the simple shed grammar consisting of a
quintuple is sufficiently complex.
To get a sense of the complexity of this design space, assume that designs are allowed to
assume only the discrete options shown in Exhibit 4-3. These discrete choices result in 640
distinct sheds (4 heights x 5 aspect ratios x 4 roof types x 2 roof orientations x 4 roof
pitches). Five of these designs are shown in the exhibit. Of course, adding other attributes
like door location, window placement, or siding type increases the size of the design space
geometrically, and if we allowed the attributes to take on continuous values (e.g., arbitrary
aspect ratios instead of discrete choices), then there would be infinite possibilities.

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 Even in the highly stylized shed world, the complexity is daunting. It would be tedious
to consider every alternative. And with more complex design problems, doing so is more
than tedious, it is impossible.

Exhibit 4-3. A formal representation of the design space for a

shed.

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 Evaluation
Design requires exploration, and so the process of design must include evaluation of the
alternatives considered; otherwise the selection of a design would be arbitrary. Of course,
the designer could literally build and test every artifact contemplated. However, evaluation
is much more efficient when based on an abstract representation of those artifacts.
In almost all cases of design by humans, the first evaluation of a design is a cognitive
response of the designer to a sketch or other representation of the design. These evaluations
are holistic judgments based on highly abstract descriptions. These judgments are efficient,
but because they are formed rapidly based on limited information, they are plagued by
uncertainty.
Subsequent evaluations of more refined designs may be more analytical, and may be
based on a decomposition of the overall quality of an artifact into several dimensions or
attributes. For the garden shed, the quality attributes might include space efficiency,
aesthetics, cost, and ease of access to the contents. For a fruit salad, the attributes might
include appearance, flavor, texture, and shelf life. For an airplane, the attributes might
include fuel efficiency, payload, cruising speed, and minimum runway length. A rich history
of academic research and industrial practice has shown that useful predictions of user
preference can be made by first evaluating alternatives with respect to individual attributes
and then aggregating those evaluations into a single overall measure of utility or preference
(Keeney and Raiffa 1976).
As the designer narrows the possibilities under consideration to just a few, prototypes
may be built and tested to refine and validate earlier judgments.3

Exploration Strategies
Armed with a representation and a way to evaluate design alternatives, the designer still
faces daunting complexity in the exploration task. In this section, I outline four strategies
commonly used to manage the complexity of exploration: hierarchical decisions, parallel
exploration and selection, causal relationships, and existing artifacts.4
Hierarchical decisions
In shed world, the array of possibilities can be reduced substantially simply by fixing one of
the design variables. For example, one might decide that the shed will have a rectangular
floor plan with the long side facing the terrace. Assuming the designer is working from the
discrete alternatives for the variables illustrated in Exhibit 4-3, this single decision reduces
the number of alternatives from 640 to 128, a factor of five.
Of course, an arbitrary fixing of a design variable introduces the risk of having excluded
an excellent design from consideration. But these decisions need not be arbitrary. Ideally,
the designer makes a decision that substantially reduces the complexity of the problem and
that can be made with high reliability without committing to decisions for the remaining
design variables.
Subsequent design decisions can then proceed sequentially. Given the rectangular aspect
ratio, the designer may decide that the ridge of the roof will be oriented the long way on the
building. Having specified a roof orientation and aspect ratio, the designer may then decide

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that the roof will be a conventional gable-end peaked roof. Given those choices, the designer
may decide that the roof pitch will be 45 degrees (or “twelve twelve” in roofing terminology,
referring to a vertical rise of 12 inches over a horizontal run of 12 inches). Finally, the
designer may commit to a 2-meter wall height. This process of sequential decision making
and the resulting path through the design space is illustrated in Exhibit 4-4.
By considering design decisions hierarchically, exploration becomes a process of
choosing which fork in the road to take as each decision is encountered. Typically, a
sequential decision strategy is a heuristic approach—it is a rule of thumb that does not
guarantee that the best alternative is found on the first pass. One cannot typically know that
there is not a better design down some path that was not taken. As a result, most designers
will explore several paths, may backtrack, and may explore several different sequences of
decisions. Nevertheless, a collection of promising designs can usually be generated relatively
efficiently by considering decisions hierarchically.
Parallel exploration and selection
A sequence of design decisions forms a trajectory of exploration in the design space. In
Exhibit 4-4 one such trajectory is shown for the decisions explicit in shed world. However,
to finalize the design of the shed, we would need to locate a door and possibly a window or
two. We would need to choose materials and finishes. We would need to specify trim
details and the characteristics of the foundation. For most design problems, many such
detailed design considerations consume a great deal of effort. These details can rarely
transform a poor initial concept into a high-quality artifact. No amount of cedar siding and
polished brass hardware will transform a bad floor plan with an ugly roof into a nice shed.
We can exploit differences in relative importance and cost of design decisions in the
exploration process. By arranging design decisions in order of decreasing importance and in
order of increasing effort, the designer can focus on the high-impact, low-cost decisions first,
and defer the high-cost, low-impact decisions for later. We then can divide the design
decisions into a selection phase and a development phase (Sommer and Loch 2004).
In the selection phase, several trajectories are pursued in parallel, but only as far as
necessary to make an assessment of the likely quality of an artifact that would result from
pursuing the trajectory fully. The designer in effect walks down a path only far enough to
get a sense of how the landscape looks in that direction. By exploring several alternative
paths in a preliminary way, the designer avoids wasting resources refining a design concept
that will ultimately prove unsatisfactory.
The multiple trajectories of parallel exploration can be pursued by several independent
designers as part of a design team or possibly even in a tournament format among
competing designers (Terwiesch and Ulrich 2009). Alternatively, several trajectories may be
pursued in a preliminary way sequentially by a single designer and then compared
simultaneously.
By ordering design decisions carefully and by pursuing several trajectories in a
preliminary way in parallel, the designer first selects a promising design direction before
committing the resources required to fully refine the design. In doing so the designer avoids
a pitfall common among novices, which is to focus on a single design direction initially,
investing substantial resources in a concept that will ultimately prove to be disappointing.

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 Exhibit 4-4. A partially instantiated tree structure representing
hierarchical design decisions.
Causal relationships
Ideally, decisions about design variables are not made randomly. Rather, the designer
benefits from knowledge about the causal relationship between a particular value of a design
variable and the ultimate quality of the artifact. For example, if a shed will be built off site
and transported by truck, the freight costs will be lowest if the shed can be placed on a trailer
and can travel normally on roadways. In the United States, this requires that the shed and
trailer be less than 14 feet high, which implies that the roof be less than 11 feet high. As a
result, we know by simple geometry that for a peaked roof, the shed height is equal to the

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wall height plus the tangent of the roof angle times half the width of the shed. This
knowledge allows us to eliminate from consideration a combination of a peaked roof and
high walls and to constrain the roof pitch to be less than 45 degrees for the aspect ratios with
wider walls. This kind of knowledge of the causal relationships among design variables and
the ultimate quality of the artifact allows for entire regions of the design space to be
eliminated from consideration.
Causal relationships need not be mathematically precise or even valid under all
conditions. Rather, they can be heuristics that allow for more promising designs to be
generated efficiently. For example, one heuristic is that to harmonize with a Victorian house
style, the roof should be a gable-end or hipped roof with a pitch of at least 9/12. This is not
universally valid, but works for the vast majority of situations. Another heuristic is to use
the golden ratio (~1.6) for the ratio of the length to the width of the floor. Again, the causal
relationship is not universally valid, but provides heuristic guidance that often leads to
superior solutions.
If one were to apply all three of these examples of causal relationships to the shed design
problem, there would remain only 12 alternatives, few enough that every one of them could
be sketched or modeled, and evaluated. Shed world with these causal relationships applied
is illustrated in Exhibit 4-5.
Causal relationships are learned through experience, and sometimes are codified and
taught. Design in domains for which such relationships have not been learned, discovered,
or developed is very, very difficult.5 Knowledge of these relationships is one of the key
factors that distinguish novices from experts as they approach design problems.
Existing artifacts
A fourth strategy for managing the daunting complexity of exploration in design is to
exploit existing artifacts. Existing artifacts are jewels for designers. Someone else has
expended the resources required to build and test the artifact. Existing artifacts are known
landmarks in the design space that can be readily evaluated. By considering the solutions
that others have designed to address a similar problem, one can start the exploration process
with substantial knowledge. Indeed, if an existing artifact is close to being acceptable, it can
become a starting point for incremental modification and learning. Exhibit 4-6 shows a few
existing sheds. As a shed designer I could immediately make some useful inferences. (For
instance, I discover that I prefer peaked roofs with steep pitches and substantially
rectangular floor plans, and I discover many interesting possibilities for window and door
placement, and for materials and finishes.)
A generalization of successful existing designs is a template, a pattern for designs that has
proven successful in the past. Goldenberg and Mazursky (2002) provide compelling
evidence for the power of a relatively few templates for guiding the creation of high-quality
artifacts in the domains of product design and advertising. They have shown that these
templates can be taught to professionals and used efficiently to create new product and
advertisement concepts.

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 Exhibit 4-5. The design space, pruned through the use of causal
relationships.

Shed World and the Real World

Shed world, or really any representation of a design space, is not the real world for at least
two reasons. First, shed world is an abstraction of the space of possible artifacts that focuses
on only a small subset of the attributes of real artifacts. Shed world does not capture the
interesting contrast between trim painted baby blue and the weathered shingles on the shed
in Exhibit 4-2. Shed world does not treat door and window placement. Shed world does not
consider roofing materials. Shed world does not capture the treatment of the soffits and
rafter tails on the roof. The real world is infinitely complex, and so any symbolic
representation must necessarily omit certain attributes of artifacts. A good representation is
one that suppresses detail that is irrelevant to the task of exploring the space of possible
designs, yet makes explicit those attributes that have a large impact on the quality of an
eventual artifact produced from the design.
Second, and perhaps more significant, shed world constrains exploration to the
boundaries of the grammar; to the limits of the expression of the representation. Exhibit 4-7
is a collection of sheds that cannot be discovered through exploration in shed world.
Limited expressiveness is the other edge of the sword of representation: Representations
allow for efficient exploration by limiting the space of possibilities, but they also exclude
many possible design alternatives. In practice, designers can overcome the limits of

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expressiveness by exploring designs using several alternative representations, in essence
exploring under several different sets of constraints and abstractions.
By using shed world as the central example in this chapter, I hope I have not
overemphasized the importance of representation in design. Most designers do not think
explicitly about representation, and work perfectly comfortably without thinking about the
symbol systems they employ. Most designers employ several informal representations when
designing, sometimes nearly simultaneously, as evidenced by the Wright sketch at the
beginning of the chapter. The theoretical concept of representation is useful, I believe, for
better understanding the task of designing. However, I am not prescribing the use of formal
representations as a tool or technique for practicing design.

Exhibit 4-6. A collection of existing sheds, each one representing

a known point in the design space.

Other Examples
I have illustrated the key concepts of the chapter with the problem of designing a shed,
because the domain is simple and easy to understand. However, I do not wish to leave the
impression that these ideas apply only to the design of buildings. Following are a few other
examples of design domains, associated representations, and exploration strategies.
Internet domain names
Naming problems are a highly structured form of design problem. Generating designs for
Internet domain names is a fairly common problem in professional life. Domain names
must of course be unique, in that they must map to a single Internet protocol numerical

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address. The design problem is to find a name that is available and that satisfies some other
criteria. Common criteria for product and company names are that they be memorable, easy
to spell, short, and evoke positive associations. Domain names may consist of only 38
possible characters (a-z, 0-9, -, +) and must end with a top-level domain (e.g., .com, .net,
.edu, etc.). These rules are design grammar for the domain. If we assume that a practical
domain name has 15 or fewer characters, then there are more than 3815 possible names for
each type of top-level domain.6 This is about enough to give a unique name to each grain of
sand on earth.7 Given this vast design space, finding a unique name is not typically a
problem (e.g., xutq++012ayq858.net is highly likely to be available). The problem is that the
space is rather sparsely populated with names that are in some sense good. Exploration can
proceed fairly exhaustively for domains up to about three letters long, at which point the
designer really has to begin invoking some brutally efficient heuristics to limit the
possibilities considered.

Exhibit 4-7. An eclectic collection of sheds not represented by

shed world. (Various sources.)
Exhibit 4-8 shows the later stages of exploration for a name for a teaching aid that I
designed with my colleague Christian Terwiesch. The device is a catapult that launches
table tennis balls and that can be adjusted in order to run experiments on the launching
process. The names in the exhibit are the best of more than a thousand alternatives that
were generated by a group of my students. Note the use of heuristics for generating
alternatives. For example, a very common heuristic is to create compound names composed
of two words (e.g., “flingthing”). Another heuristic is to construct an arbitrary string of
characters that can be easily pronounced (e.g., “fooz”). A third heuristic is to take fragments
of two words that have meaning in the domain of interest and graft them together (e.g.,
“catapong”). These names are much better than random strings of letters, and provide the

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designer with an efficient way to explore the space. A second idea illustrated by this
example is that of selectionism. A large number of parallel trajectories were compared in
tournament fashion, with successive rounds of filtering to arrive at a good solution. The
name we finally selected was xpult and the domain is xpult.com. We were quite pleased to
find a unique evocative name just five characters long, even though there are 385 five-
character names out there.
An important insight is that if one of the most highly structured design domains
imaginable (Internet domain names) is essentially infinite in scope, imagine the vastness of
less structured domains such as architecture, graphics, industrial design, software, cooking,
or engineering design.

Initial Con- Best Ten Best Three Final Name

cepts
AstroPong Catapong Catapong Xpult
Catapong Catapulooza Varipult
Catapulooza Experipult Xpult
Experipult FlingThing
FlingThing Funpult
Fooz Hurlicane
Funpult PingFling
Hurlicane Slingcat
Hurlitzer Varipult
LearningLever Xpult
PennPong
Physazz
PingFling
Pongit
Slingcat
Swish
TheCatapult
Varipult
Xpult

Exhibit 4-8. Exploration of alternatives for Internet domain

names (and a product name) for an experimental catapult used as
a training aid.
Utility knives
Exhibit 4-9 illustrates exploration for the domain of utility knives, in this case in response to
a design problem posed by the company Henkel. The designer explored many alternatives in
a preliminary way, 24 of which are illustrated on the left. Three promising alternatives are
shown on the right with greater resolution of detail. Some of the variables evident in the
designer’s implicit representation of the problem are handle width, “beak curvature,” grip
padding placement, blade/handle interface, and blade replacement mechanism.

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 Exhibit 4-9. Results of exploration in the domain of utility knives.
On the left are results of some preliminary exploration and on
the right are the three most promising alternatives. Source: Apol-
lo Paul Paredes.
Italian pasta dishes
In my experience, if one orders a pasta dish at a restaurant in Italy some distance from the
obvious tourist destinations, it will be wonderful nearly every time. Many of these pasta
dishes seem very simple, yet they represent highly successful artifacts in a design space that
is incredibly vast. Consider the representation of pasta dishes shown in Exhibit 4-10. The
pasta itself can be produced in infinite variety. (There is even pasta in the shape of a bicycle
for the cycling fanatic.) Even if dishes are restricted to the few hundred readily available
pasta types, adding the design variables associated with the sauce explodes the design
problem into millions of possibilities. (This is without considering the variables associated
with relative proportions of ingredients.) Designing a new pasta dish benefits from several of
the exploration strategies introduced in this chapter. For example, we might address the
problem hierarchically, perhaps first deciding the base for the sauce and deferring until last
the shape of the pasta. We might invoke causal relationships, like the heuristic that tomato,
garlic, and olive oil often combine harmoniously; or that vegetables with subtle flavors
typically do not stand up to the strength of tomato-based sauces. We might use existing
designs as starting points—say, beginning with a carbonara sauce (egg, pecorino cheese,
pancetta, olive oil, and garlic)—and incrementally modifying it to be a meatless design, such
as by substituting caramelized onions for pancetta.

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 Exhibit 4-10. A representation of a design space for pasta dishes.
Logos
Terrapass is a company that sells environmental offsets for automobiles
(www.terrapass.com). Shortly after the company was formed, a team of three graphic
designers explored options for a logo for the company. Some of the exploration is shown in
Exhibit 4-11. The process clearly proceeded hierarchically, with initial concepts articulated
in black and white and then the more promising concepts developed further and finally
detailed in color and with type. The team explored quite broadly initially and discovered a
region of the design space they called the “yin yang arrows” (the two designs near the lower
right corner of the first set), which everyone really liked. This region was explored further
(the middle set of designs) and finally refined with color and detail in the final design on the
right.

Concluding Remarks
An attempt to provide a theoretical framework for exploration in design raises at least two
interesting questions. First, if exploration can be characterized formally, can it be
automated? Second, what is the relationship between theory and practice; do practicing
designers think of exploration as I’ve described it?
Automation
Over the past few decades, researchers have attempted to automate certain design tasks. By
and large the most successful efforts have been confined to facilitating the description of
designs (e.g., with solid modeling via computers), visualizing designs with computer
graphics and rapid prototyping, and/or estimating the performance of artifacts. There has
been very little progress in truly automating the exploration process. I believe that the
biggest barrier to this endeavor is automatically estimating the quality of an artifact based on
a partially completed design. I’m not optimistic about the prospects for full automation of
the exploration process. However, I see great potential for further development of tools for

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allowing designers to more rapidly generate alternatives, visualize designs, and evaluate
designs without having to build and test prototypes.

Exhibit 4-11. Exploration of alternatives for Terrapass logo. The

seven logos toward the right resulted from further exploration in
the region of “yin-yang arrows” discovered during initial explora-
tion. Source: Lunar Design Inc.
But do designers do it this way?
I don’t imagine the chef Thomas Keller will read this book and begin developing a pasta
grammar for his exquisite restaurant The French Laundry. Indeed, very few practicing
designers became experts at design by learning the theoretical foundations of exploration as
outlined here. Let me make two comments on this reality. First, the fact that practitioners
are not aware of the theoretical underpinnings of a task does not mean those underpinnings
are not valid. Design is a complex information processing task. There is no way to avoid the
inherent complexity of the task, although expert designers have developed many powerful
techniques for avoiding blind search. Just because designers do not typically think of their
tasks in formal terms does not mean that those tasks can be tackled without somehow
confronting the basic tradeoffs and challenges inherent to exploration. In fact, I believe that
most good designers learn the strategies I have described here as well as others, even if they
cannot articulate them explicitly.

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 My second response is perhaps more controversial. Much of design education and
almost all of design practice is atheoretical. I believe that theory can inform practice in
design. In many domains, expertise is acquired through painstaking trial and error, often
under the guidance of a seasoned expert. I believe that a robust theory of exploration can
lead to more efficient learning of design expertise and a more thorough exploration of
design alternatives in practice. Indeed, this belief was one of the motives for writing this
book. I may be wrong in this belief, and so I leave it as a conjecture that remains to be
validated.

Notes
1
The beam is a round tube because we know that a round tube is the most weight-efficient
structure for supporting loads that could come from any direction. The equation for the
deflection of a tube rigidly supported on both ends with a load F applied in the middle is  =
FL3/192EI, where L is the length of the span, E is the modulus of elasticity of the material,
and I is the moment of inertia of the beam cross section. (We know this thanks to at least
Galileo, da Vinci, Euler, and Bernoulli.) The moment of inertia is calculated as I = (D4–
d4)/64. We know that the minimum thickness of the wall is 1 mm to allow inexpensive
joining techniques and to prevent buckling (i.e., D – d  0.002 m), and we know that the
lightest possible structure will be a tube with the minimum possible wall thickness. We can
plug in values for , F, L, and E and solve for D. The resulting design is a 2 m long
aluminum tube, 43.5 mm in diameter, with a wall thickness of 1 mm. Thus, we can solve a
design problem while avoiding wasting effort on exploration.
2
Winston (1992) provides a clear and detailed discussion of representation and search in his
book on artificial intelligence (AI). Design is connected in many deep and important ways
to AI and the Winston book provides a good introduction to the core concepts.
3
See Ulrich and Eppinger (2011), Chapter 12, for a thorough discussion of prototypes in
product design.
4
Herbert Simon (1996) pioneered the view of design essentially embodied in this chapter,
articulating the concepts of representation, complexity, and search. I deliberately avoid the
term search in this book, preferring instead exploration. The term search tends to offend
practicing designers. For many, it implies weak methods unguided by expertise. This is not
the sense in which Simon and other early researchers intended it, but I find the word
exploration more descriptive of the activity anyway, so I adopt it here.
5
Fleming and Sorenson (2004) have done a fascinating study of the patent literature in
which they show that science serves to guide search in complex design domains.
6
There are more than this because domain names need not be 15 characters long, but this
figure gives a sense of the essentially infinite scope of the design space.
7
If you must know, poke around the Internet and you’ll probably find estimates for the
number of grains of sand on earth to be about 1022 – 1025. Note that 3815 is about 1023.

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 References
Fleming, Lee, and Olav Sorenson. 2004. “Science as a Map in Technological Search.”
Strategic Management Journal 25: 909–928.
Goldenberg, Jacob, and David Mazursky. 2002. Creativity in Product Innovation. Cambridge,
UK: Cambridge University Press.
Keeney, R. L., and H. Raiffa. 1976. Decisions with Multiple Objectives: Preferences and Value
Tradeoffs. New York: Wiley.
Simon, H. A. 1996. The Sciences of the Artificial. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Sommer, Svenja C., and Christoph H. Loch. 2004. “Selectionism and Learning in Projects
with Complexity and Unforeseeable Uncertainty.” Management Science 50 (10): 1334–1347.
Terwiesch, Christian, and K. T. Ulrich. 2009. Innovation Tournaments: Creating and Selecting
Exceptional Opportunities. Boston, MA: Harvard Business Press.
Ulrich, K. T., and S. D. Eppinger. 2011. Product Design and Development. New York:
Irwin/McGraw-Hill.
Winston, P. H. 1992. “Semantic Nets and Description Matching,” 15–46; “Nets and Basic
Search,” 63–80. In Artificial Intelligence. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley.

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 FIVE

Users, Experts, and Institutions in Design

The first act of design was almost certainly user design, in that the first artifact was given
form by the user rather than by a third-party designer. Perhaps this first user designer
contemplated frustration with a task nearly 3 million years ago, formed a plan to address the
frustration, and then fashioned an artifact, possibly fracturing a river cobble to form a
scraping tool. A clear distinction between expert designers and user designers emerged at
some point, possibly first in architecture. Certainly by the time ancient Egyptians were
creating pyramids, the roles of experts and users in design were separated. The activity of
design appears to have become increasingly professional and institutionalized over the next
few thousand years. By the nineteenth century, as the Industrial Revolution developed in
full, expert designers with specific technical training assumed distinct professional roles,
both because of the comparative advantage of expertise and because institutions, usually
companies, were formed to exploit the benefits of mass production.
Although a separation between users and designers has increased in many domains over
the past several thousand years, the practice of design by users is emerging again in current
society. This chapter addresses the role of the user in design, with particular emphasis on
design by users, and considers how experts and institutions interact with users to deliver
artifacts in modern society. In this chapter, I articulate three modes of engagement in
design: by users, experts, and institutions. Then, I outline the drivers of the selection of these
modes in society. Finally, I discuss how emerging technologies and practices are enabling
shifts in how these modes are applied.

Design Modes
Design is conceiving and giving form to artifacts that solve problems. Exhibit 5-1 reiterates
the model of design I adopt for this book. Design is an information processing activity
through which a plan for an artifact is created to address a gap in the user experience. A
production activity transforms that plan into the artifact itself.
I have described the design process without characterizing the agents who do the design
other than referring to them as designers. For the purposes of this chapter, I distinguish
between users and experts. Users are the individuals experiencing the perceived gap between
the current state and the goal state. They are essentially always a party to the design
process.1 Other terms for users include customers, consumers, clients, and stakeholders, although
these terms evoke a more specific commercial context than I intend. Experts are individuals
who have acquired skills and capabilities that allow them to perform most design tasks more

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efficiently and at a higher level of quality than novices. In some cases an expert may also be
a user, as for instance when an expert employed as a designer by a cookware company is
also an avid cook.

Exhibit 5-1. Model of the design process.

I make an additional distinction about the institutional context of design. Design may be
performed for a particular user or for multiple users who share similar needs. When design
is performed for a collection of users (e.g., a market segment), usually by providing artifacts
produced from a common plan, some institution is required to coordinate the design and
production of the artifact. These institutions are most typically firms, but may also be
governments, clubs, religious organizations, universities, professional societies, user groups,
or neighborhood associations.
I divide the modes of design into three categories—user design, custom design, and common
design—according to the roles played by users, experts, and institutions. These modes are
illustrated in Exhibit 5-2.
 User design consists of a single user designing for his or her own needs. Because the
resulting plan is produced for a single individual, and therefore in low quantity, a
flexible production process is required to deliver the artifact. Flexible processes are
those that can produce different artifacts without incurring high fixed costs for each
variant. In many cases, such flexible production processes are craft processes in
which skilled people create artifacts with general-purpose tools, as is typically the
case for unique furniture or unique buildings. An example of a flexible production
process enabled by technology is digital printing.
 Custom design is also paired with flexible production of a unique artifact. However,
an expert creates a plan on behalf of a particular user. In most cases, the user
contracts with the expert for this service, as is the case when hiring an architect to
design a unique house or engaging a machinery designer to design a unique piece of
factory equipment.
 Common design differs from custom design and user design in that artifacts based
on a common plan are delivered to a collection of users. Because this common
artifact is in a relatively large quantity, it may be produced by mass production
methods, processes that typically incur substantial fixed costs for each variant of the
product, but relatively low marginal costs of producing additional units. Common
design involves an institution of some kind, usually a firm, that assesses the gaps in a

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 set of users, creates a common plan for addressing those gaps and delivers an artifact
based on a common design to those users.
This taxonomy focuses on differences in the way design is performed, and I do not
distinguish between flexible production by users and flexible production by experts. Mass
production because of its very nature must be performed by an institution of some kind as it
serves a collection of users with a common artifact.
These categories are intended to be exhaustive and mutually exclusive relative to the
variables identified here. However, all three modes may exist simultaneously to serve
different individuals within the same community of users or market.

Exhibit 5-2. Three modes of design that may be exhibited within

a community of users.

Drivers of Mode Choice

Assuming that historically the first design mode was user design, why did the other modes
evolve and why do they exist? What are their relative advantages? What drives the choice of
mode in a particular setting?
Economies of scale in production lead to common design
A very large fraction of the economic value in retail trade in current society flows through
just a few very large distribution channels (e.g., Walmart, Target, Home Depot, Carrefour).
Most products in these channels are produced in high volume (e.g., 10,000 to 10 million
units/year) for a mass market. This is because for these products, mass production offers a
crushing advantage in satisfying user needs at low cost. This advantage arises because of
economies of scale in design and production. Creating 10,000 pairs of identical shoes can be
a hundred times less expensive on a per-unit basis than creating only one pair of unique
shoes. Very few consumers have distinct enough needs to be willing to pay a hundredfold

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premium for shoes made uniquely for them. Thus, the cost structure of most design and
production processes provides a compelling motive for clustering similar groups of users and
addressing their needs with a common design.
A common design requires an institution of some kind, because to achieve
commonality, users must be grouped, the gaps in their experiences assessed, and a common
artifact designed and produced for them. In sum, economies of scale lead to mass
production; mass production requires a common design; a common design requires an
institution. For this mode, user design is generally not possible. To the extent that design is
performed by a single individual, or even by a team, the remaining individuals whose needs
are addressed by the common artifact will not be designers. Instead their experience will be
assessed vicariously by others in the common design mode.
Custom design versus user design
Design is performed for a single user when that user’s needs are unique enough, given likely
economies of scale in design and production, that a unique artifact is preferred to a common
artifact (Lancaster 1990). This case arises frequently in architecture (custom homes,
buildings, landscapes), food, software, and graphics. This mode is also exhibited
occasionally in furniture, apparel, sporting goods, and tools. It is exhibited rarely in home
appliances, automobiles, aircraft, medical devices, or computers, domains for which the
economies of scale present nearly insurmountable barriers to unique artifacts, even for the
very wealthy.2 The design of a unique artifact in this context may be performed either by the
user or by an expert on behalf of that user, leading to the two modes in the upper half of
Exhibit 5-2.
All other things equal, design professionals develop expertise that allows them to
perform design tasks better than novices (Ericsson 1996). Given that most users will be
novices, experts will outperform users in most design tasks. However, costs are incurred in
engaging an expert, and so the expert design mode will be selected only when the
advantages of expertise outweigh its costs. These costs can be thought of as direct costs paid
to the expert and as transaction costs associated with retaining the expert. Direct costs are
straightforward: Most experts will be paid for their services. Transaction costs are more
subtle; they are incurred in defining a design problem and in evaluating alternative
solutions.
On first reflection, a user would appear to have an advantage over an expert in defining
a design problem, in diagnosing the gap in his or her own experience. I believe that this is
sometimes true, but not necessarily so. Experts by definition have encountered similar
design problems many times before and will likely have observed empirical regularities in
user needs. Experts typically also deploy techniques for probing user needs, such as
interviews and observational methods (Ulrich and Eppinger 2011). In many cases user
needs are latent, in that they cannot be spontaneously articulated by users, but if these needs
are satisfied, the gap in the user experience is addressed. Of course, a risk of expertise is that
it frames the designer’s diagnosis of the problem. An architect may define a gap in the
communication patterns within an R&D organization as a problem relating to the built
environment, whereas a management consultant may define the same gap as a problem of
organizational structure. These challenges in defining design problems may be manifest as

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financial costs and/or the costs associated with different levels of quality of the resulting
artifact.
Exploration almost never results in a single plan, but rather exposes several alternatives
that are promising enough for serious consideration. Evaluation of alternatives typically
occurs “on paper” before an artifact is produced. Once an artifact has been produced, there
is almost always an evaluation through testing by the user. Users are clearly best at
assessing, through their own experience, whether an artifact actually closes the sensed gap
in their experience. While experts may productively observe patterns in behavior, ultimately
the user is the frame of reference for the gap in the first place, and is the only agent who can
conclude that the gap has been addressed. However, users are typically ill equipped to
forecast the extent to which a design alternative, represented abstractly, will meet their
needs. Because they do not work daily with design representations, most users are not
skilled at visualizing an artifact or a mental simulation of the artifact’s function, and are not
alert for common pitfalls for a category of artifact.
Given these characteristics of transaction costs, users are actually likely to have an
advantage over experts when design alternatives can be readily generated and when plans
can be accurately evaluated quickly and at low cost, as when realistic prototypes can be
produced readily. In such environments, the user can achieve high-quality design through
rapid iteration and learning. Expert design in the same context can incur high transaction
costs because of the switching back and forth between search by the expert and evaluation
by the user. In this situation, the more efficient search by an expert may be outweighed by
the reduced transaction costs of user design.
An additional driver of user design is the utility (or disutility) some users derive from
solving their own problems. To the extent that there is a psychological benefit derived from
the process of design (“I designed it myself!”), a user may be willing to accept a lower-
quality outcome even at the same cost of expert design (Franke et al. 2010).
For completeness, let me comment on an additional form of transaction costs, that
emphasized in transaction cost economics (TCE). The TCE paradigm has been influential in
thinking about industrial organization and so should be mentioned here. Consistent with the
view articulated in this chapter, TCE would predict a bias for user design in the face of high
transaction costs. However, the transaction costs contemplated in TCE are those associated
with asset specificity. When a contracting relationship between a user and an expert requires a
speculative investment in assets (e.g., knowledge and expertise) that are highly specific to a
particular relationship between a user and an expert, both the user and the expert face a loss
in bargaining power. This is because the asset that has been developed may be used only for
the specific relationship. Under these conditions, TCE predicts that the user will prefer not
to contract with another party, but will instead perform design for him- or herself. For a
discussion of the theory of transaction cost economics and the related literature, see Ulrich
and Ellison (2005). The problem with invoking TCE in this context is that most design is a
“one-off” effort, and so when contracting with an expert, a user typically assumes that all
transaction costs, including investments in specific assets, will be paid as part of the
engagement. The expert would rarely, if ever, invest in specific assets without factoring
those investments into the contract for design services. Terwiesch and Loch (2004) discuss
some of these contracting and pricing issues in the context of customized artifacts.

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Synergies among modes
All three modes of design can and typically do exist in the same community and for the
same category of artifact. Some people engage in user design. Some people engage in
custom design. Everyone participates in common design, at least through their consumption
and use of artifacts.
A commonly occurring pattern of innovation is for a new artifact to emerge through user
design and then to be adopted, often with some refinement, as part of a common design
effort. This process of appropriation and improvement may take place over many years and
even generations. This pattern of innovation has been documented in detail by von Hippel
(1988). However, the migration from a unique design to a common design need not
originate in user design. An essentially similar pattern involves the migration from expert
design of a unique artifact for a single user to common design by an institution for a
collection of users. In either case, an individual user uncovers a set of user needs and a
design that addresses those needs. This design is subsequently exploited by an institution to
deliver a common artifact.
Hybrid modes
An artifact may be the result of more than one mode of design if it comprises more than one
element. For example, a common component may be used in combination with a custom
component. Or, one or more attributes of a component may be customized, with the rest
standardized. This approach is sometimes called a platform strategy and is closely related to
the notion of mass customization. By adopting this strategy, a producer may be able to offer a
user a unique design while exploiting the economies of scale associated with the standard
elements of the product. Randall, Terwiesch, and Ulrich (2005) provide a detailed
discussion of user design for customized products.

Enabling Processes and Technologies

Mode choice in design is strongly influenced by changes in design and production processes
and technologies. New technologies and processes have emerged in the past few decades
that are changing the way design modes are adopted in practice.
Templates
The challenge of exploration is dramatically simplified if a template is adopted. A template in
this context is a fixed architecture for an artifact within which alternative elements may be
placed (Ulrich 1995). For example, iPrint is a web-based system by which users may design
printed items such as business cards, stationery, and party invitations (Exhibit 5-3). Each of
several types of items is represented with a standard template. Within that template, choices
may be made of typeface, type size, colors, position of graphic elements, paper, and textual
content. By constraining search to a selection of elements within a fixed template, the design
problem is bounded sufficiently that many users are able to find satisfying solutions without
retaining an expert. Digital printing technology is sufficiently flexible that unique artifacts
may be produced in relatively low volume (50–1,000 units) at reasonable cost.

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 Exhibit 5-3. Web-based interface for user design of a New
Year’s party invitation based on a template.
Design grammars
A design grammar is a set of rules defining “valid” designs, including a definition of the
elements of the design and the rules by which they may be configured. (A template is a very
restrictive type of grammar in which the alternative selections of elements must always be
configured in the same way.)
Stiny (1978) developed a design grammar for several domains in architecture, including
Queen Anne style houses. Exhibit 5-4 is an example of several instances of valid Queen
Anne houses within Stiny’s grammar, each showing a different valid porch configuration for
a single main house plan.

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 Exhibit 5-4. A few instances of a “Queen Anne” design com-
posed within the Queen Anne grammar. Source: Pion Ltd, London
(Flemming U, 1987, "More than the sum of parts: the grammar of
Queen Anne houses" Environment and Planning B: Planning and
Design 14(3) 323 – 350)
A grammar defines a universe of valid designs. While it may enable efficient
exploration, it also restricts the space of possibilities to the scope of the grammar. Consider
the designs of Frank Gehry such as the MIT Stata Center (Exhibit 5-5). In the late twentieth
century, Gehry’s work appeared fresh precisely because it deviated from existing grammars,
possibly the way the Queen Anne style appeared fresh in the late nineteenth century.
Interestingly, over his career Gehry has designed enough buildings that one can start to
imagine a formal grammar defining a valid “Gehry style.”
Grammars have been developed and used for VLSI circuit design, for computer system
design, and for chemical process design. Formal grammars have otherwise rarely been used
in design practice. However, the development and use of such grammars offers the prospect
of making exploration more tractable for novices, or even computers.3
Automation of exploration
If a design domain can be formalized through a design grammar, then the prospect of
automating exploration emerges. A second requirement for automating exploration is that a
formal evaluation function (or objective function, in the language of optimization) be
articulated. Without some way of automatically estimating the quality of a design,
automating exploration is unlikely. For highly structured design problems, such as creating
a customized personal computer to meet the needs of an individual, automation of
exploration is currently feasible (Randall et al. 2005). Additional problems are likely to be
addressed by automation in the future. If exploration were more highly automated, the
value of expertise in exploration might be diminished, making user design more attractive.

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 Exhibit 5-5. The Stata Center at MIT, designed by Frank Gehry.
Source: Wikipedia, original upload 3 August 2004 by Finlay
McWalter.
Rapid prototyping
Most design efforts require the designer to forecast the extent to which a contemplated
alternative will satisfy the needs of the target user. A forecast is required when the cost of
producing the artifact, even in prototype form, is relatively high. Rapid prototyping
technologies, which might more appropriately be called inexpensive prototyping
technologies, allow the designer to produce relatively more prototypes for actual testing and
can therefore reduce the importance of accurate forecasting of design quality. In the hands
of a novice designer, the act of testing many prototypes can substitute to some extent for
expertise in exploration and evaluation of designs and thereby enable user design where
custom design or common design was previously the norm.
Exhibit 5-6 shows several chess pieces made directly from computer models using the
selective laser sintering (SLS) process. The cost and time required to produce physical models
of complex geometric forms like these have fallen by at least a factor of ten relative to
conventional prototyping technologies (in this case, carving by hand), enabling more
frequent evaluation of physical prototypes as opposed to requiring the designer to
completely refine the form of an object before committing to an expensive and time-
consuming prototyping process.
Flexible production
Flexible production is a means of producing artifacts with relatively low fixed costs per
variant of the artifact. For example, laser printing of documents is quite flexible, allowing
ten different documents to be printed at about the same cost as ten copies of the same
document. Computer-controlled laser cutting machines allow arbitrary trajectories to be cut
in plywood, sheet metal, and plastic sheet, with essentially no setup cost. To the extent that
an artifact can be produced by flexible production means, unique artifacts can be produced
for individual users at reasonable cost. Flexible production technologies therefore enable

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custom design and user design. Exhibit 5-7 shows a web-based design interface that creates
instructions for a computer-controlled milling machine, which can be used to flexibly
produce three-dimensional shapes as shown. CNC milling is a material removal process
incurring only modest fixed costs per variant of the artifact and therefore enabling relatively
low-volume production. As flexible production processes become increasingly available,
both user design and custom design become more feasible.

Exhibit 5-6. Chess pieces fabricated using the selective laser sin-
tering (SLS) process, a rapid prototyping technology. Source:
http://www.kinzoku.co.jp/image/zoukei_p3_b.jpg.

Tournaments
Tournaments in design have increased in popularity with the advent of mass media channels,
but have probably been used by institutions for a long time. In a tournament, many
individuals or teams submit plans or prototypes, which are typically evaluated by experts,
sometimes with panels of users, and sometimes through testing (Terwiesch and Ulrich
2009). Some tournaments are intended to be primarily design mechanisms for a producer or
user. Examples of these competitions are QVC’s product road show, which visits ten cities
in the United States each year to screen new products, and the U.S. government agency
DARPA’s Grand Challenge autonomous robotic vehicle competition. Other tournaments
are intended primarily to deliver entertainment to an audience. An example of this type of
competition is Million Dollar Idea, a televised competition in which a winner is granted $1
million to commercialize his or her invention. Tournaments exploit large numbers of
parallel searches by individuals, sometimes collecting design alternatives from thousands of
entrants. This strategy can be particularly powerful when seeking new ideas for products in
that a raw plan, perhaps only partially developed, can be selected from the efforts of many
individuals and then refined professionally through common design by an institution. In this
way, tournaments are a way of harnessing the value of independent exploration by user
designers with the cost advantages of common design. Tournaments may also exploit a
tendency by entrants to overestimate the probability of success, possibly resulting in more

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design effort per unit of investment by the tournament sponsor than could be achieved by
other means.

Exhibit 5-7. Aluminum part flexibly produced by a CNC milling

machine. A web-based design program can be used to create in-
structions for the milling machine. Source: emachineshop.com.
Open source
The practice of open source arose in the software engineering community and comprises, at a
minimum, the free publication of the “source code” for an artifact. For software, the source

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code is the program instructions in human-readable form, typically as they were written by
the designer. For documents, the source code is the text, in readable, editable form. For a
physical good, the source code might include geometric information, materials
specifications, control algorithms, and/or process specifications.
The rationale for open source is that some users will sense opportunities for
improvement in an artifact and will themselves make those improvements (Terwiesch and
Ulrich 2009). Several open-source communities have developed and are active, the most
famous being the Linux computer operating system. Most of these communities have some
mechanism for evaluating and ratifying potential improvements submitted by members of
the user community. Remarkably, some open-source artifacts evolve with almost no
managerial oversight. For example, the Wikipedia encyclopedia is open source, and can be
modified by anyone in the world with access to an Internet browser. Open-source
communities need not be firms, but they are nevertheless institutions that enable the
common design mode.
Design kits
Design kits are tools to facilitate the design process, often provided at no charge by firms
seeking to produce the unique artifacts of designers, or who otherwise benefit from active
design communities. Producers of specialized semiconductor devices will sometimes
provide designers with “breadboard” systems incorporating the devices to enable
experimentation and trial, and in the hopes that these devices will be used in a new artifact.
Design kits reduce the fixed costs of designing a unique artifact and so enable expert design
and user design.
User groups
User groups are sets of users with communication mechanisms to facilitate the exchange of
information relative to a class of artifact. These mechanisms are increasingly electronic,
typically implemented via the Internet. User groups are often structured around issues or
questions, sometimes called discussion threads, although some user groups have formal
administrative elements such as managers and committees. User groups enable user design
by allowing plans from one user to be communicated to another with similar needs. User
groups can also facilitate common design by allowing users to share information about gaps,
coordinate plans, and even test prototypes.
An example of a user community is flashkit.com, a community of designers using the
Macromedia Flash multimedia programming language. As of this writing, this community
had about 500,000 members. In this case, a primary beneficiary of the user group is the firm
Macromedia.

Concluding Remarks
This chapter articulates the modes of design adopted by users, experts, and institutions in
creating new artifacts. User design is a tantalizing prospect by which users create unique
artifacts to address their own needs. Yet, expert design and common design remain
prevalent modes. The choice of a particular mode is driven by the comparative advantage of
experts, by economies of scale in design and production, and by the transaction costs of
engaging experts, features that remain the foundations of modern economic life. However,

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emergent processes and technologies such as rapid prototyping and design grammars can
alter the economics of mode choice.

Notes
1
An exception is perhaps a design study done in isolation by a professional designer, but
even in this case the designer typically contemplates a virtual user. Design without a user
seems to me to be more individual art rather than true design.
2
Some artifacts can be decomposed into a platform and derivatives, with the platform a
common artifact and the derivative a unique artifact. In a subsequent section, we discuss
hybrid modes of design, which can arise in such cases.
3
Goldenberg and Mazursky (1999) make a compelling argument that what
they call “templates” (actually closer to a grammar in my nomenclature) can
be used to characterize successful designs for advertisements and new product
concepts.
References
Ericsson, K. Anders. 1996. “The Acquisition of Expert Performance: An Introduction to
Some of the Issues.” In The Road to Excellence: The Acquisition of Expert Performance
in the Arts and Sciences, Sports, and Games, ed. K. Anders Ericsson, 1–50. Mahwah, NJ:
Erlbaum.
Franke, Nikolaus, Martin Schreier, and Ulrike Kaiser. 2010. “The ‘I Designed It Myself’
Effect in Mass Customization.” Management Science 56 (1): 125–140.
Goldenberg, Jacob, David Mazursky, and Sorin Solomon. 1999. “Creative Sparks.” Science
285 (5433): 1495–1496.
Lancaster, Kelvin. 1990. “The Economics of Product Variety: A Survey.” Marketing Science
9 (3): 189–206.
Randall, Taylor, Christian Terwiesch, and K. T. Ulrich. 2005. “User Design of Customized
Products.” Marketing Science 26 (2): 268–280.
Stiny, G., and W. J. Mitchell. 1978. “The Palladian Grammar.” Environment and Planning B
5 (1): 5–18.
Terwiesch, Christian, and Christoph H. Loch. 2004. “Collaborative Prototyping and the
Pricing of Custom Designed Products.” Management Science 50 (2): 145–158.
Terwiesch, Christian, and K. T. Ulrich. 2009. Innovation Tournaments: Creating and Selecting
Exceptional Opportunities. Boston, MA: Harvard Business Press.
Ulrich, K. T. 1995. The Role of Product Architecture in the Manufacturing Firm. Research
Policy 24 (3): 419–440.
Ulrich, K. T., and David J. Ellison. 2005. “Beyond Make-Buy: Internalization and
Integration of Design and Production.” Production and Operations Management 14 (3): 315–
330.

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Ulrich, K. T., and Steven D. Eppinger. 2011. Product Design and Development. New York:
Irwin/McGraw-Hill.
von Hippel, Eric. 1988. The Sources of Innovation. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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 SIX

The Architecture of Artifacts

Architecture most commonly refers to the art or science of creating edifices. However, in this
chapter I use the term to refer to the organizational structure of an artifact, and more
specifically to the arrangement of its function and structure. This is the sense in which we
speak of computer architecture or the architecture of an automobile. For physical artifacts,
structure is composed of physical components. For software, services, or other intangible
artifacts, structure comprises the intangible building blocks—routines, processes, code—
used to assemble the artifact.
I define the architecture of an artifact more precisely as (1) the arrangement of functional
elements; (2) the mapping from functional elements to components; and (3) the specification
of the interfaces among interacting components. These notions can become abstract quite
quickly, so in this section I explain the key points using the example of a simple vehicle
trailer. After illustrating the idea of the architecture of an artifact, I articulate the
implications of architecture for issues that matter to designers, producers, and users of
1
artifacts.
The arrangement of functional elements
The function of an artifact is what it does as opposed to its structural characteristics (Crilly
2010). There have been several attempts in the design theory community to create formal
languages for describing function (Finger and Dixon 1989), and there have been modest
successes in narrow domains of application such as electro- and fluid-mechanical systems
and digital circuits (Mead and Conway 1980). There have also been efforts to create
informal functional languages to facilitate the practice of design (Fowler 1990; Hubka and
Eder 1988). These languages are sometimes used to create diagrams consisting of functional
elements, expressed as linguistic terms like convert energy, connected by links indicating the
exchange of signals, materials, forces, and energy. Some authors of informal functional
languages provide a vocabulary of standard functional elements, while others rely on users
to devise their own. Functional elements are sometimes called functional requirements or
functives, and these diagrams have variously been called function diagrams, functional
descriptions, and schematic descriptions (Pahl and Beitz 1984). Here I will call the arrangement
of functional elements and their interconnections a function diagram. An example of a
function diagram for a trailer is shown in Exhibit 6-1.
Function diagrams can be created at different levels of abstraction. At the most general
level, the function diagram for a trailer might consist of a single functional element: expand

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cargo capacity. At a more detailed level, the function diagram could be specified as
consisting of the collection of functional elements shown in Exhibit 6-1, that is, connect to
vehicle, protect cargo from weather, minimize air drag, support cargo loads, suspend trailer
structure, and transfer loads to road.
As they are expressed in more detail, function diagrams embody more assumptions
about the physical working principles on which the artifact is based. For example, “expand
cargo capacity” does not assume the trailer will be a device towed over the road (the trailer
could be a lighter-than-air device), although the more detailed function diagram shown in
Exhibit 6-1 does embody this assumption. For this reason, two products that at the most
general level do the same thing may have different function diagrams when described at a
more detailed level. While most functional elements involve the exchange of signals,
information, materials, forces, and energy, some elements do not interact with other
functional elements. An example of such an element might be “harmonize aesthetically
with vehicle.”2

Exhibit 6-1. A function diagram for a vehicle trailer.

The mapping from functional elements to components
The second part of the artifact architecture is the mapping from functional elements to
components. An artifact consists of one or more components. For clarity, I define a
component as a separable part or subassembly. However, for many of the arguments in the
chapter, a component can be thought of as any distinct region of the artifact, allowing the
inclusion of, for example, a software subroutine in the definition of a component. Similarly,
distinct regions of an integrated circuit, although not actually separate physical parts, could
be thought of as components. Components implement the functional elements of the
product. The mapping between functional elements and components may be one-to-one,
many-to-one, or one-to-many. Two different trailer designs and their associated mappings of
functional elements to components are shown in Exhibits 6-2 and 6-3.

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 Exhibit 6-2. An example of a one-to-one mapping between
functional elements and components and an associated trailer.

Exhibit 6-3. An example of a complex mapping between

functional elements and components and an associated trailer.
The specification of the interfaces between interacting components
By definition, interacting components are connected by some interface. Interfaces may
involve geometric connections between two components, as with a gear on a shaft, or may
involve noncontact interactions, as with the infrared communication link between a remote
control and a television set. An interface specification defines the protocol for the primary

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interactions across the interfaces, and the mating geometry in cases where there is a
geometric connection.
For example, one of the interfaces for the trailer shown in Exhibit 6-2 is between the box
and the bed. The specification of the interface includes the dimensions of the contact
surfaces between the two components, the positions and sizes of the bolt holes, and the
maximum force the interface is expected to sustain. Note that interfaces may be specified to
adhere to a standard protocol. Examples of protocols that have been standardized across
many different manufacturers’ products are USB (universal serial bus), tire/rim standards
for automobiles, a 3.5-millimeter audio jack for headphones, a garden hose connection
thread, and a “ball-type” trailer hitch. Manufacturers sometimes choose to adopt a common
protocol for interfaces used within their own product line, even though the interface may
not adhere to an external standard.

A Typology of Architectures
A typology of architectures provides a vocabulary for discussing the implications of the
choice of architecture for the user and producer. The first distinction in the typology is
between a modular architecture and an integral architecture. A modular architecture includes
a one-to-one mapping from functional elements in the function diagram to the components,
and specifies decoupled interfaces between components. An integral architecture includes a
complex (not one-to-one) mapping from functional elements to components and/or coupled
interfaces between components.
Types of mappings from functional elements to components
The two trailers in Exhibits 6-2 and 6-3 illustrate two extreme examples of mappings from
functional elements to components. One trailer embodies a one-to-one mapping between
functional elements and components. Assuming that the component interfaces are
decoupled (more on this later), this trailer has a modular architecture. In the field of
software engineering, the notion of module cohesion or strength is similar to the one-to-one
mapping of functional elements to components (Schach 1990). The other trailer embodies a
mapping in which several functional elements are each implemented by more than one
component, and in which several components each implement more than one functional
element (a complex mapping). This trailer has an integral architecture. The phenomenon of
a single component implementing several functional elements is called function sharing in the
design theory community and is described in detail by Ulrich and Seering (1990). To some
extent, whether or not functional elements map to more than one component depends on
the level of detail at which the components and functional elements are considered. For
example, if every washer, screw, and filament of wire is considered a component, then each
functional element will map to many components. To more precisely define what a one-to-
one mapping between functional elements and components means, consider an artifact
disassembled to the level of individual piece parts. (This level of disassembly is sometimes
called the iota level.) In general, many possible subassemblies3 could be created from these
iota parts. If there is a partitioning of the set of iota parts into subassemblies such that there
is a one-to-one mapping between these subassemblies and functional elements, then the
artifact exhibits the one-to-one mapping characteristic of a modular architecture.

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Interface coupling
In addition to one-to-one mappings, modular architectures include decoupled component
interfaces. Two components are coupled if a change made to one component requires a
change to the other component in order for the overall artifact to work correctly. Two
physical components connected by an interface are almost always coupled to some extent;
there is almost always a change that can be made to one component that will require a
change to the other component. (For example, arbitrarily increasing the operating
temperature of one component by 1000°C will require a change to nearly any imaginable
neighboring component.) However, in practical terms, coupling is relevant only to changes
that modify the component in some useful way. (See Schach 1990 for a detailed discussion
of the different types of coupling encountered in software.) Exhibit 6-4 illustrates an
example of an interface between two components, the bed and the box from the trailer in
Exhibit 6-2. The coupled interface embodies a dependency between the thickness of the bed
and the vertical gap in the box connection slot. The decoupled interface involves no such
dependency. For the coupled interface, when the thickness of the bed must be changed to
accommodate a change in the cargo load rating, the box must change as well. Although the
example in Exhibit 6-4 is geometric, coupling may also be based on other physical
phenomena, such as heat or magnetism.

Exhibit 6-4. Two hypothetical designs for the interface between

the box and bed of a trailer, one decoupled, the other coupled
Types of modular architectures
I divide modular architectures into three subtypes: slot, bus, and sectional. Because each of
the three subtypes is modular, each embodies a one-to-one mapping between functional
elements and components, and the component interfaces are decoupled; the differences
among these subtypes lie in the way the component interactions are organized.
Slot
Each of the interfaces between components in a slot architecture is of a different type from
the others, so that the various components in the artifact cannot be interchanged. An
automobile radio is an example of a component in a slot architecture. The radio implements

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exactly one function and is decoupled from surrounding components, but its interface is
different from any of the other components in the vehicle (e.g., radios and speedometers
have different types of interfaces to the instrument panel).
Bus
In a bus architecture, there is a common bus to which the other physical components
connect via the same type of interface. A common example of a component in a bus
architecture is an expansion card for a personal computer. Nonelectronic products can also
be built around a bus architecture. Track lighting, shelving systems with rails, and adjustable
roof racks for automobiles all embody a bus architecture. The bus is not necessarily linear; I
also include components connected by a multidimensional network in the bus subtype.
Sectional
In a sectional architecture, all interfaces are of the same type and there is no single element
to which all the other components attach. The assembly is built up by connecting the
components to each other via identical interfaces. Many piping systems adhere to a
sectional architecture, as do sectional sofas, office partitions, and some computer systems.

Exhibit 6-5. Three types of modular architecture. Source:

Adapted from Ulrich and Eppinger 2011.
Examples
The next several exhibits illustrate this typology for the trailer example, for a desk, and for a
variety of other artifacts. I intend for the typology to provide a vocabulary for describing
different artifact architectures. The types shown are idealized; most real products exhibit
some combination of the characteristics of several types. Products may also exhibit
characteristics of different types depending on whether one observes the artifact at the level
of the overall final assembly or at the level of individual parts and subassemblies.
A producer can design and manufacture artifacts without ever explicitly creating an
architecture or even a function diagram. In the domains of software and electronic systems,
the idea of a function diagram (labeled as a schematic, flowchart, etc.) is prevalent in
industrial practice. However, the notion of a function diagram has only recently been
disseminated in many mechanical domains. If an architecture is explicitly established during
the development process, this step usually occurs during the system-level design phase of the
process after the basic technological working principles have been established, but before the
design of components and subsystems has begun.

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 Exhibit 6-6. Four stylized trailers representing four different ar-
chitectural choices.

Exhibit 6-7. Four stylized desks representing four different archi-

tectural choices.
The examples in the exhibits suggest that designers possess substantial latitude in
choosing an architecture, although the architecture of many existing products may be less

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the result of deliberate choice and more that of incremental evolution. Several scholars have
prescribed a modular architecture as ideal. For example, Alexander (1964) presents an
“optimal” design methodology, ensuring a lack of coupling between components.4 I
maintain that while artifact architecture is extremely important, no single architecture is
optimal in all cases. The balance of the chapter discusses the potential linkages between the
architecture of the artifact and a set of issues of technical, economic, and managerial
importance. Recognizing and understanding these linkages is a prerequisite to the effective
choice of architecture for a particular product.

Exhibit 6-8. A bus-modular architecture for a knife. Any tool

from the set of possible tools can be added as a new slice to the
“sandwich,” a form of bus architecture. Source: Wenger.

Exhibit 6-9. Shimano pioneered the integration of the controls

for shifting and braking with a gripping location for the rider’s
hands. This is an integral architecture, arising both from a com-
plex mapping from functional elements to components and from
coupled interfaces. Source: Shimano.

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 Exhibit 6-10. Some of the alternative forms of housing that can
be created from a sectional-modular architecture. Source: Resolu-
tion 4 Architecture (http://www.re4a.com).

Artifact Change
This section focuses on two types of artifact change: change to a particular artifact over its
life cycle (e.g., replacing a worn tire) and change to a product or model over successive
generations (e.g., substituting the next-generation suspension system in the whole product
line). The next two sections treat two closely related concepts: variety and standardization.
Architecture determines how the artifact can be changed
The minimum change that can be made to an artifact is a change to one component. The
architecture of the artifact determines which functional elements of the artifact will be
influenced by a change to a particular component, and which components must be changed
to achieve a desired change to a functional element. At one extreme, modular architectures
allow each functional element of the artifact to be changed independently by changing only
the corresponding component. At the other extreme, fully integral architectures require
changes to every component to effect change in any single functional element. The
architecture of an artifact is therefore closely linked to the ease with which a change to an
artifact can be implemented. Here I consider how this linkage manifests itself in
implementing change within the life of a particular artifact and in implementing change
over several generations.

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Change within the life of a particular artifact
Artifacts frequently undergo some change during their lives. Some of the motives for this
change are:
 Upgrade. As technological capabilities or user needs evolve, some artifacts can
accommodate this evolution through upgrades. Examples include changing the
processor board in a printer and replacing a pump in a cooling system with a more
powerful model.
 Add-ons. Many artifacts are sold by a manufacturer as a basic unit to which the user
adds components, often produced by third parties, as needed. This type of change is
common in the personal computer industry (e.g., the addition of third-party mass
storage devices to a basic computer). See Langlois and Robertson (1992) for a
thorough description of several such cases.
 Adaptation. Some long-lived artifacts many be used in several different use
environments, requiring adaptation. For example, machine tools may have to be
converted from 220V to 440V power. Engines may have to be converted from a
gasoline to a propane fuel supply.
 Wear. Physical features of an artifact may deteriorate with use, necessitating
replacement of the worn components to extend its useful life. For example, one can
replace vehicle tires, most rotational bearings, many appliance motors, and dull
blades in nondisposable razors.
 Consumption. Some artifacts consume materials that are replaceable. For example,
copiers and printers frequently contain toner cartridges, glue guns use glue sticks,
torches contain gas cartridges, and watches are powered by batteries.
 Flexibility in use. Some artifacts can be configured by the user to exhibit different
capabilities. For example, many cameras can be used with different lens and flash
options, some boats can be used with several awning options, and some fishing rods
accommodate several rod-reel configurations.
In each of these cases, changes to the artifact are most easily accommodated through
modular architectures. The modular architecture allows the required changes that are
typically associated with the artifact’s function to be localized to the minimum possible
number of components.
Although consumption and wear are frequently accommodated through a modular
design with replaceable parts, another popular strategy is to dramatically lower the cost of
the entire artifact, often through an integral architecture, such that the entire object can be
discarded or recycled. For example, disposable razors, cameras, and cigarette lighters have
all been commercially successful products, and disposable pens dominate the marketplace.
Later, I explain how integral architectures can allow for a lower-cost artifact under certain
conditions.
Change across generations of artifacts
When a new model of an existing artifact is introduced, the artifact almost always embodies
some functional change relative to the previous version. (In relatively rare cases, a producer

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changes only the name of the artifact.) The architecture of the artifact has profound
implications for a producer’s ability to implement this product change. For artifacts with a
modular architecture, desired changes to a functional element can be localized to one
component. Artifacts with integral architectures require changes to several components in
order to implement changes to the artifact’s function. The observation helps to explain
industrial practice in the area of generational change.
For example, the original Sony Walkman architecture allowed the cassette tape
transport mechanism to be reused in many successive models, while the enclosure parts
could be easily changed for each new model (Sanderson and Uzumeri 1995). Virtual design is
a term Sanderson and Uzumeri use for this superposition of several product cycles involving
changes to only a few components onto the longer life cycle of a technological platform.
This virtual design is enabled by the modular artifact architecture exhibited by the
Walkman at the level of major subassemblies. In some settings, a firm introduces a product,
gauges the market response, then develops and launches an incrementally improved product
extremely quickly. A modular architecture is essential to being able to quickly change the
artifact in this way. The benefits of a modular architecture for exploring a market and fine-
tuning an artifact are also described in Langlois and Robertson (1992). Nobeoka and
Cusumano (1997), in summarizing several previous studies of the world automobile
industry, identify project scope—the percentage of unique components a manufacturer
designs from scratch in-house—as a key variable relating to product development
performance. The architecture of the product, and the degree of modularity in particular,
dictate how much project scope will be required to achieve a particular level of functional
change. Change to an artifact is not always confined to activities by a single manufacturer.
In some markets, such as home entertainment, users create virtual products by assembling
collections of products provided by diverse manufacturers. Modularity at the level of the
entire system, when combined with standard interfaces, allows for the virtual artifact to
evolve and change through independent actions by individual manufacturers (Langlois and
Robertson 1992; Fine 1998).

Artifact Variety
For the purposes of this chapter, I define variety as the assortment of artifacts that a
production system provides to society. (Chapter 8 is a comprehensive treatment of the
subject of variety.) High variety can be produced by any system at some cost. For example,
an auto manufacturer could create different fender shapes for each individual vehicle by
creating different sets of stamping dies, each of which would be used only once. Such a
system is technically feasible, but prohibitively expensive. The challenge is to create the
desired variety economically.
The ability of a system to economically produce variety is frequently credited to
production flexibility. When viewed at the level of the entire production system, this is a
tautology—if a system is economically producing variety it is to some extent flexible.
However, flexibility is often equated with the flexibility of the individual processes in the
production system (e.g., computer-controlled milling machines), or with flexible assembly
systems (e.g., programmable electronic chip insertion equipment). In this context, a flexible
production process incurs small fixed costs for each output variant (e.g., low tooling costs)

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and small changeover costs between output variants (e.g., low setup times). This notion of
flexibility is consistent with Upton’s definition (1994, 73): “the ability to change or adapt
with little effort, time, or penalty.” I argue that much of a production system’s ability to
create variety resides not with the flexibility of the processes in the system, but with the
architecture of the artifact the system produces. This section shows how both the flexibility
of the production process and the artifact architecture interact to contribute to the ability to
economically create variety.
Variety is meaningful to users only if the functionality of the artifact varies in some
way.5 This variation may be in terms of the set of functional elements implemented by the
artifact (Does the trailer protect the cargo from the environment at all?), or in terms of the
specific performance characteristics of the artifact relative to a particular functional element
(Is the environmental protection normal or heavy-duty?). Consider the trailer example and a
firm that produces trailers for its customers. Assume customers’ needs can be neatly divided
in the following ways. Some customers want to minimize air drag, some do not. Two types
of vehicle connection and three alternatives for the type of environmental protection are
desired. Three alternatives are also desired for both the structural load rating and for the ride
quality of the suspension system.6 Under these assumptions, if variety incurred no cost, the
firm would offer 108 distinct trailers to the marketplace (2 × 2 × 3 × 3 × 3 = 108). If the firm
uses the modular architecture shown in Exhibit 6-2, all of the 108 different trailers can be
created from a total of only 12 different types of components: a single type of fairing (which
is either included with the trailer or not), two types of hitches, three types of boxes, three
types of beds, three types of spring assemblies, and one type of wheel assembly. Because
each functional element maps to exactly one physical component, and because the
interfaces are decoupled, the variety can be created by forming 108 combinations from a set
of 12 component building blocks. I was not the first to observe that variety can be created by
combinations of building blocks. In fact, this combinatorial approach to variety is part of a
five-step technique called (somewhat confusingly) Variety Reduction Program (Suzue and
Kohdate 1990). Nevins and Whitney (1989) also give several examples of such
combinatorial assembly of artifact variants, and Pine (1992) popularized the notion of mass
customization. The modularity of the artifact allows the variety to be created at final
assembly, the last stage of the production process. Some firms are even delaying a portion of
the final assembly until the artifact has moved through the distribution system and is ready
to be shipped to a customer. This strategy has been called postponement (Lee and Tang 1997).
If the firm wishes to offer all 108 variants and uses the integral artifact architecture shown in
Exhibit 6-3, 73 different types of components will be required: 27 types of upper halves, 27
types of lower halves, 12 types of nose pieces, three types of cargo hanging straps, three
types of spring slot covers, and one type of wheel assembly. Because in many instances each
component implements several functional elements, there must be as many types of each
component as there are desired combinations of the functional elements it implements. For
example, to provide all of the different desired combinations of the two vehicle connection
types, the two types of drag reduction, and the three load ratings, 12 distinct types of nose
pieces will be required because the nose piece contributes to all three of the functional
elements associated with the options.

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Variety and flexibility
At first glance, producing 108 varieties of the integral design appears to be far less
economical than for the modular design. In fact, the flexibility of the production process is
an additional factor in determining the basic economics of producing variety. If the trailer
components can be economically produced only in large lot sizes because of the large setup
times required for the process equipment, or if each type of component requires large tooling
investments, then in fact the integral design will be very expensive to produce with high
variety. High variety under these conditions would require some combination of large
inventory costs, large setup costs, or large tooling costs.7 However, if the integral trailer
components could be produced economically in small lots (e.g., setup costs are low) and
without tooling investments, then variety could be offered for the integral design.
For example, consider the following production system for the integral trailer. The upper
and lower halves are made by a computer-controlled rolling machine followed by a
computer-controlled laser cutting machine. Plates of arbitrary thickness and material can be
rolled to arbitrary diameters (within certain limits), and slots for the springs can be cut along
arbitrary trajectories—all with small setup times, no tooling investment, and rapid
processing times. The nose piece is created by laser cutting, computer-controlled rolling, and
automated welding. The six components are then assembled manually. Because of the
flexibility of the upper half, lower half, and nose piece production processes, the required
component types can be produced as they are needed in arbitrary combinations, and then
assembled into the required trailer types. Such process flexibility allows economical high-
variety production of an artifact with an integral architecture.
Flexible production process hardware can also have an impact on the production of the
modular design. Using inflexible processes requiring expensive tooling and large lot sizes,
the 12 different components required to assemble the 108 different product variants would
be held in inventory ready for final assembly. Alternatively, the components for the modular
design could be produced with flexible production equipment, eliminating the need for the
inventories and tooling expense. With a modular architecture, variety can be achieved with
or without flexible component production equipment. In relative terms, to economically
produce high variety with an integral architecture, the component production process must
be flexible. This argument assumes in all cases that the final assembly process itself is
somewhat flexible; that is, different combinations of components can be easily assembled to
create the final product variety. This assumption is usually valid for products assembled
manually, but some assembly systems, particularly high-volume automated assembly
equipment, violate this assumption. For these systems, the flexibility of the final assembly
process is also a key driver of the ability of the firm to offer product variety.
Infinite variety
Many flexible production processes can be programmed to produce an infinite variety of
components. For example, a computer-controlled laser cutting system can cut along an
arbitrarily specified trajectory. This flexibility allows systems incorporating these processes
to create artifacts that can be infinitely varied with respect to one or more properties. This
ability to continuously vary the properties of components by a flexible process provides a
subtle distinction between the variety that can be created by assembling artifacts from a

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finite set of component alternatives, and the variety that can be created by flexible
component production processes. Assembly from finite component choices is fundamentally
a “set operation,” in that it allows sets to be formed from discrete alternatives. Continuously
variable process equipment can implement arbitrary mathematical relationships among
component characteristics. For example, the laser cutting machine could be programmed to
cut along a curve parameterized as a function of a set of other characteristics, such as
expected climate of the use environment, the types of loads the trailer will carry, and the
road quality in the customer’s geographical region. Note that the ability to arbitrarily vary
component characteristics can be achieved for both integral and modular architectures if
components are fabricated with programmable processes.
A summary of the effect of architecture and component process flexibility on the
resulting performance characteristics of the production system is shown in Exhibit 6-11.

Exhibit 6-11. The relationship between component production

process flexibility, the architecture of an artifact, and the ability to
deliver variety.

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 Component Standardization
Component standardization is the use of the same component in multiple versions of an
artifact and is closely linked to variety. Common standardized components include tires,
batteries, bearings, motors, lightbulbs, resistors, and fasteners. Component standardization
occurs both within a single entity (e.g., Quad4 engines at General Motors) and across
multiple entities (e.g., Timken roller bearings at Ford, General Motors, and Daimler). I call
the first case internal standardization and the second case external standardization. For internal
standardization, components may be designed and manufactured within the entity or
provided by suppliers. For external standardization, components are typically designed and
manufactured by suppliers.
A modular architecture makes standardization possible
Standardization can arise only when (a) a component implements commonly useful
functions and (b) the interface to the component is identical across more than one different
product. Otherwise, a component would either not be useful in more than one application
or would not match the interface of more than one application. A modular architecture
increases the likelihood that a component will be commonly useful. When the mapping
from functional elements to components is one-to-one, each component implements one
and only one function. Such components are therefore useful in any other applications
where their associated functions occur. Components of an artifact exhibiting an integral
architecture would potentially be useful only in other artifacts containing the exact
combination of functional elements, or parts of functional elements, implemented by the
component. A modular architecture also enables component interfaces to be identical across
several products. Interfaces in modular architectures are decoupled—that is, a particular
component will not have to change when surrounding components are changed. Therefore,
different sets of surrounding components, such as might occur in different applications, do
not require different component interfaces. When interfaces are decoupled, an interface
standard can be adopted and the same component can be used in a variety of settings.
What are the implications of standardization?
Component standardization, whether external or internal, has implications for the producer
in the areas of cost, performance, and development. Under most circumstances a standard
component is less expensive than a component designed and built for use in only one
artifact. This lower cost is possible primarily because the standard component will be
produced in higher volume, allowing greater economies of scale and more learning. Higher
component volume may also attract several competitors who exert price pressure on one
another. However, there are some circumstances under which the use of a standard
component may incur higher unit costs than the use of a special component. Sometimes, in
an effort to standardize, firms will use a component with excess capability for a particular
application. For example, a standard enclosure may be slightly larger than necessary in a
particular application, or a standard power supply may provide slightly more power than is
strictly necessary in a particular application. In these cases, firms may choose to adopt the
standard components even if their unit cost is higher than that of a component more closely
matched to the application. This standardization may be justifiable because of the economic

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savings from reduced complexity in, for example, purchasing, inventory management,
quality control, or field service.
Standard components, in general, exhibit higher performance (for a given cost) than
unique designs. This performance advantage arises from the learning and experience the
component supplier is able to accumulate. However, standardization may act as an inertial
force preventing firms from adopting a better component technology because of
compatibility issues in the installed base of products.
The use of standard components can lower the complexity, cost, and lead time of design
and development. An existing standard component represents a known entity and therefore
can reduce the number of uncertain issues the development team must cope with. An
existing standard component also requires no development resources and so can lower both
the cost and, if the component development would have been on the project’s critical path,
the lead time of a project.

Artifact Performance
I define performance as how well the artifact implements its functional elements. Typical
performance characteristics are speed, efficiency, life, and noise. Performance, as defined
here, excludes economic performance, except to the extent that it arises from noneconomic
dimensions of performance, because economic performance is also highly dependent on the
firm’s production, service, sales, and marketing activities.
All physical artifacts occupy space, exhibit some shape, and are composed of materials
with mass and other physical properties. Performance characteristics tied closely to the size
and mass of an artifact typically are compromised by modular architectures. To minimize
size, mass, and variable cost, designers adopt integral architectures. Nonphysical artifacts
like software may exhibit performance characteristics somewhat analogous to those related
to size and mass—for example, memory requirements or lines of code.
For most physical artifacts, several key performance characteristics are closely related to
size and shape and/or to mass. For example, acceleration relates to mass, aerodynamic drag
relates to size and shape, and, in the trailer example, vehicle fuel efficiency relates to size
and shape as well as to mass. In most cases, increasing overall performance involves
decreasing size and mass. (In relatively rare cases, increasing performance involves
increasing size and mass; improving the holding power of a boat anchor or increasing the
passenger comfort of an automobile may be such cases.)
Three design strategies are frequently employed to minimize mass or size: function
sharing, geometric nesting, and part integration. Function sharing is a design strategy in
which redundant physical properties of components are eliminated through the mapping of
more than one functional element to a single component (Ulrich and Seering 1990). For
example, a conventional motorcycle contains a steel tubular frame distinct from the engine
and transmission. In contrast, several high-performance motorcycles contain no distinct
frame. Rather, the cast aluminum transmission and motor casing acts as the structure for the
motorcycle. For example, consider the BMW R1100S motorcycle shown in Exhibit 6-12.
The motorcycle designers adopted function sharing as a means of exploiting the fact that the
transmission and motor case had incidental structural properties that were redundant to the

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structural properties of the conventional frame. Through function sharing, the designers
minimized the mass of the frame/motor/transmission system. In exploiting the secondary
structural properties of the motor and transmission case, the designers mapped more than
one functional element to a single component and thereby created an integral architecture.
Geometric nesting is a design strategy for efficient use of space and material and involves
the interleaving and arrangement of components such that they occupy the minimum
volume possible or, in some cases, occupy a volume with a particular desired shape. For
example, the wheel, suspension, fender, and brake system of a modern automobile are
arranged in a way that barely allows clearance for wheel travel; they are tightly nested. An
unfortunate consequence of nesting is the coupling of the interfaces between components,
the other hallmark of an integral architecture. For example, in an automobile the brake
system cooling is tightly coupled to the shape of the wheel well, the wheel covers, and the
fenders. A slight change to the shape of the wheel cover can require substantial changes to
the brake disc design. Similarly, the road and wind noise from the wheels is coupled in a
complex way to the shape of the wheel well and fender. Thus, a desire for increased global
performance in the area of drag and aesthetics leads to a design strategy of geometric
nesting. This design strategy causes components to be coupled, thereby sacrificing the
modularity of the architecture.

Exhibit 6-12. The BMW R1100S motorcycle includes a transmis-

sion component that not only transmits power from the engine to
the rear wheel, but also acts as a key structural element for the
frame and suspension. Source: BMW.
A similar argument applies to the part integration that is a common strategy in design
for manufacturing and a common motive for integral architectures (Ulrich and Eppinger
2011). Part integration, or the combination of multiple parts into one contiguous part,
minimizes the use of material and space associated with component interfaces, and may
improve geometric precision, but compromises the one-to-one mapping from functional
elements to components.

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Integral architectures and variable cost
Minimizing size and mass is also part of a strategy for minimizing unit production costs for
high-volume products, because as production volumes increase, materials costs become
more and more significant. This explains why integral architectures are sometimes
employed to achieve very low unit costs, such as are required for disposable products like
ballpoint pens, razors, and single-use cameras.
The examples in this section illustrate extreme conditions. Most artifacts will embody
hybrid modular-integral architectures. For example, although the high-performance
motorcycle may exhibit little modularity in the architecture of the engine, transmission, and
frame, the architecture of the ignition system may be quite modular (e.g., spark plug, wiring,
coil, etc.). The designers of the motorcycle have avoided modularity only where the
performance penalties are most severe.
Note that what may be considered a component of one artifact is itself the end product
for the supplier of that component (whether the supplier is internal or external). As a result,
the component itself may be designed with a highly integral architecture, but then may be
used in a highly modular way as part of a larger system. For example, tires exhibit a highly
integral architecture, but may be used as a component in a trailer with a highly modular
architecture.

Management of the Design and Development Process

At a basic level the design and development process for complex artifacts can be viewed as
consisting of four phases: concept development, system-level design, detailed design, and
testing and refinement (Ulrich and Eppinger 2011). The architecture of the product has
implications for the effectiveness of approaches to the three development phases following
concept development. The following sections discuss these three phases and Exhibit 6-13
summarizes the differences in effective approaches for modular and integral architectures.
System-level design
A modular architecture requires relatively more emphasis on this phase of development
than does an integral architecture. For the modular architecture, the focus of system-level
design and planning is to carefully define component interfaces, specifying the associated
standards and protocols. Performance targets and acceptance criteria are set for each
component, corresponding to the particular functional element implemented by the
component. Component design is frequently assigned to specialists, either internal or
external to the enterprise. The development team leader can be viewed as a “heavyweight
system architect.” For the integral architecture, system-level design absorbs relatively less
effort. The focus is on establishing clear targets for the performance of the overall system
and on dividing the system into a relatively small number of integrated subsystems. These
subsystems are frequently assigned to multidisciplinary teams who will share the
responsibility for designing the components that make up the subsystem. The leader of these
teams can be viewed as a “heavyweight system integrator.”

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 Exhibit 6-13. The design and development process benefits from
different approaches, depending on the architectural choices made
during the concept development phase.
Detailed design
For the modular architecture, detailed design of each component can proceed almost
independently and in parallel. Management of the detailed design process consists of
monitoring the progress of each individual component design activity relative to the
component performance targets and interface specifications. The component design teams
are “supplier-like” in that interaction is structured and relatively infrequent. Testing of each
component can be performed independently and clear objectives define completion of each
component design activity. For the integral architecture, component designers all form a
“core team” and interact continually to analyze performance of the subsystem to which
their component belongs and to manage changes required because of component interface
coupling. Whether the components meet their performance targets depends on their
interaction and not on whether they meet some prespecified criteria. Testing of components

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cannot be completed in isolation; subsystems of components must be assembled and tested
as a whole.
Test and refinement
For the modular artifact, testing and refinement is a checking activity. The tests are intended
to detect unanticipated interactions among the components. These interactions are viewed
as “bugs” and their resolution is usually localized to changes to one or two components. For
the integral artifact, testing and refinement is a tuning activity. If the artifact performance
must be altered in some way, changes are likely to be required to many components.
Relatively more time will be spent in this phase than for the modular artifact.

Organizational Implications
There are at least three organizational issues tied to a choice of architectural approach: skills
and capabilities, management complexity, and the ability to innovate. Highly modular
designs allow institutions to divide their design and development organizations into
specialized groups, each with a narrow focus (Sanchez and Mahoney 1996). This
organizational structure may also extend to the supplier network. If the function of a
component can be precisely specified and the interface between the component and the rest
of the artifact is fully characterized, then the design and production of that component can
be assigned to a separate entity. Such specialization may facilitate the development of deep
expertise relative to a particular functional element and its associated component (Fixson
and Park 2008).
Required project management skills are different for different architectures. Modular
architectures may require better systems engineering and planning skills, while integral
architectures may require better coordination and integration skills.
Organizations with a long history of a particular architectural approach are likely to
have developed the associated skills and capabilities. A modular architecture enables a
bureaucratic approach to organizing and managing development. This approach, for
relatively well understood technologies, allows the complexity of the development process
to be dramatically reduced and may allow for better exploitation of supplier capabilities. For
some domains the benefits of reduced complexity and enhanced supplier involvement may
drive the choice of the architecture for at least portions of the artifact; software development
is one such domain. In most cases the system-level performance penalties of a modular
architecture are dwarfed by the benefits of a reduction in project management complexity. A
potential negative implication of a modular architecture is the risk of creating organizational
barriers to architectural innovation. These barriers appear to be unfortunate side effects of
focus and specialization. This problem has been identified by Henderson and Clark (1990)
in the photolithography industry and may in fact be of concern in many other industries as
well.

How to Establish the Architecture

Dozens of issues are linked to the architecture of an artifact. The net effect is a complex set
of relations among many areas of concern. While there are currently no deterministic
approaches to choosing an optimal architecture, the process can be guided. In most cases

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the choice will not be between a completely modular or completely integral architecture, but
rather will be focused on which functional elements should be treated in a modular way and
which should be treated in an integral way. Listed here are questions the designer can ask in
order to raise the important issues and to guide the development of an appropriate
architecture. These questions are best posed during the concept development phase of the
design and development process. These questions also serve as a summary of the linkages
between architecture and the areas of managerial concern described in this chapter.
Artifact change
 Which functional elements are likely to require upgrade?
 Are third-party add-ons desirable?
 Which functional elements may have to be adapted to new use environments over
the life of the product?
 Which functional elements will involve wear or consumption?
 Where will flexibility in configuration be useful to the user?
 Which functional elements can remain identical for future models of the product?
 Which functional elements must change rapidly to respond to market or
technological dynamics?
 Which variants of the artifact are desirable to best match variation in user
preferences?
Artifact variety
 What level of flexibility of the component process is available or easily obtained?
 How much advantage does minimizing order lead time for custom designs provide?
Component standardization
 Are existing components available internally or externally for any of the functional
elements of the artifact?
 What are the cost implications of sharing a component with another version of the
artifact?
 Where can adopting a standard component reduce development time or complexity
of project management?
Artifact performance
 Which performance characteristics are closely linked to size, mass, and shape? Does
high performance with respect to these characteristics require an integral
architecture?
Design and development management
 How much focus and specialization is present in the organization and in the supplier
network?

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  Is the artifact inherently large and complex?
 Is the development team geographically dispersed?
 Are barriers to architectural innovation developing in the organization because of
specialization?
 Has the organization demonstrated an ability to change in structure and style?

Concluding Remarks
In this chapter, I define the concept of the architecture of an artifact as the arrangement of
its function and structure. The architecture of an artifact has deep implications for several
issues of technical, managerial, economic, and organizational importance. Several of these
implications are shown in Exhibit 6-14 for each of four types of architecture within the
typology introduced here. Although the architecture of an artifact often evolves in an ad hoc
way, it can also be deliberately chosen as part of the conceptual and system-level design
process. The careful choice of architecture allows designers to achieve several objectives
beyond the direct satisfaction of user needs.

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 Integral Modular-Slot Modular-Bus Modular-Sectional
Definition  One-to-one mapping between functional elements and compo-
Complex mapping
functional elements nents.
to components.  Interfaces between components are not coupled.

And/or component Component

interfaces coupled. interfaces all Component interfaces all the same.
different.
Single compo-
nent (bus) links
other compo-
nents.
Examples Automobile body. Truck
body/frame.
Neon sign/lighting. Lamp with bulb Track lighting.
and shade.
Shelf brackets Stackable shelving units.
and rails.
Professional
“Boom box” stereo. Consumer com- rack-mounted
ponent stereo. audio equip-
ment.
Tanker ship (hull in Tractor-trailer. Freight train.
particular).
Artifact
Change Change in functionali- Functional changes can be made to a product in the field.
ty requires change to Manufacturers can change the function of subsequent models by
many components. changing a single component.
Artifact Artifacts can be assembled in a combinatorial fashion from a rela-
Variety Variety not feasible tively small set of component building blocks to create variety.
without flexible com- Variety possible even without flexible component production.
ponent production Variety confined to the choices of Variety in overall structure of
processes. components within a predefined the artifact possible (e.g.,
overall structure. Lego blocks, piping).
Component Components can be standardized across a product line.
Standard- Firms can use standard components provided by suppliers.
ization
Interfaces may adhere to an industry standard.
Artifact May facilitate local performance.
Performance May exhibit higher Decoupling interfaces may require additional mass and space.
performance for One-to-one mapping prevents function sharing—the simultaneous
holistic characteris- implementation of more than one functional element by a single
tics like drag, noise, component.
and aesthetics.
Standardized interfaces may result in additional
redundancy and physical “overhead.”
Develop- Design tasks can be cleanly separated, thus allowing the tasks to be
ment Man- Requires tight coor- completed in parallel.
agement Specialization and division of labor possible.
dination of design
tasks. Architectural innovation may be difficult.
Requires the top-down creation of a global artifact architecture.

Exhibit 6-14. Summary of the key implications of architectural

choice on issues of technical, managerial, economic, and organiza-
tional importance.

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 Notes
1
Most of the ideas in this chapter first appeared in Ulrich and Tung 1991 and Ulrich 1995.
2
In Chapter 3 I distinguish between overall function and the subordinate qualities of an
artifact (i.e., user needs). Here, I consider all of the desirable attributes of an artifact as
functional elements.
3
A subassembly is a collection of components that (1) can be assembled into a unit and (2)
can be subsequently treated as a single component during further assembly of the product.
4
Alexander went on to do remarkable work in design theory, but somewhat dismissed his
earliest attempts at formal approaches.
5
Functionality, in this context, is used broadly to mean any attribute of the artifact from
which the user derives a benefit, and so would include, for example, styling or color
changes.
6
Assume for the purpose of the example that the type of suspension and the load rating are
independent choices. In practice, these two functional elements may in fact be related.
7
Inventory costs and setup costs can be traded off against one another; inventory can be
minimized by using small lot sizes, but this leads to high setup costs.

References
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Crilly, Nathan. 2010. “The Roles That Artefacts Play: Technical, Social and Aesthetic
Functions.” Design Studies 31 (4): 311–344.
Fine, Charles H. 1998. Clockspeed: Winning Industry Control in the Age of Temporary Advantage.
New York: Perseus Books.
Finger, Susan, and John R. Dixon. 1989. “A Review of Research in Mechanical
Engineering Design.” Research in Engineering Design 1: 121–137.
Fixson, Sebastian K., and Jin-Kyu Park. 2008. “The Power of Integrality: Linkages Between
Product Architecture, Innovation, and Industry Structure.” Research Policy. 37 (8): 1296–
1316.
Fowler, T. C. 1990. Value Analysis in Design. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold.
Henderson, Rebecca M., and Kim B. Clark. 1990. “Architectural Innovation: The
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Administrative Science Quarterly 35: 9–30.
Hubka, Vladimir, and W. Ernst Eder. 1988. Theory of Technical Systems. New York:
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Langlois, R. N., and Paul L. Robertson. 1992. “Networks and Innovation in a Modular
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Lee, H. L., and Christopher S. Tang. 1997. “Modeling the Costs and Benefits of Delayed
Product Differentiation.” Management Science 43 (1): 40–53.
Mead, Carver, and Lynn Conway. 1980. Introduction to VLSI Systems. Boston, MA:
Addison-Wesley.
Nevins, James L., and Daniel E. Whitney. 1989. Concurrent Design of Products and Processes: A
Strategy for the Next Generation in Manufacturing. New York: McGraw-Hill.
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Journal 18 (3): 169–186.
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Sanchez, R., and Joseph T. Mahoney. 1996. “Modularity, Flexibility, and Knowledge
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 SEVEN

Aesthetics in Design

The aesthetic response to an artifact is the immediate feelings evoked when experiencing
that artifact via the sensory system. I consider aesthetic responses to be different from other
judgments in at least three ways. Aesthetic response is rapid, usually within seconds of
exposure to the artifact. Aesthetic response is involuntary, requiring little if any expenditure
of cognitive effort. Aesthetic response is an aggregate assessment biased either positively (e.g.,
beauty or attraction) or negatively (e.g., ugliness or repulsion) and not a nuanced
multidimensional evaluation.
By contrast, consider the response to a new mutual fund. While the financial service
may be quite appealing and preferred over other alternatives, this assessment of preference is
likely the result of a deliberate analytical process over an extended time period and will
probably include a balancing of elements of like and dislike. The response to the fund takes
significant time, requires effort, and it is multidimensional, and so for my purposes is not an
aesthetic response.
An aesthetic response is most frequently stimulated by visual information, largely
because the vision system provides data more immediately and at higher rates than do the
other senses. Nevertheless, aesthetic responses can be stimulated via senses other than
vision. For example, consider the varied responses to the sound of a recording of Aretha
Franklin; the feel of a warm whirlpool; the taste of a chocolate truffle; the smell of spoiled
meat; the acceleration of a roller coaster in a sharp turn.
We typically think of the aesthetic qualities of an artifact as distinct from its function.
Two different hammers might perform the task of driving nails equally well and yet they
may evoke different aesthetic responses in the user. Why, then, does aesthetics matter in
design?
Let me cite three reasons, giving a preview of a theory of aesthetics to follow. All other
things equal, most users will prefer a beautiful artifact to an ugly one, even in highly
functional domains such as scientific instruments. Thus, beauty can be thought of as “just
another attribute” in a user’s evaluation of preference, alongside durability, ease of use, cost,
and safety. In this respect, the aesthetic quality of an artifact is an important factor in
providing a satisfying user experience, the prime motive for design.
Second, the aesthetic response to an artifact is usually the first response to the artifact.
First impressions matter, and overcoming an initial aesthetic repulsion is a substantial
challenge for the designer, better avoided in the first place.

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 Third, beauty may serve as a signal for unobservable attributes of quality, much as a
brand does for products and services. In such cases, beauty itself is less important than what
else the observer may infer from an exhibition of beauty.
So far I have avoided the question of why one artifact may be perceived as more
beautiful than another. This question has been posed more generally for centuries by
philosophers attempting to explain beauty across the domains of art, literature, music,
landscapes, architecture, and the human body. Eighteenth-century philosophers David
Hume and Immanuel Kant (Hume 1757; Gracyk 2003) wrote about aesthetics and engaged
the fundamental question of the extent to which aesthetic quality is absolute and universal
or dependent on context. Although the philosophy and psychology of aesthetic judgments is
more nuanced today, this basic tension between universal standards and relative assessment
remains prominent. I believe that the most compelling theory of universal aesthetic
judgment derives from evolutionary psychology, and I review that perspective here. I then
discuss the perspective that aesthetic judgments are derived from specific human experience
and cultural context. After providing a brief review of these two perspectives, I synthesize
them into the beginnings of a theory of aesthetics for design.
Evolutionary aesthetics
Most significant human adaptations evolved over the past 100,000 generations (2 to 3
million years) and so haven’t changed much since the dawn of modern civilization. We live
in a modern world, but are equipped with a stone-age mind. The evolutionary perspective is
that aesthetic responses must be judgment adaptations that provided reproductive advantage
in our ancient past (Thornhill 2003).
The classic example of evolutionary aesthetics is that humans on average find symmetry
attractive in potential mates. And in fact, even today, facial symmetry is correlated with
reproductive health, so it is plausible that rapidly detecting and being attracted to facial
symmetry is an aesthetic judgment adaptation that could have led to relatively higher
reproductive success (Thornhill and Gangestad 1993). Evolutionary aesthetics also
convincingly explains a wide range of other responses, including an aversion to slithering
snakelike objects and a preference for landscapes that provide protection and vantage points.
A central tenet of evolutionary aesthetics is that adaptations are shared by essentially the
entire species; thus to the extent that an adaptation explains an aesthetic response, it does so
universally. (See Dutton 2003 for a nice summary of the key ideas in evolutionary
aesthetics.)
On balance, I find quite compelling the idea that we possess many specific adaptations
for quickly assessing attractive and repulsive properties of the physical world and that some
of these adaptations are likely to be relevant to aesthetic judgments of artifacts. However,
the evolutionary perspective cannot yet explain a great many of the interesting
characteristics of aesthetic responses exhibited in society today.
Cultural aesthetics
The evidence is overwhelming that many aesthetic judgments differ widely across time and
across cultures. As a result, anthropologists and psychologists have sought cultural
explanations for aesthetic judgments.

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 The cultural perspective on aesthetics posits that the ideas prevalent in a social
environment influence the aesthetic preferences of individuals within that environment.
Therefore, when the environment differs, so do the aesthetic preferences.
One manifestation of cultural phenomena is the emergence of schools of design or design
movements. Perhaps the most influential school of industrial design was the Bauhaus, formed
by Walter Gropius in Germany in 1919 (Girard 2003). The central tenet of the Bauhaus was
that good design arises from the seamless integration of art and craft. Gropius articulated a
set of design principles including “organically creating objects according to their own
inherent laws, without any embellishment or romantic flourishes.” One of the most famous
designers to emerge from the Bauhaus was Marcel Breuer, whose bookcase from 1931 is
shown in Exhibit 7-1. Although the Bauhaus survived less than 15 years, the aesthetic style
of functional minimalism is still today broadly influential.

Exhibit 7-1. Bookcase c1931 by Marcel Breuer, a student and

teacher at the Bauhaus school. Source:
http://classicdesignshop.com/lang-en/accessories-bookcase/386-
marcel-breuer-design-furniture-bookcase-s44.htm.
The Memphis movement was formed in 1981 as a consortium of Italian designers led by
Ettore Sottsass. The movement was essentially a reaction against modernism, which was to
a large extent an outgrowth of the Bauhaus. The Memphis designers produced whimsical,
colorful, and even illogical artifacts. An example of Sottsass’s work within Memphis,
another bookcase, is shown in Exhibit 7-2.

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 Exhibit 7-2. The Carlton bookcase c1981 by Ettore Sottsass, the
founder of the Memphis group.
Source: http://boijmans.medialab.nl/en/work/V 258 (KN&V).
A theory of aesthetics that seeks to explain the aesthetic appeal of both the Bauhaus and
Memphis bookcases seems likely to require cultural insights, in addition to the evolutionary
perspective. Despite their apparent differences, the evolutionary and cultural perspectives
are not mutually exclusive explanations for aesthetics. In fact, they can be harmonized in a
relatively straightforward way as follows.
All aesthetic judgments are implemented by a biological information processing system
made up of a collection of evolutionary adaptations. Some fundamental elements of this
system are largely invariant across humankind regardless of education, culture, or
experience. However, many mechanisms, even if invariant across the species, operate on
symbols and not on minimally processed sensory inputs, and the values of the symbols on
which the mechanisms operate may vary widely (Crilly et al. 2004). Also, many
mechanisms are developed, or at least tuned, in a particular individual based on learning
and experience.
For example, psychological mechanisms for determining status, prestige, and rank
appear to be quite universal, but operate on symbols whose values depend on context. In
one setting the symbols associated with status may be derived from body piercing and in
another from a large automobile. Although, at this time, the explanatory power of
evolutionary aesthetics is relatively weak for settings in which an aesthetic response is highly
dependent on social environment, learning, and culture, by recognizing that psychological

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mechanisms may produce very different aesthetic responses depending on context, both the
evolutionary and the cultural theories of aesthetics can be useful and harmonious.

A Theory of Aesthetics in Design

Despite the ambitious section heading, let me state clearly from the outset that I do not have
a fully formed and comprehensive theory of aesthetics in design. Nevertheless, I offer some
fragments of a theory, which I do think are useful in providing insights and in guiding
practice.
The theory comprises these elements:
 The phenomena we lump together into aesthetic response are actually the result of
many different psychological mechanisms.
 These mechanisms operate on basic sensory inputs and on symbols derived from
these inputs and from memory.
 The psychological mechanisms that we consider aesthetic operate very rapidly and
may be superseded by a more deliberate formation of preference based on cognitive
analysis over longer time periods.
 Some important and significant aesthetic responses are vestigial adaptations for
detecting physical features that were useful in an evolutionary sense.
 Other important and significant aesthetic responses are adaptations that operate on
symbols derived from learning, experience, and cultural context.
Consider Exhibit 7-3, which is a schematic representation of the theory. We perceive an
artifact through a sensory interface. Many psychological processes operate simultaneously,
making inferences about the attributes of the object. Some are extremely rapid, detecting
light and motion, for example. Others play out over a second or longer, like those detecting
shape, symmetry, gloss, and temperature. Psychological processes continue to operate and
may invoke symbols from memory. Finally, aesthetic responses may give rise to deliberate
analytical thought, which may persist for minutes or longer. An overall preference may be
formed within a fraction of a second, but this preference may change as additional
information is processed. An initial positive impression may wane, or an initial aversion
may turn positive.
Within this theory a sharp distinction between an aesthetic response and an analytical
response is a somewhat arbitrary conceptual convenience. The boundary between aesthetics
and analytics cannot be sharply drawn. However, I do think that judgments that play out
over a few seconds feel qualitatively different from those that may play out in minutes, and
certainly from those that operate intermittently over hours and days.
This theory also lets us distinguish between responses that are likely to be universal and
those that are likely to be highly dependent on symbols determined from learning,
experience, and culture. The most immediate responses are those that are derived from the
information processing mechanisms closely tied into the sensory system. Those mechanisms
that rely on retrieving symbols from memory are likely to require more time.

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 Within this overarching theory, let me make five propositions that I think can be useful
in explaining aesthetics in design and in guiding practice. Certainly these propositions are
incomplete and are yet to be validated empirically. With this disclaimer, here they are.

Exhibit 7-3. Schematic illustration of human cognitive response

to an artifact (e.g., a hammer) with a hypothetical trajectory of
preference as a function of time for a particular individual. Attrib-
utes of the object, represented by nodes and labels, are inferred
over time based on the sensory inputs, memory, and other attrib-
utes.
First impressions matter
Aesthetic responses are immediate and involuntary and they result in the development of
preferences. I conjecture that aesthetic responses influence subsequent analytical
determination of preference. Specifically, a positive aesthetic response is more likely to lead
to a positive ultimate preference than if the initial aesthetic response were negative.1 Such a
phenomenon could be exhibited for at least three reasons. First, and obviously, beauty itself
is by definition preferred and so given similar analytical preferences, the beautiful artifact
should still be preferred over the ugly artifact. Second, and more subtly, an initially positive
aesthetic response may result in a greater chance of further analysis and exploration by the

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user. A negative aesthetic response may dissuade the user from ever learning more about the
artifact and therefore reduces the chance that an ugly, but otherwise preferred, artifact will
ever be fully evaluated. Third, I suspect that aesthetic preferences are “sticky.” That is,
positive aesthetic judgments create a positive bias that persists even in the face of mounting
negative analytical evidence. Conversely, negative aesthetic judgments persist even when
further analysis reveals highly positive attributes.2
The first-impressions proposition could be tested experimentally by providing
information about artifacts to human subjects in different sequences and testing whether
information relative to aesthetic judgment (e.g., appearance) has a stronger influence on
preference when it is presented first than when it is presented after information relative to
analytical judgments.3
Vestigial adaptations contribute to first impressions
There were no cell phones in our evolutionary past, and yet when we see a cell phone, our
stone-age sensory system and aesthetic adaptations are involuntarily invoked. We are not
able to command our retinas and visual cortex to evaluate a cell phone differently than it
would a stone hand ax. I propose that for most modern artifacts, our most immediate
aesthetic responses are vestigial; that is, they are the result of adaptations that were useful in
our evolutionary past. However, when applied to modern artifacts, these adaptations do not
today confer reproductive advantage. If true, this phenomenon does not make the aesthetic
response any less real or any less powerful in determining ultimate preference, so
understanding these vestigial adaptations may be usefully exploited in creating artifacts that
are attractive.
As far as I know, there are no comprehensive catalogs of vestigial aesthetic adaptations.
However, a few adaptations have been clearly articulated and fewer still have been
convincingly established empirically (Voland and Grammer 2003). Here I describe two:
gloss and cuteness.
Before I provide these examples, let me emphasize what I am not claiming. By arguing
that there are fundamental vestigial aesthetic adaptations, I am not arguing that these
adaptations are always paramount in determining aesthetic preferences. My theory posits
that there are hundreds of information processing mechanisms that determine aesthetic
response, and that some of these operate on symbols drawn from memory. An immediate
vestigial response based on fundamental physical attributes of the artifact such as shape or
surface finish could be quickly superseded by a response derived from what those attributes
mean to the observer symbolically.
Exhibit 7-4 is a consumer electronic device, the iPod portable music player, created by
product designers at Apple Computer. Most people find it attractive. Many explanations are
possible, but one element of its attraction is that it is glossy. How could the surface finish of
an engineered component invoke a vestigial aesthetic response? Coss and coworkers have
argued that our brains are hardwired to love reflective surfaces because the only reflective
material on the savanna in the Pleistocene was water, and water was a scarce and highly
valuable substance (Coss and Moore 1990). They further showed that infants will pick up
and lick glossy objects more frequently than the same forms with matte surfaces. To me, it is

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highly plausible that humans possess psychological mechanisms for detecting and rewarding
the detection of glossy surfaces, and that these mechanisms are quite fundamental.

Exhibit 7-4. We like glossy objects, perhaps because of hard-

wired attraction to water. Source: Apple Inc.
Exhibit 7-5 is a early Volkswagen Beetle automobile. Is there anyone who doesn’t
immediately find this car cute? How can a car be cute? Why do we like cute inanimate
objects? We don’t need much imagination to create a theory of cuteness. Babies exhibit
certain physical features such as forward-facing eyes and rounded heads that are attractive
to adults, who can provide resources and protection for the young. The cute phenomenon
could have plausibly evolved to provide reproductive advantage to humans. So powerful are
cute features in invoking attraction that our psychological mechanisms are tricked into
oohing and ahhing over collections of sheet metal that resemble babies.

Exhibit 7-5. Why is this car cute? Source: Volkswagen Group.

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Physics can be aesthetic
I believe that humans possess fast and effective physics computers. We are remarkably good at
estimating trajectories, predicting imbalance, and sensing strength and rigidity of structures.
One can easily imagine why such mechanisms would have been useful in an evolutionary
sense. Consider Exhibit 7-6, which shows a walkway over Grand Canyon West. How
attractive do you find this walkway? Personally, I want to turn and run back to the minivan.
My physics computer does not understand tricky high-strength steel cantilevered structures,
and its immediate reaction is that this is an artifact to be avoided.
This is an interesting example of where an initial aesthetic revulsion might be superseded
by a higher-order preference. If I thought about the walkway for a few minutes, I would
probably conclude that thousands of people had safely walked on it and that the chances of
it falling down as I walked on it were pretty slight, probably less than the chances of being
hit by a tour bus while crossing the parking lot. At that point, I might actually be attracted to
doing something that stimulates my danger avoidance system, an opportunity I don’t have
very often as a university professor. Nevertheless, I think designers benefit from
understanding that humans are likely to be attracted to things that appear safe and stable,
and that this perception is based on the physics of pretty ordinary objects made of materials
like tree branches and rocks.
Aesthetic features are honest signals of quality
Signals are essential elements of our means of making sense of the world.4 We use signals to
detect whether someone is bored with a joke, to decide whether to stop at a roadside
restaurant, to choose a sofa for the living room. The concept of an honest signal arises in both
evolutionary biology and in economics, and I believe plays a key role in aesthetics. An
honest signal is one that is unlikely to be faked by the signaler and therefore can be relied on
by the receiver of the signal (Bird and Smith 2005). In nature, the vertical jumping of a
gazelle when encountering a lion is an honest signal that the gazelle is fit and can outrun the
lion. This is mutually beneficial because the animals can effectively skip the expense of a
contest with a predetermined outcome; the gazelle doesn’t actually have to run and the lion
doesn’t actually have to chase. In economic life, agents develop behaviors in response to
incentives, and signaling is an important element of this behavior. Spence (1973) showed
that an overinvestment in education, say by attending a challenging university, is like the
gazelle’s leap. The action is a signal of ability that can be relied upon by an employer.
Nelson showed that under certain conditions, advertising by a manufacturer can be viewed
as an honest signal of product quality (1974).
In order to be honest, a signal must be difficult or costly to fake. In economic terms, it
must provide more net benefit (benefit minus cost) for a more fit signaler than it does for a
less fit signaler. Under these conditions, it is in the fit signaler’s interest to provide the signal
and the receiver can therefore rely on the signal as a true indicator of fitness.
Mithen (2003) has done a fascinating study of ancient hand axes, possibly the first
aesthetic artifacts. Apparently, our ancestors developed an aesthetic preference for highly
symmetric, carefully crafted stone hand axes. The leading theory of this aesthetic preference
is that beautiful hand axes were honest signals of male fitness. A male who could be directly
observed to craft a beautiful hand ax was one who (1) had access to scarce resources like

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obsidian, (2) had excellent strength, dexterity, and fine motor skills, and (3) could afford to
sit and make axes for hours at a time and still survive. The signal is honest in that it is less
costly for a fit fabricator to make axes than a less fit fabricator, and so the expenditure of
effort to fabricate aesthetic hand axes can be relied on as a signal of fitness.

Exhibit 7-6. The cantilevered walkway over Grand Canyon

West. What is your aesthetic response? What is your mental
physics processor telling you? Source: Best American Destina-
tions, Grand Canyon West / Hualapai Tribe.
In an analogous way, deliberate investment in designing aesthetically pleasing artifacts
can be used by producers and consumers as an honest signal of the quality of the artifact.
The key idea is that designing beautiful artifacts is costly for a producer. If an artifact is
beautiful, it is unlikely it got that way by accident or by trivial imitation. Rather, a designer

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devoted care and attention to the forms, surfaces, and details of the artifact. In a profit-
maximizing setting, the producer who stands to benefit the most from this investment is the
one who produces goods that are preferred upon closer inspection and that will deliver long-
term satisfaction to the user. In this way, the producer of better products benefits more from
positive aesthetics than does the producer of lower-quality products. Thus the development
of aesthetic features of artifacts satisfies the requirements of honest signaling.
Artifacts have symbolic value in social systems
Teenagers seem able within seconds to size up a fashion accessory and determine whether
or not it is attractive. The aesthetics of fashion are highly dynamic, so it is hard to argue that
some intrinsic physical properties of fashion accessories directly determine aesthetic
preference. Rather, fashion artifacts must stimulate and invoke symbols in memory that
determine the aesthetic response. I am not ambitious enough to try to explain fully such
mechanisms, but let me conjecture how one such mechanism might work.
Exhibit 7-7 shows the hip-hop artist 50 Cent wearing huge jewel-studded items of
jewelry known (as I write this anyway) as “bling.” My teenage son has a strongly positive
aesthetic response to bling. Personally, I don’t get it. Indeed, the fact that I don’t get it may
be a key reason my son likes it. A simple set of symbolic relationships seem highly
predictive of his aesthetic response: An artifact whose physical attributes (1) invoke an
association with a group a teenager admires and (2) invoke a disassociation with the parents
will be attractive to the teenager.
Lest I dismiss this response as youthful folly, an almost identical mechanism explains in
part why I am attracted to Patagonia brand apparel. I aspire to the dirt-bag, free-spirited
culture associated with the brand, and wish to disassociate myself from the Ralph Lauren
set. This is such a primitive symbolic aesthetic response that it persists despite the logical
analysis that the more accurate association of Patagonia would be with middle-aged affluent
professionals. True dirt-bag nomads buy their fleece at Walmart or Goodwill.

Exhibit 7-7. The hip-hop artist 50 Cent wearing his bling. Pho-
tographed by Bobin James. Source: www.khachaak.com.

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 It is easy to imagine other symbolic relationships that could explain aesthetic responses.
Most of these relationships operate on symbols whose values are themselves dynamic. A
few relatively straightforward relationships could give rise to phenomena that appear
complex and dynamic, such as fashion in current society. For instance, Pesendorfer (1995)
develops a simple economic model in which the latest fashion apparel is used as a signal in a
dating game.

Creating Beautiful Artifacts

Even assuming you are persuaded by my proposed theory of aesthetics of artifacts, I have
provided no prescriptions for how one might actually design beautiful artifacts.
We can certainly imagine a design process that can create beautiful artifacts, although
perhaps not efficiently. Such a process requires only that we can generate alternatives and
that we can evaluate the beauty of those alternatives. In Chapter 4, I discuss exploration in
detail, but no great intellectual leap of faith is required to imagine a way to generate
alternatives. One could engage a variety of different designers with different approaches,
each of whom would generate different designs. One can also imagine a simple, even if
costly, approach to evaluation. We could build prototypes of the alternatives, present them
to the target user population, and observe which are preferred by the users. In fact, at the
macro level of an entire industry or design domain, this is the process by which artifacts
may become more attractive over time.
However, an unguided process of generating alternatives and evaluating them through
testing in a user population is inefficient. Given a theory of aesthetics, a designer should be
able to develop and apply heuristics based on causal relationships in the theory, resulting in
the generation of more successful alternatives and a reduced requirement for testing. A
sample heuristic is that all else equal, humans assume “normal physics” in evaluating
objects, so chairs, tables, and other structural objects are more likely to be attractive if their
forms appear to be stable, solid, and strong.
I believe that interested researchers could develop a more complete theory of aesthetics
in design. With such a theory, I believe that useful design heuristics could be developed that
would be highly effective in educating designers and in guiding practice. About thirty years
ago, the architect Christopher Alexander and his collaborators wrote a brilliant book, A
Pattern Language (1977), which is essentially a collection of heuristics for designing the built
environment, some of which are based on thoughtful and careful observation of how
humans respond to their buildings and outdoor spaces. Alexander’s heuristics are
surprisingly easy to apply, and have attracted a passionate following among some designers.
For example, this is Alexander’s heuristic (or “pattern”) 159: “When they have a choice,
people will always gravitate to those rooms which have light on two sides, and leave the
rooms which are lit only from one side unused and empty” (Alexander et al. 1977: 747).
He goes on to articulate the theory underlying this heuristic, which is in part that light
from two sides provides the optimal illumination of other people for detecting subtle
expressions and movements, making the rooms conducive to understanding social
exchanges.

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 While expert architects may over a long career develop strong intuition about natural
lighting, a heuristic like Pattern 159 is highly useful in guiding a novice.
Practical aesthetics
As an academic, I am optimistic and intrigued by the prospect for a comprehensive theory
of aesthetics, which might then be followed by the development of useful heuristics for
design. However, as a designer, I know that we are probably decades away from that goal.
As a practical matter, heuristics for aesthetics are likely to be of limited use. Rather, we will
continue to rely on designers who possess skills, largely tacit, for creating beautiful artifacts.
Design spaces are rugged, meaning that incremental iterative improvement of a design is
unlikely to result in finding a great solution. Better solutions are likely to be found in
territory distant from the starting point. In such environments, we know that parallel
exploration using divergent approaches is likely to result in better outcomes. As a result,
competitions, simultaneous efforts by members of a design team, and the application of
distinct methods for creating alternatives, are likely to be useful exploration strategies.
A substantial problem for designing artifacts that are strongly preferred overall is that the
people who are skilled at designing beautiful artifacts may not be those skilled at designing
artifacts to achieve other, more purely functional, objectives. One need only spend a few
hours in an industrial design studio and then in an engineering lab to realize that the
cognitive processes, social systems, and skills and capabilities of these two populations are
nearly disjoint.
Nevertheless, when abstracted, the design process is the same. Designers consider a gap,
explore alternatives, evaluate alternatives, and iterate. An organizational challenge is to
coordinate the exploration and evaluation of alternatives with contributions from
individuals who are very different in order to arrive at a design that stands out on many
dimensions.

Concluding Remarks
The aesthetic response to an artifact is the immediate feelings evoked when experiencing
that artifact via the sensory system. The aesthetic quality of an artifact is important in
determining a user’s eventual preferences. Theoretical foundations for aesthetics in design
are emerging, even if still preliminary and speculative. A theory of aesthetics in design may
eventually inform practice, leading to more efficient and reliable creation of attractive
artifacts.

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 Notes
1
Coates (2003) provides a nice discussion of a version of this idea in his work on “liking
and disliking” products.
2
In psychology this stickiness in preferences is a well-known property of human decision
making called the confirmation bias.
3
Carlson et al. (2006) did a similar experiment to test the effect of presenting (nonaesthetic)
information about products in different order.
4
Meaning in design is closely linked to aesthetics. The broader issue of what artifacts mean
and how they communicate meaning is the focus of the intellectual area of design semantics
(Krippendorff 2006), and has been treated in the marketing community as well (Solomon
1983; Kirmani and Rao 2000; Veryzer and Hutchinson 1998).

References
Alexander, Christopher, Sara Ishikawa, and Murray Silverstein. 1977. A Pattern Language:
Towns, Buildings, Construction. New York: Oxford University Press.
Bird, Rebecca B., and Eric Alden Smith. 2005. “Signaling Theory, Strategic Interaction, and
Symbolic Capital.” Current Anthropology 46 (2): 221–248.
Carlson, Kurt A., Margaret G. Meloy, and J. Edward Russo. 2006. “Leader-Driven
Primacy: Using Attribute Order to Affect Consumer Choice.” Journal of Consumer Research
32 (March): 513–518.
Coates, Del. 2003. Watches Tell More Than Time: Product Design, Information, and the Quest for
Elegance. New York: McGraw-Hill.
Coss, R. G., and M. Moore. 1990. “All That Glistens: Water Connotations in Surface
Finishes.” Ecological Psychology 2 (4): 367–380.
Crilly, Nathan, James Moultrie, and P. John Clarkson. 2004. “Seeing Things: Consumer
Response to the Visual Domain in Product Design.” Design Studies 25 (6): 547–577.
Dutton, Denis. 2003. “Aesthetics and Evolutionary Psychology.” In The Oxford Handbook for
Aesthetics, ed. Jerrold Levinson. New York: Oxford University Press.
Girard, Xavier. 2003. Bauhaus. New York: Assouline.
Gracyk, Ted. 2003. “Hume’s Aesthetics.” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed.
Edward N. Zalta. http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2003/entries/hume-aesthetics.
Hume, David. 1757. “Of the Standard of Taste.” In Four Dissertations.
http://www.mnstate.edu/gracyk/courses/phil%20of%20art/hume%20on%20taste.htm.
Kirmani, Amna, and Akshay R. Rao. 2000. “No Pain, No Gain: A Critical Review of the
Literature on Signaling Unobservable Product Quality.” Journal of Marketing 64 (2): 66–79.
Krippendorf, Klaus. 2006. The Semantic Turn: A New Foundation for Design. Boca Raton, FL:
CRC Press.

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Mithen, Steven. 2003. “Handaxes: The First Aesthetic Artefacts.” In Evolutionary Aesthetics,
eds. Eckart Voland and Karl Grammer, 261–278. Berlin: Springer-Verlag.
Nelson, Phillip. 1974. “Advertising as Information.” Journal of Political Economy 82 (4): 729–
754.
Pesendorfer, W. 1995. “Design Innovation and Fashion Cycles.” American Economic Review
85 (4): 771–792.
Solomon, Michael R. 1983. “The Role of Products as Social Stimuli: A Symbolic
Interactionism Perspective.” Journal of Consumer Research 10 (3): 319–329.
Spence, Michael. 1973. “Job Market Signaling.” Quarterly Journal of Economics 87 (3): 355–
374.
Thornhill, Randy. 2003. “Darwinian Aesthetics Informs Traditional Aesthetics.” In
Evolutionary Aesthetics, eds. Eckart Voland and Karl Grammer. Berlin: Springer Verlag.
Thornhill, Randy, and Steven W. Gangestad. 1993. “Human Facial Beauty: Averageness,
Symmetry, and Parasite Resistance.” Human Nature 4 (3): 237–269.
Veryzer, Robert W., and J. W. Hutchinson. 1998. “The Influence of Unity and
Prototypicality on Aesthetic Responses to New Product Designs.” Journal of Consumer
Research 24 (4): 374–394.
Voland, Eckart, and Karl Grammer, eds. 2003. Evolutionary Aesthetics. Berlin: Springer-
Verlag.

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 EIGHT

Variety

Exhibit 8-1 shows a portion of the production of the Model T for one day in 1913 at Ford’s
Highland Park Factory. Henry Ford supposedly said of the Model T, “You can buy it in any
color, as long as it’s black.” In fact, before 1913 the Model T was available in red, gray,
green, and blue. For the thirteen years following 1913, indeed black was the only color.
Then, in the last two years of its product life, the Model T was available in 11 colors. Ford’s
design decision relative to paint colors was the response of a producer to economic factors
of both supply and demand. In this chapter, I articulate those factors and use them to
explore the use of variety in the design and production of artifacts.

Exhibit 8-1. A single day’s production of the Model T at the

Ford Highland Park factory in August 1913. Source: Henry Ford
Museum.
I use variety to refer to the assortment of artifacts that differ with respect to one or more
attributes. I focus principally on the variety within a product category available
simultaneously from the producers in a marketplace, although variety can also be thought of
in terms of the frequency and extent to which a producer changes the artifacts it offers over
time. Consider three examples of variety. Exhibit 8-2 shows several T-shirts (the category)

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that differ in their size (an attribute). Exhibit 8-3 shows several soft drinks that differ in their
formulation. Exhibit 8-4 shows several bicycle cranks that differ in geometry, material
properties, and surface finish.
In this chapter, I start by defining three types of variety. I then explain the economic
motives for variety and the costs associated with variety. I conclude by providing a
framework for designing variety—determining the type and level of variety for a family of
artifacts.

Exhibit 8-2. The Hanes Beefy-T shirt is available in several differ-

ent sizes for a given style, color, and quality level (shown here
from S to XXXL). This is an example of fit variety.

Exhibit 8-3. A dozen of the many variants of Coke. This is an

example of taste variety.

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 Exhibit 8-4. Shimano bicycle cranks are available in several dif-
ferent quality levels for a given size and application type. These
four artifacts are all 170 mm 53/39-tooth cranks sold by Shimano
at prices from $60 (bottom) to $350 (top). This is an example of
quality variety.

Types of Variety
I categorize variety into three types: fit, taste, and quality. These categories are defined by the
way a user’s evaluation of an artifact changes as a function of changes in an attribute.
Exhibit 8-5 illustrates how a single hypothetical user might value a T-shirt as a function of
changes in three different attributes of a shirt. The first attribute is the circumference of the
shirt, an element of its size. If the shirt were much too small to wear, it would be useful only
as a dust rag. This hypothetical user values the shirt the most if it is 1100 millimeters in
circumference, a perfect fit. The user can get by with a shirt a little too small or a little too
big, but the value of the shirt falls off steeply as the fit gets too tight or too sloppy. The basic
shape of this function characterizes a fit attribute. Note that a fit attribute need not refer
literally to geometric fit. Rather, fit attributes are those for which the user’s preference
exhibits a single strong peak for a single value of the attribute, with satisfaction falling off
substantially as the artifact diverges from this value. For example, for a software
application, a fit attribute might be the operating system with which the application is
compatible. For a bicycle crank, a fit attribute might be whether the crank is designed for

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mountain biking or road biking. Fit attributes are typically easy to measure, characterize,
and forecast for the designer and producer, and relatively easy for the user to assess.
The second attribute is the T-shirt’s color. For this attribute, the user may have a
preference for blues, but also like greens, and the value function may exhibit a lot of peaks
and valleys. For this example, color is a taste attribute, an attribute for which the user may
have a complex, multimodal response. Preferences for taste attributes are typically much
less sharply defined than for fit attributes, and the user may accept as substitutes artifacts
with very different values of a taste attribute. I intend taste in a broad sense, and not only in
the literal sense of flavor. For example, for the bicycle crank, a taste attribute might be the
finish on the aluminum surfaces—whether polished or matte.
The third attribute shown is the T-shirt’s durability as measured by the number of
washing cycles the shirt can withstand before significant degradation. As expected, the user
prefers increased durability. One thing that would prevent a user from preferring the most
durable shirt might be the shirt’s price. In the crank example, the prices vary by a factor of
six as quality increases. Note that for most users, satisfaction increases at a decreasing rate
as quality approaches a high level. Indeed, one must be a sophisticated cyclist to even detect
which crank is considered the highest quality, and I doubt most cyclists could feel any kind
of difference in the performance of these cranks.
For completeness and to avoid confusion, note that economists typically divide variety
into two categories: horizontal and vertical. Horizontal variety is essentially what I call taste
and fit variety; vertical variety is quality variety. The terms horizontal and vertical variety
are not very descriptive, so I prefer to use fit, taste, and quality, which I find both more
memorable and more useful conceptually.1

Motives for Variety

Variety is the result of decisions made by the producers of artifacts. Producers respond to
seven basic economic motives for variety.2
Heterogeneous user preferences
Each individual user of an artifact values its attributes differently. In a commercial setting, a
user is willing to pay the highest price for an artifact whose fit and taste attributes are at that
user’s ideal point. All else equal, to maximize user satisfaction, a producer would offer an
artifact at the ideal point of each potential user. Hotelling (1929) wrote a beautiful paper that
provides the seminal conceptual framework for thinking about consumer preferences and
variety.
Variation in user experience
Some but not all users seek variety in their experiences over time (Kahn 1995), preferring
different breakfast cereals on different days or different hotels on subsequent visits to a city.
In a setting in which users seek variety for the intrinsic value of its diversity, producers will
offer variety.

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Exhibit 8-5. Illustration of how a hypothetical user’s evaluation
of a T-shirt might change as a function of changes in fit, taste, and
quality attributes.

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Sole source to customer
There are costs in time, effort, and money to procure goods and services from multiple
sources, and so from the standpoint of convenience, a customer prefers to purchase from a
single provider. Of course, the provider reaps benefits from being the sole source as well,
including diminished price competition and higher volume of sales. These pressures may
lead a producer to offer additional variety, some of which may not be profitable when
viewed in isolation, in order to reduce the number of sources of goods and services a
customer deals with.
Price discrimination
Different customers exhibit different levels of willingness to pay for quality attributes.
Assuming that the profit margins as a percent of price do not diminish with higher prices, a
producer would prefer that a high willingness-to-pay consumer buys a higher-quality,
higher-price product than a lower willingness-to-pay consumer. This phenomenon leads
producers to offer different quality levels of artifacts, often with fairly slight differences in
their attributes, but at significantly different prices.
Niche saturation
Existing producers have an incentive to inhibit rivals from entering their markets. An
existing product in a niche deters entry by a second firm. As a result, incumbent firms may
offer products in small niches, even when the marginal benefit of doing so is not positive, in
order to prevent a new entrant from gaining a toehold. Schmalensee (1978) provides a
comprehensive discussion of the literature and a theoretical treatment of this phenomenon.
Avoiding price competition
Have you ever tried to find the best price on a new mattress? For a consumer, it’s an
exercise in frustration. The same producer will offer similar but not identical models
through different retailers. At Acme Mattresses, one finds the SoftSleep Excel 2150 and at
Beta Mattresses one finds the SoftSleep Delux B150. These mattresses may differ in terms of
quilting pattern, number of ties on the springs, and which specific foam is used. However,
discerning which is actually preferred is essentially impossible. This use of variety inhibits
the consumer’s efforts to directly compare prices, allowing Acme and Beta to avoid direct
price competition, to offer lowest price guarantees with impunity, and therefore to charge
higher prices.
Channel shelf space
Shopping can be a cognitively challenging task. When faced with a shelf of toothpaste
options, few consumers will carefully evaluate each alternative, comparing features and
benefits. In fact, there is a certain element of randomness to the purchase decision, and so
almost anything on the shelf will garner some sales. In fact, holding all other factors
constant, sales volume is remarkably proportional to the shelf space allocated to the
product. Imagine a shelf in which there are two brands of toothpaste, say Colgate and Crest.
Given the shelf-space phenomenon, the producer that adds a second variant, say Minty
Crest, will have two thirds of the shelf and, all other things equal, will garner two-thirds of
the sales. This action will of course lead to an “arms race” of variety. In fact, Crest

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toothpaste can be purchased today in about a hundred different formulations (even counting
them all exactly is tricky), a figure that does not include variety in packaging and size.

Exhibit 8-6. The toothpaste aisle.

Costs of Variety
The economic motives for variety would quickly push producers to offer infinite variety if
there were no associated costs. Indeed, variety incurs two basic types of costs: reduced scale
and consumer search costs.
Reduced scale
Variety erodes scale for producers, and given the ubiquity of economies of scale, will
therefore increase production costs. Holding total production quantity constant, if a
producer substitutes two similar variants of a product for a single product, total costs will
rise. Consider the specific example of the Xootr Mg scooter (a product I designed with my
brother Nathan and Jeff Salazar, an industrial designer at Lunar Design). Exhibit 8-7 shows
the product, whose central structural element, or deck, is a die-cast magnesium part. When
we contemplated developing the Mg scooter, we considered offering two versions of the
product, one with a wide deck and one with a narrow deck. The different decks represent fit
and taste variety; different customers prefer different shapes and sizes.
The die-cast deck is produced by a very large press that brings together two halves of a
die (or mold) into which molten magnesium is injected. When the part has cooled and the
magnesium solidified, the die is opened and the part is ejected. The process is magnificent in

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that once the machine is set up, a precise and nearly finished part can be produced once per
minute indefinitely, with a batch of about five hundred requiring only a single shift of
production.
If the part were produced in two versions, then most costs would increase, including the
costs of designing and testing the two versions, the costs of the dies to make two different
parts, and the costs of supporting the production and sale of two variants. Even assuming
that the two decks use approximately the same amount of magnesium, the unit production
costs would also increase with two versions of the product, because the machine would have
to be set up and adjusted for two different batches of parts instead of for just one batch.
Exhibit 8-9 summarizes the cost comparison.
The costs for the scooter are idiosyncratic to this setting and to this production process.
However, virtually all producers of artifacts face economies of scale in their production and
delivery processes. Holding all else equal, when variety is increased, the volume per variant
is decreased, and therefore the total costs of production increase.

Exhibit 8-7. The Xootr Mg scooter with a die-cast magnesium

deck (left) along with computer models of designs contemplated
for the deck. The two shapes appeal to different users for reasons
of style, comfort, and kicking efficiency.
Consumer search cost
The second cost of increased variety is increased cognitive load on the consumer. When a
dinner menu has only one item on it, choosing what to eat is easy. As the number of options
increases, the likelihood increases that one of the choices will be pleasant, but the consumer
must also invest more and more cognitive effort in identifying relevant alternatives and in
making a selection. I call this consumer effort search cost. At some point, the increase in
search cost may exceed the increase in value derived from additional variety. As variety
reaches very high levels, the selection problem may become so painful that the consumer
may actually prefer forgoing the product altogether to avoid the agony of the selection
process (Iyengar 2010).

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 As producers develop an increasing ability to offer variety, due to enhanced process
flexibility, there is a temptation to offer more variety than can be usefully absorbed by the
consumer. With my colleagues Christian Terwiesch and Taylor Randall, I have explored
methods for easing the cognitive burden of choosing from among many alternatives using
decision support technologies (Randall, Terwiesch, and Ulrich 2007). These methods may
serve to diminish the relationship between variety and search cost for consumers.

Exhibit 8-8. Production of the Mg deck requires a die (or mold)

as shown in the upper two panels. The raw castings as they come
from the die are shown in the lower two panels. The lower right
panel shows a production batch of about 500 pieces.

Societal Perspective
Consider the amusing discussion by Fast Company magazine of the differences in four of
Coca-Cola’s offerings (Exhibit 8-10). Coke Zero is a diet cola with no calories and is sold
alongside Diet Coke, another diet cola with no calories. The company calls Coke Zero “a
new kind of beverage that features real cola taste and nothing else.” How critical is it that
consumers are now able to enjoy Coke Zero in addition to Diet Coke? Even if the Coca-
Cola Company is economically rational in offering a dozen formulations of a diet cola, this
action somehow seems wasteful and wrong from a societal perspective.

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 Costs of
Costs of two
25,000 shapes
decks of with
one shape 12,500 of
each

Design and testing costs 12,000 16,000

Tooling costs (e.g., dies and fix- 40,000 70,000
tures)
Material costs and processing 675,000 725,000
costs (27.00 per (29.00 per
deck) deck)
Purchasing, logistics, and invento- 6,000 10,000
ry costs
Marketing communications 4,000 5,000
(e.g., photography, brochures,
website)

Total costs 737,000 826,000

Exhibit 8-9. Comparison of costs for 25,000 scooter decks over
five years in one versus two variants. Approximate costs in US$.
A moral judgment about variety might include some of the following arguments.
Intelligent and creative professionals should be able to find better things to do with their
lives than identifying and exploiting micro segments of the carbonated beverage market. As
a society we should spend fewer resources on designing, producing, and marketing dozens
of different variants of diet colas and more resources on educating children and improving
human health. Yvon Chouinard (2005), the founder of Patagonia, writes, “When I die and
go to hell, the devil is going to make me the marketing director for a cola company. I’ll be in
charge of trying to sell a product that no one needs, is identical to its competition, and can’t
be sold on its merits.” Ultimately, moral judgments rest on moral principles, and a
particular set of principles may give rise to a particular argument about the moral value of
variety. Personally, I’m amused by variety, sometimes confused by it, but do not find
variety as morally offensive as, say, the design, production, and purchase of automobiles
that weigh three tons and achieve 12 miles per gallon (5 km per liter) of fuel economy.
This chapter has mostly taken the perspective of a single producer responding to various
forces to increase or decrease variety. One could also analyze variety from the perspective of
the entire product category. There is some empirical evidence that over the life cycle of a
product category, variety increases substantially with the entry of new firms and then peaks
and declines as the more economically fit firms drive out unprofitable rivals (de Figueiredo
and Kyle 2006). This dynamic suggests that from a societal perspective, there may be more
variety than strictly necessary to address the heterogeneous needs of consumers.

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Exhibit 8-10. An analysis of four variants of diet cola offered by Co-
ca-Cola. Source: “The Marketing Gods Must be Crazy” by Paul Lukas
in the September 2005 issue of Fast Company, page 34.

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 An economic evaluation of variety could in theory address the question of whether or
not variety maximizes social welfare (Lancaster 1975). While variety pursued for the
economic motive of addressing heterogeneous user needs is hard to oppose, one could
object to variety pursued by the producer to garner additional shelf space or to avoid direct
price competition in the sales channel. As with many economic concepts, one must be
careful about relying on intuition. It is possible that such actions provide incentives for
producers to provide artifacts that better meet user needs. I do not know enough economics,
nor have I devoted enough attention to this question, to offer a compelling argument one
way or the other. Instead I leave for others the question of the extent to which variety
offered by producers is a good thing for society.

Designing Variety
In this book, I address the design of many types of artifacts, including buildings, graphics,
services, software, and physical goods. I consider settings ranging from an individual
designing for his or her own use to an institution creating products for a large consumer
market. The problem of designing variants of artifacts is most prominent in the institutional
setting where a team of product designers creates a family of products for a market of many
customers. In this section, I assume this context and lay out a framework for making an
optimal choice of the level of variety of a product. This framework is simple and static, but
is a foil against which I can articulate a set of more subtle complications and issues that face
the firm.
Optimal variety
The notion of optimizing variety has its roots in economics and operations research.
Ramdas (2003) provides a comprehensive review of the literature related to decisions faced
by producers in managing product variety.
I can illustrate the basic idea behind the optimization of variety with additional detail on
the scooter example. I provided the cost analysis in Exhibit 8-9 for two scenarios, one deck
and two decks. Conceptually, I can extend this cost analysis to many decks by considering
how the various costs of producing the scooter would change as variety is increased. There
are two problems with this extension.
First, as variety increases, one would be less likely to use a production process like die
casting, with high fixed costs per variant. Each new die for each new variant would add
about $30,000 in up-front investment. If the scooter company were to offer ten different
scooters using this production technology, then the required investment would be $300,000,
a sum that I can assure you the company would not spend. Instead, the firm would adopt a
different production process technology, in this case computer-controlled machining (CNC
machining), which requires investment of only about $1,000 per variant, but incurs unit costs
of materials, labor, and processing of about $40 per scooter deck. Process flexibility refers to
the ability to produce additional variants of an artifact while incurring relatively lower fixed
costs per variant—CNC machining is more flexible than die casting. The optimization of
variety relies not only on the choice of a level of variety, but on the simultaneous choice of a
production technology.

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 The second problem with the static cost analysis is that the production volume would
not remain the same as variety is increased. Indeed, if the demand for scooters did not
increase with increased variety, then there would be no motive for having more than one
variant. The quantity produced is, however, a determinant of cost. This mutual dependency
of variety, production process technology, costs, prices, and demand make the optimization
problem tricky even when these factors can be readily modeled with mathematical
expressions. One of the first such efforts was undertaken by de Groote (1994), who
simultaneously considered costs, demand, production technology, and variety. Even so, he
was able to do so only for a stylized model, which would be somewhat difficult to apply in
practice.
Fortunately, the practical extent of variety in most settings is quite finite, and so one can
consider discrete scenarios of, say 1, 2, 5, and 10 variants of the product and estimate what
production process would be used, what revenues would likely be generated, and what
would be the overall costs of delivering the particular level of variety. Then, one can
compare total profits under the different scenarios and make an informed decision about the
level of variety to offer. One such analysis is Exhibit 8-11, which for the scooter is the result
of analysis, and judgment based on experience.
We should not get too carried away with our optimization, however, as the reality of
design practice is that we have many more degrees of freedom in addressing this problem
than simply what level of variety to offer, and the rules of the game are changing constantly.
In the balance of this section, I consider several interesting complications that make
designing variety an intellectual challenge.

Number of deck
variations 1 2 5 10

Total quantity sold 25,000 31,000 34,000 35,000

Average price 150.00 165.00 170.00 172.00
Total revenues 3,750,000 5,115,000 5,780,000 6,020,000

Process technology Die cast- Die cast- Die casting Die casting
ing ing (2) + CNC (2) + CNC
(3) (8)
Fixed costs 52,000 86,000 89,000 94,000
Support costs 12,000 14,000 20,000 28,000
Average unit varia-
ble costs 90.00 92.00 101.00 107.00
Total variable costs 2,250,000 2,852,000 3,434,000 3,745,000
Total costs 2,314,000 2,952,000 3,543,000 3,867,000

Profit contribu-
tion 1,436,000 2,163,000 2,237,000 2,153,000
Exhibit 8-11. Revenues, costs, and profits for four different
variety scenarios for the scooter example. Illustrative values in
US$.

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Variety is best measured in terms of attributes as well as end items
In this chapter I have mostly used variety to refer to the number of end items or stock-keeping
units (SKUs) offered by a producer. However, this measure of variety can be deceptive. A
toothpaste manufacturer offering nine different toothpaste end items consisting of the same
formulation in the same tube, but placed in nine cartons printed in different languages, is
behaving quite differently from a manufacturer offering nine end items comprising a gel and
two paste formulations, each available in a pump and two sizes of tubes. Superficially, each
offers nine variants, and yet the modes of competition, the design requirements, and the
systems of production and distribution are likely to be very different for the two producers.
For this reason, an analysis of variety is most useful when it considers both the number of
end items and the variety offered with respect to each of the important individual attributes
of the product.
The architecture of the artifact dictates what can be varied
In Chapter 6, I treat the architecture of artifacts in detail. The key idea is that a physical
decomposition of an artifact into components may or may not correspond to a functional
decomposition, and the nature of the mapping from structure to function is dictated by the
architecture (Ulrich 1995). Variety refers by definition to differences in the attributes of the
product, which can only be created by differences in structure. The architecture of the
product constrains the ways in which the product can be changed, and therefore constrains
the variety that can be achieved by the producer. A static optimization of variety may fail to
account for dramatic changes to cost structure that could result from a fundamental change
to the product architecture.
Variety is an element of competitive strategy
Taylor Randall and I (2001) studied the choices firms made in the bicycle industry with
respect to product variety, production process technology, and supply chain strategy. We
discovered that successful firms had made harmonious decisions across three different sets
of decisions: the attributes over which variety would be offered, the production process
technologies used to produce the bicycles, and the configuration of the supply chain for
producing and distributing the goods. There is typically no single dominant strategy for
competitive superiority. Rather, different firms may adopt different equally coherent sets of
choices that provide differentiation in the market in a relatively efficient fashion.

Concluding Remarks
Variety has indeed increased in most categories in current society. This is partly the result of
increasingly global markets in which firms serve highly heterogeneous consumers. It is also
the result of increased production process flexibility and the associated loosening of the
bonds of scale economies. In this world, design is less and less focused on the creation of a
single perfect artifact and is increasingly a puzzle requiring creative problem solving and
analytical judgment about product architecture, production process technology, supply
chain structure, and market strategy.

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 Notes
1
Why adopt arbitrary labels for concepts when more descriptive terms could be used? For
most people, labels like horizontal/vertical variety, type I/type II errors, and left-brain/right-brain
require rote memorization and cognitive effort every time they are used.
2
Lancaster (1990) provides a nice discussion of variety from the perspective of economic
theory.

References
Chouinard, Yvon. 2005. Let My People Go Surfing: The Education of a Reluctant
Businessman. New York: Penguin.
de Figueiredo, John M., and Margaret Kyle. 2006. “Surviving the Gales of Creative
Destruction: The Determinants of Product Turnover.” Strategic Management Journal 27(3),
241–264.
de Groote, Xavier. 1994. “Flexibility and Marketing/Manufacturing Coordination.”
International Journal of Production Economics 36 (2): 153–167.
Hotelling, H. 1929. “Stability in Competition.” Economic Journal 39 (153): 41–57.
Iyengar, Sheena. 2010. The Art of Choosing. New York: Twelve.
Kahn, Barbara E. 1995. “Consumer Variety-Seeking Among Goods and Services: An
Integrative Review.” Journal of Retailing and Consumer Services 2 (3): 139–48.
Lancaster, Kelvin. 1975. “Socially Optimal Product Differentiation.” American Economic
Review 65 (4): 567–585.
Lancaster, Kelvin. 1990. “The Economics of Product Variety: A Survey.” Marketing
Science 9 (3): 189–206.
Ramdas, Kamalini. 2003. “Managing Product Variety: An Integrative Review and Research
Directions.” Production and Operations Management 12 (1): 79–101.
Randall, Taylor, and K. T. Ulrich. 2001. “Product Variety, Supply Chain Structure, and
Firm Performance: Analysis of the U.S. Bicycle Industry.” Management Science 47 (12):
1588–1604.
Randall, Taylor, Christian Terwiesch, and K. T. Ulrich. 2007. “User Design of Customized
Products.” Marketing Science 26 (2): 268–280.
Schmalensee, Richard. 1978. “Entry Deterrence in the Ready-to-Eat Breakfast Cereal
Industry.” Bell Journal of Economics 9 (2): 305–327.
Ulrich, K. T. 1995. “The Role of Product Architecture in the Manufacturing Firm.”
Research Policy 24 (3): 419–440.

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 NINE

Conclusion

Much of this book is descriptive, an explanation and framework for understanding how
design works in society. Yet, because design is largely a cognitive human phenomenon, and
not grounded in physical reality as are the natural sciences, the practice of design varies
highly. There are few if any immutable and agreed-upon laws of design. Thus, in its
description, the book is also necessarily prescriptive, arguing that design can and should be
thought of in a certain way and that the practice of design can be improved with a common
understanding of principles and effective processes. A key objective of the book, toward that
end, is to establish a common framework for design across all domains. I believe that such a
framework can be the basis for design literacy, an understanding of the minimal set of
principles and practices required to be effective as a designer.
For design literacy to take hold in society, I believe two basic requirements must be met.
First, the elements of design must be codified. That is, a consensus must emerge about the
core of what it means to be an effective designer. Second, that core body of knowledge must
be disseminated through the educational and training activities of members of society.

Codification of Core Principles of Design

As a start, let me propose this list of principles and practices as the core elements of design
literacy:
1. An effective design process includes these steps (Chapters 1 and 2):
a. Sense gap
b. Define problem
c. Explore alternatives
d. Select plan
2. Problem definition benefits from asking the “five whys” in order to frame the
challenge at the right level of abstraction. (Chapter 3)
3. Understanding user needs is a key element of problem definition, and that
understanding is usually best developed with interactive and immersive methods.
(Chapter 3)

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 4. Exploration is a form of search (Chapter 4) whose primary goal is to expose as many
diverse ways to address the design problem as possible. Each domain will have
idiosyncratic heuristics and methods for exploration.
5. The design process is rarely a pure flow from first to last step, but more typically
involves iteration. As a result, early and frequent prototyping and testing usually
results in better outcomes. (Chapters 1–4)
These principles seem simple and may even be natural for many people, and of course
much more can be said about design. However, I believe that these few basic principles are
the essential distinguishing characteristics of effective design outcomes. Though these
elements are simple, their application is remarkably rare in society. How many corporate
teams, university committees, and government commissions stumble along in addressing
challenges with no explicit problem definition, no deep understanding of stakeholder needs,
and limited exploration of alternatives? How frequently do design efforts result in elaborate
plans that have never been tested and will not have a pilot or prototype?
One of the reasons these defects persist in important problem-solving efforts is that the
challenges are not recognized as design problems; also, facility in the basic design process is
not ingrained in the approaches of many professionals. Of course, the design process
becomes second nature for most who think of themselves as designers (e.g., architects,
engineering designers, graphic designers, industrial designers), but most lawyers, business
administrators, and politicians do not think of themselves as doing design, even though they
frequently engage in problem-solving activities, beginning with a sensed gap and resulting in
an artifact.
As noted in Chapter 3, these principles share quite a bit with the general problem-solving
process articulated by Shewhart as the plan-do-check-act cycle (PDCA). PDCA is the
foundation of most quality-improvement efforts and it is well understood by many if not
most professionals even remotely engaged in quality-improvement projects. Of course, there
is more to quality management than PDCA (e.g., process capability, design of experiments),
yet PDCA is a central framework. Its codification was a precursor to dissemination.

Dissemination of Core Principles

I believe every member of society would benefit from being design literate. Who does not
face the challenge of creating an artifact in response to a sensed gap, the essence of design?
Recall that I use artifact in the most general sense to refer to products, services, business
models, systems, and organizations that are the result of deliberate human creation.
If I’m right, then design really should be an essential component of primary and
secondary education and reinforced in higher education. Design is fun for most children.
My children created fascinating devices for their fourth-grade invention fairs (a
marshmallow cannon and a portable popcorn popper). All eighty students participating each
year in that fair were having a blast. How hard would it be to overlay a slight bit of
conceptual process over that intrinsically engaging activity? Then, how about repeating an
immersive design challenge at least once per semester along with increasing depth and
sophistication in design tools and methods?

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 Somewhere between fourth grade and ninth grade (roughly ages 9–14), design projects
seem to drop out of the curriculum (at least in the U.S. and in most of the other countries
with which I have some familiarity). The concomitant focus on analytical rigor and the
acquisition of facts may prepare students for more school, but do not necessarily enhance
their abilities as problem solvers in society.
For roughly half of adults in developed economies, we get another chance at design
education in college or other postsecondary educational institutions. However, few if any
design courses are part of what might be considered the general education curriculum in
universities. As I look at my own university’s core curriculum, design does not fit neatly
into one of the general education requirements. In the undergraduate college at the
University of Pennsylvania, the core curriculum comprises communication, analysis, and
perspectives plus seven “sectors” (society, history, arts and letters, humanities and social
science, the living world, physical science, and natural science and mathematics). Where
would you put design? Is design (or perhaps human problem solving more generally) less
important than the required topics under these categories?
Well, a gap has been sensed. What’s next? I recommend defining the problem,
generating alternatives, selecting a plan, and iteratively refining until the gap is closed.

***

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 Acknowledgments
My Wharton colleague, Christian Terwiesch, has been a continual sounding board for the
ideas in this book. Jeffrey Smith, CEO of LUNAR design, engaged in interesting
discussions about the aesthetics chapter and has seriously taken on the challenge of
codifying effective approaches to aesthetics in LUNAR’s practice of industrial design.
Steven Eppinger and I together wrote the textbook Product Design and Development, which is
now in its fifth edition. That on-going effort to communicate ideas to students has grounded
my perspective on design. My research collaborator, Laura Kornish, has been willing to
read anything I send her, and she provided detailed suggestions for improving the clarity of
this book.
My mother, Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, read the manuscript carefully and provided useful
feedback and encouragement. My father, Gael Ulrich, is himself a lifelong designer, taught
chemical process design for many years, and wrote an influential book on that subject.
While I doubt I absorbed much chemical engineering as a child, I was certainly steeped in a
designer’s perspective on problem solving. My wife, Nancy Bentley, and I had many
animated discussions about aesthetics, and the chapter on that topic is better as a result.
My friend and MIT classmate Matt Haggerty hired me in 1988 as a part-time product
designer at his young company Product Genesis. I learned a great deal about the practice of
design from that early professional experience. Today many of my deepest professional and
personal relationships are with alumni of that pioneering firm.
Woodie Flowers, David Jansson, Warren Seering, and Patrick Winston were
exceptional professors and advisors at MIT and they taught me a tremendous amount about
design, teaching, approaches to research, and effective communications. I know I’m one of
thousands of former students on whom they have had a huge impact.

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 About the Author
Karl T. Ulrich is Vice Dean of Innovation and the CIBC Professor of Entrepreneurship and
e-Commerce at the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania. He also holds an
appointment as Professor of Mechanical Engineering. He is the coauthor of Product Design
and Development (5th Edition, McGraw-Hill, 2011), a textbook used by a quarter of a million
students worldwide, and of Innovation Tournaments (Harvard Business Press, 2009). At Penn,
he cofounded the Weiss Tech House and the Integrated Product Design Program, two
institutions fostering innovation in the university community. In addition to his academic
work, Professor Ulrich has led dozens of innovation efforts for medical devices, tools,
computer peripherals, food products, web-based services, and sporting goods. As a result of
this work, he holds more than 20 patents. Professor Ulrich is a founder of Terrapass Inc.
and he is a designer of the Xootr scooter, which BusinessWeek recognized as one of the 50
coolest products of the twenty-first century. Professor Ulrich holds bachelor’s, master’s, and
doctoral degrees in mechanical engineering from MIT.

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 Colophon
I wrote this book over a time period in which the publishing industry changed dramatically.
In the middle of this period, I began doing most of my reading on a mobile computing
device; first the Kindle, then the iPad, and most recently an Android-based smartphone. I’m
not alone in believing that printed books for professional and academic content are
becoming obsolete, and therefore the role of the traditional publisher substantially
diminished. Because of these beliefs, my obsession with design details, and my inclination
to learn new things, I decided to coordinate the entire process of creating this book myself. I
wrote the manuscript in Microsoft Word. I created the illustrations, except where noted, in
Adobe Illustrator. I inserted most images as JPEG or PNG files, with original photos
captured with a Nikon D50 digital SLR camera. I hired a freelance copy editor, Sarah
Weaver, who made edits directly in the Word files. Then, a member of the Wharton staff, J.
P. Lacovara, created the eBook itself using the free software Sigil and Calibre. J. P. also
purchased an ISBN number and handled permissions. The book, once in eBook format, is
easily uploaded to Amazon and other electronic distribution channels. All of this was quite
straightforward once the tools were in place and the path known. The result is a book
available at very low cost in essentially every distribution channel and format to the widest
possible readership.

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