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In a moment I will tell you to get off my lawn, but only after complaining about something else entirely. I feel the need to establish my credibility first: I am a member of Generation X. I set my parents’ VCR to record “Murder She Wrote.” I connected my mom’s iPhone to her Wi-Fi, and showed her how to use the navigation feature in her car. Back in the last millennium —when the Navy stationed me a million miles from civilization — I ordered books from the then-fledgling Amazon. I don’t watch TV, I stream content.
In short, I am not a luddite.
However, I am completely through with apps.
Everything I do now requires an app. If I want to secure a parking space before driving into the city, I need an app. If I want to pay a parking meter in Kennett Square, I need an app. If I want to park at my kid’s soccer game, I need an app. And none of these parking apps are the same. Three parking spots, three parking apps. And then I need another app to get into the venue I was going to in the first place.
Our dishwasher gave out on us after an incredibly brief 14 years. The repair contractor we called told us it was not worth fixing because the sum of the parts was more than a new dishwasher. Our new dishwasher has an app. And the manual says that the app unlocks different cycles that will ensure optimal performance. So the product — a mechanical dishwasher — was shipped to us prepared to do a good job, but will not do its best unless we get the app and connect the dishwasher to our Wi-Fi.
Car companies are going the same way: find an inelegant way to glue a large screen onto the center of the dashboard, and then brag about how you can use the screen to stream music, send and receive texts, use your favorite apps (including navigation), and everything else you might do with your phone.
Which is to say, the car has basically become an extension of the phone. Nevertheless, and on top of all of which, my car has an app on my phone (which I can also access from my car’s dashboard). My favorite bagel shop also has an app, as do some of my favorite sandwich shops. The people that work at the store where I buy pet food keep telling me that I should cash in on some rewards points I have been building up, but I have to download their app to get to the rewards.
When I first got an iPhone (the iPhone 2G — the one that fit in your palm and had a rounded back) I had two screens of apps. Recently I was swiping through my nine screens of apps to find something and my nine-year-old said, “Dad, you really need to organize them better.”
So I did: I created a handful of “folders” and threw all the apps I do not use on a weekly basis into them. Now I am back down to two screens. To which I immediately had to add an app for the gym and one for the new dishwasher.
Circling back, I am not a luddite. I am completely dependent on my phone for a host of functions including music, navigation, photography, banking, news, weather, email, texts, and entertainment. I have a level app that I use in my job sometimes. And a compass. And a decibel meter. When I am on vacation, it tells me sunrise, sunset, and the tides. And yes, I use it for phone calls, too.
I can understand why designers and engineers like apps: They are relatively cheap to develop and push a lot of the work of developing an interface off on the phone. Fewer buttons in the car or on the front panel of a household appliance. For stores using apps, I assume that it has the benefit of building loyalty, just like any other loyalty program. In all these cases, apps can also come with the advantage of more closely tracking your customers’ behaviors.
But my dishwasher should not need an app to reach peak performance. That is a failure of design. I’m inviting you to join me in resisting the appification of daily life.
Now, get off my lawn.
Will Wood is a small (app-free) business owner, veteran, and half-decent runner. He lives, works, and writes in West Chester.
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