When I ride the bus, the other passengers affect my experience just as much as the bus driver or the bus itself. On many trips, other passengers are the most important factor in determining whether I have a good trip or a [...]]]> How can businesses influence their users to create a better experience for everyone?

When I ride the bus, the other passengers affect my experience just as much as the bus driver or the bus itself. On many trips, other passengers are the most important factor in determining whether I have a good trip or a bad one.

One Event, Multiple Experiences

Take boarding the bus as an example, an outwardly simple activity that becomes much more complex as you consider additional stakeholders.

Passengers aren’t just looking to find a seat.  They’re looking for a compatible seatmate in a “desirable neighborhood”.  Boarding passengers will skip over empty seats if they don’t like the look of their seatmates, and existing passengers will take steps to keep out “undesirables”.  What makes this especially challenging is that each person has their own definition of “desirable seatmate”. Even among healthy, socially adept passengers, small differences in behavior and personality can severely damage their experience.

To understand how bus riders relate to each other, I rode the bus for 3 hours every day for 10 days. I wanted to focus on the commuters, so I limited my trips to morning (6am -9am) and afternoon (3pm – 7pm) trips. The route I chose, Number 44, has since been replaced by a combined express bus/light rail service. But at the time it ran from the Tempe Transportation Center, near Arizona State University to Superstition Springs Center, about 18 miles away. Each trip took about 90 minutes and included over 30 stops. Passengers were a wide mix of business commuters, families and students.

I looked at the passengers through two lenses, sociability (do they interact with other passengers?) and awareness (are they aware of events on the bus?). Then I used the results to create four profiles:

• Ghosts — Low Sociability • Low Awareness
• Spies — Low Sociability • High Awareness
• Soulmates — High Sociability • Low Awareness
• Gladhanders — High Sociability • High Awareness

While most passengers fit one of these profiles, they don’t always fit the same profile. A spy may become a gladhander if she spots an interesting person. Or a ghost may become a soulmate if he encounters a friend.

Taking notes on a moving bus is challenging!

Ghosts (Low Sociability • Low Awareness)

Ghosts are solitary passengers, so wrapped up in their own activities that they make no connection to the other passengers or events on the bus.

Seating

Isolated seating is best, like the back row, corner seats and spots next to barriers or rails. Ghosts avoid sitting next to, or directly across from, other passengers. They may also look for seats which allow them to turn away from the crowd or places where they can go to sleep.

Artifacts

Ghosts use artifacts as barriers. Large items, like bags, backpacks and coats, will sit between the ghost and nearby passengers.  Books, smart phones and other small items act as objects of intense focus, helping the ghost to ignore his or her surroundings. A ghost’s clothing may also be used to hide his or her eyes, face and ears. Many of the ghosts I saw on the bus wore sunglasses, earphones, hoodies (with the hood pulled up) and brimmed hats.

Behavior:

Ghosts may fix their attention on a single point or object. Others may sleep, or at least pretend to sleep. If other passengers get too close to a ghost, he or she may glare or turn away. Others may respond with surprising bursts of activity. When a passenger sat down next to a ghost on one of my trips, the ghost started kicking nearby railings and seats until his new seatmate moved away.

Ghosts are often unaware of how their behavior, like holding a loud cell phone conversation or drinking (and occasionally spilling) a jug of Powerade and vodka, affects other passengers. They are also unlikely to respond if another passenger misbehaves, even if that behavior affects them directly. Many of the ghosts I observed preferred to suffer in silence rather than take action.

Spies (Low Sociability • High Awareness)

Spies sit apart from other passengers, but they watch them very closely.

Seating

Spies like to sit where they can see without being seen.  Their seating preferences are similar to ghosts’.

Artifacts

While ghosts use hand-held objects to focus their attention, spies use them as cover. They peek over the tops of books and newspapers, or fix their eyes on a smart phone while listening to a nearby conversation.

Behavior

If you don’t mind the scrutiny of strangers, spies make excellent neighbors. Unlike ghosts, who may disrupt other passengers without realizing it, spies are acutely aware of their own behavior. Most of them take pains to be as unremarkable as possible.

Some spies appear to be motivated by self-defense. They watch their neighbors closely as a way to limit their interactions. But others are genuinely interested in the people around them. If they spot something that interests them, this type of spy may transform very quickly into a gladhander.

Soulmates (High Sociability • Low Awareness)

Soulmates are social, but only with their special friends. They focus lavish attention on their companions and keep the world at a distance. They include couples, parents with children, groups who board the bus together, and friends who rendezvous on the bus.

Seating

Soulmates look for connected seating that allows them to be close to their companions.

Artifacts

Many items, like food, reading material and toys are shared within the group. I watched one couple prepare and share an entire meal of cheese, crackers and fruit during a morning commute. They even laid everything out on a plate before they started eating. Other objects, like baby strollers, are tools which allow one soulmate to help another. Soulmates also share burdens, like shopping bags and bundles of clothing.

When an object isn’t actively in use, it may become part of a barricade to defend the soulmates’ private territory. The same couple that shared a meal on the morning commute started their preparations by placing a backpack and two heavy coats on the seat between themselves and their nearest neighbor.

Behavior

Soulmates are demonstrative and expressive with their companions. They huddle together and may share physical contact. At the same time, they also turn their backs on the crowd and move away if others get too close. Some soulmates, especially parents with children, will explicitly tell their companions to stay away from other passengers.

Gladhanders (High Sociability • High Awareness)

Gladhanders are engaged passengers. They seek out conversations and quickly respond, with action or commentary, to the events around them.

Seating

When there’s an empty seat near another passenger, a gladhander will take it. He or she may even switch seats in order to find a better conversation. Many gladhanders are also quick to offer their seats to other riders.

Artifacts

Gladhanders use artifacts as means of communication. They ask other passengers what they’re reading. They comment on things that catch their interest. If another passenger is struggling with an unwieldy item, like a baby stroller or, in one memorable situation, a dolly loaded with cases of beer, they may even offer to help.

Behavior

Not many people look forward to a long commute on a crowded city bus, but a friendly, engaging neighbor can make the experience much more enjoyable. Gladhanders are powerful community builders and catalysts for cooperation.

Unfortunately, gladhanders can also be destructive. What feels like neighborly greeting to a gladhander may be an unwelcome intrusion to a ghost, spy or soulmate. The same outgoing nature that causes gladhanders to reach out in friendship can also lead to bullying or gossip.

One regular passenger on Route 44 liked to ask his neighbors what they were reading. His conversations were amiable, but not always. If he didn’t like a book, he would hound the reader until they put it away. Although his attacks weren’t personal, they were always directed at the book not at the reader, they made the atmosphere very uncomfortable.

Conclusions

When we ride the bus, we are surrounded (sometimes very closely) by other users. The way those users behave has a huge impact on our own experience. It is one of the most influential factors in determining whether our ride is a good one or a bad one.

User behavior is a wild card. Companies can encourage certain types of behavior, but they can’t actually control it. This is especially true in a setting like a city bus, where the only employee is tasked with driving the bus, not with maintaining a convivial atmosphere. Unless it is truly disruptive, most user behavior goes unnoticed by the driver. Or, if it is noticed, the driver does not respond.

With so many user motivations and desires, it is easy to find sources of conflict. A gladhander upsets a spy by starting an unwelcome conversation. A nearby ghost rankles at the spy’s constant attention. Two careless soulmates disrupt all of their neighbors with a loud argument. And the gladhander takes offense when the spy turns away from his friendly greeting.

There is also great potential for these archetypes to work together to improve everyone’s experience. If the spy spots a common interest with the gladhander, they might have an enjoyable conversation. With the spy’s attention elsewhere attention elsewhere, the ghost might enjoy sitting next to him, since neither one wants to interact with the other. If the soulmates can moderate their behavior, perhaps with some encouragement from the gladhander (although this is risky. The gladhander’s help may also escalate the situation.), they might become good seatmates for everyone.

As designers, can we create opportunities for users with different needs to improve each other’s experience? Can we help them find compatible neighbors? Can we leverage their skills in helpful ways, without making them feel bullied or manipulated?

To relate this to another article, can we turn our environments into nurturing affinity spaces?

Stroke and brain-injury survivors frequently perform hand and arm exercises while lying on their backs, she explained. The bed supports their shoulders and holds their scapulae in [...]]]> This project started with a question from an occupational therapist at the South West Neurological Rhabilitation Center (SWAN Rehab) in Phoenix, Arizona: “Can patients play boardgames upside down?”

Stroke and brain-injury survivors frequently perform hand and arm exercises while lying on their backs, she explained. The bed supports their shoulders and holds their scapulae in place, allowing them to concentrate on a smaller group of muscles. In one of the most common exercises, the patient lies on a low bed with his arm at his side. The therapist stands beside him and holds a target, like a ball or a ring, at arm’s length. The patient reaches up, touches the target, and then lowers his arm back to the bed.

The occupational therapist hoped to expand this activity and make it more engaging for her patients. Instead of reaching for abstract objects with little connection to their pre-injury lives, she wanted patients to have meaningful targets linked to concrete, real-life activities. She had experimented with a magnetic travel edition of “Sorry!” clamped to the underside of a rolling table. It was cumbersome and limited. Could we make something with more flexibility?

Our team: Elisa Tostado, Andy Liu and I, started with observation and interviews of patients, therapists and caregivers. We wanted to understand the process of therapy and develop a rapport with the major stakeholders.

We learned that occupational and physical therapists are ingenious designers. Alongside expensive cutting edge machines, we saw plastic trash cans with geometric holes cut in their sides (so patients could practice placing blocks in the holes), foam balls mounted on swing-arm microphone stands (for reaching and grasping exercises), playing cards attached to strips of Velcro (for delicate grasping tasks), and dozens of similar scratch-built solutions. Many were developed for a specific patient, and then repurposed as other therapists adapted them to new situations.

Following the same path, we discovered additional scenarios where an inverted table would be useful. Supine exercises are an early step in recovery. Once patients master the motions, they try the same thing in sitting and standing positions.

Based on our research, we identified three key functions for our product:

• Unlimited positioning — the surface can be placed in any position in space quickly and easily
• Antigravity — the surface holds objects, even when it’s upside down
• Multiple modes — the same device can be used for different exercises, like pointing, grasping, pulling and pushing.

The prototype, made from PVC pipe, a 5-gallon bucket, a dry erase board and a metal gooseneck, stayed at SWAN for two weeks. The therapists used it with patients, wrote down observations, and recorded video of therapy sessions.

After two weeks, we went back to SWAN and debriefed the therapists. Here’s what we learned :

• Patients like to draw — we originally chose a dry-erase surface so therapists could draw targets on the board and patients could reach for them (much like they reached for a ball or a ring in the exercises mentioned above. One therapist called this “visual golf.”). But we discovered that patients like to do their own drawing. One of the most popular exercises was simply drawing lines with a marker.
• Flexibility inspires creativity — one therapist extended the device to its full height and flipped the board over, so a patient could practice reaching for things on the top of a tall object. Another asked if the board of our next prototype could reach all the way to the ground, so patients could perform exercise while leaning over.
• Instability is a mixed blessing — after a few days, the prototype’s gooseneck started to get floppy. By the time we picked it up, the board wouldn’t stay in place without someone holding it there. This was frustrating for some activities, like drawing, where stability is important. But there were other exercises where it was actually helpful. When an action requires a light touch, a wobbly surface provides excellent feedback.
• Limited reach = limited usefulness — when lying on a bed, patients could only reach the whiteboard with one arm. Therapists wanted a mechanism that could extend across a patient’s body, allowing them to work with either arm without repositioning the patient. A longer reach would also make it easier to use the device alongside other equipment or bulky pieces of furniture.

With the information gathered here, we built a second prototype. Taking inspiration from the foam ball mounted on a microphone stand, we used a similar (but sturdier) structure for the base. This served two purposes. First, it provided us with tremendous flexibility. The new prototype can extend down to the floor or up to nearly 10 feet tall. The boom can reach across a patient’s body, and by hanging fabric, sand-filled weights (something the rehab center has in abundance) on the cantilever, therapists can adjust its stability. This accommodates all of the uses we discovered in the debriefing and provides flexibility as therapists, patients and caregivers create new ones.

Second, the swing-arm microphone stand is already familiar to the center’s staff. Although they can no longer simply grab the whiteboard and move it into position, they can still adjust it quickly and easily.

We replaced the single long gooseneck with two short ones. This allows for a limited range of instant adjustments, while providing extra stability and wear-resistance. The new goosenecks use modular plastic parts that are readily available from a local supplier. When they wear out, it’s easy to replace them.

The new prototype has been in daily use for almost a year and a half. Although it’s not intended for mass production, it remains one of my favorite product designs.

The following example comes from a biomimicry visualization seminar at ASU. [...]]]> One of the fun things about working in a multi-disciplinary design program is teaching non-designers (like businesspeople, engineers and biologists) how to draw. They’re not trying to become professional illustrators. We’re just teaching them how to solve problems and express their ideas using pictures.

The following example comes from a biomimicry visualization seminar at ASU. The students were biologists and designers looking for ways to turn natural principles into innovative products.

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Take a look at these two illustrations:

The images show a pair of boxfish, oddly shaped and surprisingly hydrodynamic creatures that inspired a Mercedes Benz concept car. Although they’re very different in terms of draftsmanship, both drawings convey the same basic information about the fish and their habitat.

While the first drawing may be more appropriate for a PowerPoint presentation or a committee meeting, it’s not inherently better for explaining what a boxfish is or how its unique shape might make a more fuel-efficient car. In many situations, like impromptu meetings and elevator pitches, the artist’s drawing may actually be less useful than a simple, 30-second sketch.

Put yourself in your audience’s shoes. Who likes to watch someone search for an image file on their computer and wait for it to load? Wouldn’t you rather see quick sketch and engage in a conversation?

3 Key Questions

When you’re creating a visual aid, these questions are far more important than your skill with a pencil or paint brush:

• Who (or what) are you illustrating?
• What are they doing?
• Where are they? Or, to put it in a “designerly” way: what is the context?

Before you pick up a pencil, answer these questions. Think about how you can represent the answers with a simple icon. Then start drawing.

Let’s look at another biological example. James Gibson, the psychologist who gave us the concept of “affordances” (look for a post on affordances soon), explained the concept by talking about elephants. It’s difficult for an elephant to walk on soft ground, he said. Its feet sink into the surface. In Gibsonian terms, soft ground “does not afford walking.” On the other hand, a firm surface supports the elephant’s weight. Its feet don’t sink in, which makes walking easy. Gibson would say that a firm surface “affords walking”.

How would we illustrate the first example, an elephant on soft ground? We’ll start by asking “What are we illustrating?” An elephant. So, what are the iconic features of an elephant? To me that’s the trunk, the big, sailboat ears, and the large head. We can add other details, like a short tail or a pair of tusks, but they’re like sprinkles on a sundae: pretty but not entirely necessary.

Now, “what is the context?”  Soft, sandy ground.

By putting them together, we answer the question “what is the elephant doing?” Sinking.

And there’s our 30-second sketch. It’s not a masterpiece, but it sums up a complex concept in an engaging easy-to-read format, without several minutes of file-searching or a lengthy explanation.

Welcome to the Pit, the setting for the Star Wars: The Old Republic’s “Huttball” Warzone.

At its core, Huttball resembles American football. Each team tries to carry the ball into the opposing team’s end zone. While the offense runs [...]]]> Can we build literacy artifacts into our designs to help users navigate complex situations?

Welcome to the Pit, the setting for the Star Wars: The Old Republic’s “Huttball” Warzone.

At its core, Huttball resembles American football. Each team tries to carry the ball into the opposing team’s end zone. While the offense runs with the ball (very slowly, the ball comes with a substantial speed “debuff”, a penalty that reduces the carrier’s movement rate) or passes it between teammates, the defense tries to defeat the ball carrier and intercept the passes. If the ball carrier falls, the ball flies to a nearby opponent.

In some situations, after a character scores or when the ball carrier falls with no one nearby, the Huttball vanishes. Then the announcer calls “Neutral Ball!” and the ball reappears at the center of the field. Any player can pick it up and begin the attack again.

Like American football, Huttball is a violent game, but Huttball takes the violence much farther. Defenders try to defeat the ball carrier by throwing grenades, firing missiles and hitting him or her with lightsabers. Whoever holds the ball must weather the combined (and sometimes highly-coordinated) aggression of eight heavily armed attackers. I’ve been in this situation, and it’s a little bit like setting off the grand finale of a fireworks display in the middle of a crowded dance club: so many flashing lights, moving bodies and explosions that it’s hard to process anything.

But the ball carrier isn’t alone. He or she has seven teammates to offer protection and shoot down attackers with their own volleys of missiles, laser beams and lightsabers. This is a mixed blessing. It’s nice to have support from your team. But that support adds to the chaos surrounding the ball carrier.

The Huttball arena, called “The Pit”, doesn’t make this any easier. Unlike football, which is played on a smooth, level field, Huttball is played on an obstacle course. There are terraces, catwalks and deadly traps. Bursts of air pick characters up and hurl them in random directions. No matter where a character stands, it is impossible to see the entire arena, and there is rarely a straight path between the character and his or her destination.

With so many barriers and so much stimulation (remember, players are trying to navigate an obstacle course…in a crowded dance club…during the finale of a fireworks show), it’s easy to become confused. Where is the endzone? Which way should I run? Where should I pass the ball? For that matter, where is the ball? Who has the ball? Where are my teammates? Who are my teammates? And where are those missiles coming from?

Fortunately, the game offers several literacy artifacts to help players navigate this confusion.

Take a look at the image below. In this situation, my team, “The Frog-Dogs”, have the ball. We have temporarily escaped the dance party and we’re running along a catwalk near the opposing team’s end zone.

The literacy artifacts in this image answer several of the questions I asked above:

“Who’s on my team?”

Near the center of the screen, you can see a character named Liara. Her name appears in green above her head, which tells me she’s on my team. This is reinforced by looking at the scoreboard in the upper right-hand corner, where the words “Your Team” are written in the same font and color.

From this position, I can see two other players with red names floating above their heads. Looking at the scoreboard again, I see that the words “Enemy Team” are written in red. I can safely assume that those red-named characters are opponents.

“Who has the ball?”

A silver ball surrounded by a blue glow floats just below Liara’s name (it’s partially hidden by two black and green progress bars, literacy artifacts that tell me about her level of health and her resistance to certain enemy attacks). That’s the Huttball. Since it’s floating above Liara, I know that she’s the ball carrier. But that tiny sphere can be tough to see, so the designers added a yellow column of light above her head. That column goes all the way to the ceiling and can be seen at any distance, so players all over the Pit can find her.

Once again, the scoreboard in the upper right-hand corner of the screen gives us additional information. To the right of the Frog-Dog logo, we can see a round yellow icon that resembles the Huttball. It’s on our side of the scoreboard and it’s yellow (the Frog-Dog team color), which tells everyone that the Frog-Dogs have the ball.

“Where should I run?”

There’s a purple stripe on the ground in front of us. That’s the Rotworms’ (the opposing team) end zone. If we carry the ball into their end zone, we score! I know it’s the Rotworms’ end zone, because it’s purple, the Rotworms’ team color.

I can also look at the “Mini-map” in the lower right hand corner of the screen. It’s a small representation of the entire arena and it’s packed with information (so much information that it’s actually a little difficult to read). The icons on this map tell me where we are (Liara, the ball carrier, is represented by the concentric yellow circles. I am represented by the solid yellow triangle underneath her icon), which direction I’m facing (the sharp point of my icon points in the same direction as my avatar), which direction we should be running (the long yellow arrows), and the location of our goal (the empty yellow triangle).

Moving from player-versus-environment (PvE) gaming to player-versus-player (PvP) encounters can be a traumatic experience. The new domain looks familiar, but it operates on a very different set of rules. Old patterns are gone. The new ones are faster and more varied. The support structure is still there, but it’s not quite the same [...]]]>

Moving from player-versus-environment (PvE) gaming to player-versus-player (PvP) encounters can be a traumatic experience. The new domain looks familiar, but it operates on a very different set of rules. Old patterns are gone. The new ones are faster and more varied. The support structure is still there, but it’s not quite the same and it’s missing a few key components. In their state of semiotic shock, gamers may conclude that PvP is impossible for themselves or for their character.

Adjusting to the unpredictability of a human opponent is one of the first challenges. When I face a computer-controlled adversary, called a “non-player character” or NPC, I know roughly what that NPC will do. It will advance until it can attack, then it will stay in one place until combat ends or I do something to make it move. It’s easy for me to plan ahead. I can even, by edging away or running around a corner, manipulate the NPC into a position that’s beneficial to me. MMO players frequently use this tactic to “pull” targets away from dangerous areas, where the players might be harmed by terrain effects, like lava flows or mine fields, or attacked by nearby groups of NPCs.

In PvP, I’m faced with a human opponent and his or her own fully-developed character. Not only does this person have a set of tools that are as diverse as my own (more than 40 distinct attacks and defenses for top-level characters. NPCs often have only 3 or 4), he or she can be just as devious and unpredictable as I can. Possibly even more so. Although the game takes steps to balance the power level of the characters in a PvP encounter, there’s no way to adjust for the skill of the other players. Everyone a new player encounters is likely to be at least as adept as they are.

Player-controlled characters don’t behave like NPCs. Instead of advancing in a straight line or standing in one place and attacking, they zig-zag and circle. They duck around corners. They rush forward to launch a string of quick, devastating attacks and then run away before slower players can respond. They call for help and work together. They circle around their target and attack from unexpected angles. They use terrain in surprising ways, knocking their opponents off cliffs or trapping them in dangerous locations.

The Pit, one of my favorite PvP arenas, features several “fire traps”. Usually these areas are safe. But every 15-20 seconds they erupt. Two seconds in the fire is enough to defeat the toughest character, so players look for ways to trap their opponents in the fire pit just before the eruptions occur. They might sprint across the pit and dare their attackers to follow. They might trip an unsuspecting foe halfway across, or physically hurl them into the flames. One second everything is fine. The next you’re on fire and there’s nothing you can do about it. A few seconds after that you’re back in the medical bay, wondering what happened.

PvP is filled with similar dangers. Players face coordinated teams who use voice chat to plan their attacks. When these groups focus their attention on a single target, it won’t survive for long. Other opponents “stun-lock” their victims, alternating between highly damaging attacks and abilities that prevent a character from acting for a few seconds, to strip away a character’s health without allowing him or her to fight back. It’s easy to feel helpless against these assaults.

Non-player characters don’t use tricks like this, and PvE players rarely encounter anything that can defeat them without giving them a chance to respond. To someone unaccustomed to player-versus-player gaming, it feels like their character was just run over by a truck that they didn’t see coming. In fact, outside of “heroic” encounters, which are designed to challenge teams of 2 or 4 players, defeat is a rare event in PvE. It may take 3 or 4 tries to overcome an especially difficult encounter. Anything beyond that is noteworthy enough to inspire complaints and lengthy tactics discussions on the game’s message boards.

In PvP a character can be defeated more than a dozen times in a single encounter.  This isn’t surprising considering that player-versus-player gaming is a zero-sum activity. Whenever one player earns a “kill”, he does it by defeating another player. But novices may be frustrated by their repeated trips to the medical bay. This is not the triumphant story they experienced elsewhere in the game.

The player-versus-player community doesn’t make this any easier. In SWTOR, Warzone encounters are played in 8-person teams. When a new player joins a team, the other members are probably complete strangers. Some of those strangers have very high expectations and new players are not equipped to meet them. Verbal abuse is common. Some PvP veterans may even resort to “griefing”: deliberately putting the new players’ characters at risk or standing by while they are mauled by the opposing team. If new players express their frustration, they’re called “noobs” or “care bears”. Unhelpful teammates tell them to quit the game or “L2PvP”, chat slang for “learn to PvP”. Many novices heed this advice. After their first foray into this frantic, and sometimes toxic, environment, they never come back.

Fortunately the situation isn’t always this bleak. PvP does have a support structure for learning and there are hundreds of thousands of players, including me, who enjoy its unique atmosphere and challenges. In an upcoming post, I’ll look at how James Gee’s learning principles apply to player-versus-player encounters and how we can use the lessons of PvP to design better products.

After 40 “Warzones”, structured player-versus-player (PvP) encounters, I’m starting a new character: Hench, the Republic Commando.

It’s not that Haro isn’t successful. He’s doing better than I expected, which really means “not great…showing signs of improvement”. But as his story develops, the PvP encounters don’t feel right. They create an identity crisis, where [...]]]>

After 40 “Warzones”, structured player-versus-player (PvP) encounters, I’m starting a new character: Hench, the Republic Commando.

It’s not that Haro isn’t successful. He’s doing better than I expected, which really means “not great…showing signs of improvement”. But as his story develops, the PvP encounters don’t feel right. They create an identity crisis, where his role as a skilled but reluctant warrior collides with my own desire to explore PvP.

As a novice PvP player who’s eager to learn and prone to panic, I am neither skilled nor reluctant. I send Haro into battle over and over. Once we get there, we’re not particularly good. I press the wrong buttons and run in random directions. Sometimes I freeze in place out of sheer terror or, more commonly, out of sheer incompetence. I can’t count the number of times that I accidentally opened a chat window and broadcast a string of gibberish to my teammates while trying to find the hotkey for “Force Armor” or “Telekinetic Throw”.

This enthusiastic mayhem doesn’t match Haro’s persona at all. He travels the galaxy in pristine white robes, saying things like “You must control your anger,” and “There is no passion, there is serenity.” He resolves conflicts without resorting to violence. And when has to fight, his animations are graceful, almost like he’s dancing.

Haro’s also what gamers call a “squishy” character. It doesn’t take much damage to knock him out. Fortunately he has a lot tricks for avoiding damage. He can wrap himself in an invisible shield or run away from attackers with a supernatural boost of speed. He can snare opponents, slowing their movement, or disable their attacks before they can harm him.

In contrast, Hench is a battered hulk. His armor is scuffed and stained. His face is covered with bruises. He carries a gun that’s almost as long as he is tall. It’s so heavy that he frequently has to shift his weight and stretch his back to get comfortable (a fantastic little animation that doesn’t affect gameplay but adds a ton of character). In conversation he’s more likely to threaten than to negotiate.

Hench’s heavy armor makes him much more durable than Haro. He doesn’t dodge attacks, he shrugs them off. But he’s not very mobile. Many SWTOR players refer to Commandos as “turrets”, because they stand in one place and shoot, instead of running around during combat.  So he takes a lot more hits than Haro does.

If I was focusing on player-versus-environment (PvE) encounters, Haro would be my first choice. His personality isn’t identical to mine, but I like his values I would love to see how his story develops.  I also enjoy his odd combination of abilities, which creates some fun problem-solving challenges. But in PvP, all those active defenses are overwhelming. I have to activate each one separately, at the right time, in the right situation. Otherwise he spends most of his PvP excursions lying face down on the ground or recovering in the medical bay. With my inexperience and tendency to get flustered, that’s exactly what happens.

With enough practice, I think Haro would become a resilient and dynamic PvP character. I can already see improvements in that direction. But right now, the repeated beatings and defeats don’t mesh with my desire to create a serene and self-assured character. Haro has the abilities. He has the right appearance and storyline. But I don’t have the PvP chops to move him in the right direction. James Gee might say that I’m letting the character down, or that the projected identity “Scott as Haro” is failing.

But thanks to the miracle of computer gaming, I’m free to take on a different virtual identity. This week, I’m going try out Hench, a character who is actually designed to cheerfully take a beating (or two…or three) and whose slower pace and simpler defenses may be better suited to my abilities. After 15 or 20 PvP matches, I’ll let you know how I feel about this new relationship.

It took a lot of fighting to get to level 10.

At its core, combat in Star Wars: The Old Republic involves two things: health and damage. Everyone starts with a certain number of health points and a repertoire [...]]]> Can users rely on easily identifiable patterns as they learn a new product?

It took a lot of fighting to get to level 10.

At its core, combat in Star Wars: The Old Republic involves two things: health and damage. Everyone starts with a certain number of health points and a repertoire of attacks for taking away the health of others.  Haro, for example, has about 2,000 health points and he attacks by swinging a lightsaber or throwing heavy objects with the Force. When its health is gone, a character is defeated. So Haro is racing with his opponents. First one to reduce the other side’s health to zero wins.

On the Jedi homeworld of Tython, computer-controlled opponents come in four flavors: weak, standard, strong and elite, each one a little more powerful and a lot more durable than the last. Each type is clearly marked with an icon next to the name plate that floats above its head, descriptive text, and an increasingly elaborate frame that surrounds its picture in the player interface.

Haro can defeat a weak opponent with one attack and a standard opponent with two or three. They’re the extras he wades through en-route to the main villain. Strong and elite opponents are tough enough that it’s easier to talk about them in terms of time. It takes at least thirty seconds to defeat a strong opponent and two or three minutes to overcome an elite. These are the featured fights of an encounter, where the hero squares off against a dangerous foe and the outcome isn’t quite certain.

Damage doesn’t scale at the same rate. A standard foe is twice as durable as a weak one, but it doesn’t deal twice as much damage. At a guess, I would say that the difference is more like twenty five percent. Now that I can see the pattern, I can devise an attack strategy for Haro.

When Haro encounters a group of opponents (and they almost always travel in specific groups: another pattern) I want to reduce that group’s capacity to hurt him as quickly as possible. It takes twice as long to defeat a standard opponent as it does to defeat a weak one. But that standard opponent only does 25% more damage. So it’s most efficient to wipe out the weak targets first, then the standard ones, then the strongs, and finally the elites (although I have yet to encounter all four types of foe in a single group).

Haro’s now almost level 20 (about 20 hours of gamelay), and this basic strategy has been effective since level 1. Occasionally the game adds new challenges that require me to alter my approach, like enemies that arrive after a fight has started (so I have to adjust my order off attack on the fly) or healers who can restore some of my targets’ health (I usually attack healers first, no matter how strong they are). But the basic approach has stayed the same throughout my new user experience. It’s the foundation that lets me build all the skills I need to play the game.

Can we apply the same principle to product design? Can we build reliable patterns into our products? Can users rely on a simple strategy throughout the new user experience?