Process, Not Protocol: How I Design Without Following the Rules
A playful, practice-driven approach to product design that embraces chaos, curiosity, and strong creative instincts — shaping experiences that feel as good as they function.
My Design Process: A Little Chaotic, A Lot Intentional
If you came here looking for a tidy, bullet-pointed process like “Discover → Define → Ideate → Test,” I’ve got bad news: I don’t design like a textbook.
My process doesn’t sit on a diagram. It lives in my Notes app, my saved memes, the 2AM shower thoughts, and the sticky feeling when something just isn’t working.
It’s messy, emotional, experimental — but everything has its place.
So here it is. The unpolished, actually-used, high-output process that I rely on when I want to build something real.
Obsessive Input Mode: Where I Become a Curiosity-Addicted Raccoon
Before I design, I absorb. Not in a methodical, research-deck way — more like a low-key obsession spiral. I collect screenshots like Pokémon, bookmark broken experiences on purpose, zoom into weird button animations on apps most people would call ugly. I’m not looking for “best practices.” I’m looking for something that stirs a reaction. A “wait, what?” moment. A glitch with potential. An interaction that doesn’t follow the rules, but works anyway.
Because I’ve learned that inspiration rarely comes from the expected places. It comes from noticing how a kid uses an app with one hand. Or how a bad design still kind of works because of good timing. Or how someone redesigned a government form to feel like a conversation.
I call this phase “mental composting.” I throw a bunch of stuff in, stir it around, and trust that something good will grow when I least expect it.
Designing Bad Ideas to Trick My Brain Into Good Ones
Once my mental pantry is full, I start sketching — badly, on purpose. I make layouts that are too loud. Navigation patterns that make no sense. Visuals that break every rule I know. And weirdly, this is where clarity begins.
The goal here isn’t to get it right — it’s to find friction.
Bad ideas are powerful because they give me something to react to. They make my brain say, “Okay, not this — but maybe something like this?”
It’s reverse-engineered intuition. I’m not solving yet. I’m provoking.
This step lets me bypass the pressure to be clever. Instead of aiming for brilliance, I give myself permission to make something ugly but honest. And usually, in the margins of those awkward sketches, something promising starts to peek through.
Now comes my favorite part: vibe prototyping.
I don’t wait to perfect the flow — I build rough, interactive prototypes just to feel the product’s emotional rhythm. Does it feel quiet or bold? Confident or gentle? Does the transition between steps feel like trust? Or like friction? If it doesn’t have a personality yet, I know I’m still early.
I treat screens like scenes in a film — what’s the mood here?
Is there tension or relief? Where’s the reveal moment? I’ll use motion, microcopy, and even subtle delays to control how the user feels, not just what they do. For example, I often delay confirmation feedback by half a beat — not for realism, but for emotional weight. It builds trust.
And here’s a strong belief: a design that’s logically “correct” but emotionally dead is just a spreadsheet with buttons. If it doesn’t have soul, it doesn’t ship.
Prototype with Emotion, Not Ego
Watch People Break It (And Thank Them Quietly)
User testing for me isn’t about surveys or checklists. It’s about watching people in silence. I hand them my messy prototype and let the awkwardness do the talking. I look for eyebrow raises, mouse hesitation, panicked tapping, accidental rage-clicks — these are my signals.
Sometimes, people don’t know how to articulate what’s wrong — but their body language does. A pause before clicking? Something’s unclear. Backtracking? Mismatch between expectation and flow. Overexplaining a feature to a tester? That’s a design failure pretending to be complexity.
I test early and rough. Because I believe that good design doesn’t need an introduction. If I have to explain it, I go back to the drawing board. My strongest design decisions often come straight out of these fragile little moments when something quietly breaks.
This is where the design matures. I zoom out and start bringing order to the chaos — aligning grids, tuning spacing, smoothing motion, rewriting microcopy for tone and clarity. I ask myself: What would it take for this to feel obvious? Not flashy. Not overdone. Just… inevitable.
At this point, I’ve made peace with the idea that design isn’t about adding more. It’s about removing uncertainty.
That’s what polish is for. Not gloss — trust. Every detail I refine is a little invisible handshake between me and the user. It says, “We thought about this. You’re safe here.”
I also take strong stands here. No 7-point font just because it fits. No unnecessary spinners just because motion is cool. No loading skeletons if the content comes in 0.2s. Every choice has to earn its place.
Polish Like a Maniac, Until It Feels Inevitable
This is the hardest part. Knowing when to stop. Because by now, I’ve grown attached. I’ve seen the idea crawl, walk, and start to sprint. And naturally, I want to tweak just one more thing.
But I’ve learned this the hard way: if you don’t let go, the idea dies in draft.
So I ship it. Let it meet the world. Let it get critiqued, misunderstood, improved. Because progress beats perfection. And real users will always teach me more than fake polish ever will.
I don't believe in final versions. I believe in living ones.
And the faster something lives, the sooner it can evolve.
Ship It Before I Overthink It to Death
I don’t follow this process to be original. I follow it because it respects the way my brain works.
It leans into chaos, emotion, intuition — and still lands at outcomes that are thoughtful, tested, and strong.
It’s not the cleanest process. But it gets results that feel real.
And in a world full of perfectly optimized, algorithmic sameness —
that’s what makes design worth doing.
