There’s a certain kind of headline that keeps showing up in my feed. By clicking the title of this article, I’m guessing you’ve already seen them. This week it was…

I replaced Notion and Obsidian with this snappy tool and it exceeded my expectations

My brain knows that it’s clickbait and by reading it I’m going to end up spiralling into yet another world of technological pain, but I can’t help it. I’m an absolute sucker for them. These writers don’t just know what I want - they know what I need. I need new technology. I need to believe I’m ahead of the curve, surfing productivity waves while others are still inflating their armbands. They seek out my most base desires as a geek. They excite me.

Maybe it’s because I’m a Gen X geek. I grew up on three terrestrial channels that shut down at midnight, with a thousand 24/7 channels just around the corner. Privacy to talk to my girlfriend meant stretching the phone cable into a cupboard. And the bright lights and loud pew-pews of the arcade were slowly being piped into bedrooms via rubber-keyed computers and primitive consoles. Change was constant. Technological growth was exponential, and I wanted to be a part of it.

So my entire life has been a constant fight of “must adopt” technologies. I was always the first. The first of my friends to move from a BMX to a computer. The first to study Computer Science. The first to beg my school for computer related work experience. I even campaigned at university for my electronics course to allow a computer programmed dissertation. I was the first of my friends on the internet. The first to develop web pages. And the first to buy all my Christmas presents on this new-fangled site called “Amazon” (which incidentally everyone teased me for). I even mortified my wife when we married in 2004, by insisting that we were the first couple in our friendship group to have an online gift list. A move that did not go down particularly well with my technophobic in-laws.

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So now, when I see a headline like “I tried this new browser and it’s amazing”, I’m immediately triggered. The addict in me starts sniffing out a new fix.

But when reading an article about swapping Obsidian and Notion for yet another new tool, I rarely stop to think that last month it was...

I moved from Google docs to Notion and it doubled my productivity

And the month before that..

Why I’ll never use Notes again, now that I’ve found Obsidian

It’s the same breathless cycle, repeated monthly with a new logo. Like musical chairs for note-taking. Except nobody’s sitting down, and everyone seems faintly exhausted.

A few months ago, I fell for it again. I moved half my life into Notion. I’d seen the screenshots. I wanted to be That Person - the one with the beautiful dashboard, the linked databases and the synced calendars.

Ever since I’ve spent hours setting up dashboards, fiddling with icons, watching tutorials, trying to make it all feel intuitive.

And it almost has. But the truth is, I’ve barely scratched the surface and yet now I’m already considering cheating on it with a cheap harlot younger model.

This is the part the articles rarely mention - the messy in-between. The hours lost to rearranging building blocks and migrating data. The nagging voice that says, “Keep going, this time it’s going to be the one”.

Do it.

You know you want to.

Just one more. It’s going to feel good.

But here’s the thing: it never is The One, and it never entirely feels amazing. At least, not for very long anyway. Almost always I end up spiralling into a world of Google searches that are something like “How can I use xx tool with xx tool”. Which, predictably, leads to a world of hacks and add-ons.

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The truth is, the tool is just a tool. If your ideas are a mess, no interface will magic them into order. If your focus is scattered, no productivity hack will glue it together. And if your life is in flux - changing jobs, changing priorities - your system will wobble. And that’s okay.

I’m still using Notion. Sort of. I haven’t found anything better yet. But I’m also trying very hard not to look. Because I’ve stopped believing that the next tool will change my life. Not until I’ve taken the time to actually learn how I work.

I need to figure out what I need - not what someone on Substack says I should want. What helps, what gets in my way, and what it is that I’m really seeking. And maybe this time even stick with something long enough to know for sure that it’s not the right tool.

But of course, that kind of headline doesn’t get many clicks.

I stuck with a tool I didn’t fully understand, and eventually it kind of made sense.

Not quite the same ring to it.

I’d love to hear from you in the comments if you too have a new technology addiction. Do you fall headfirst into every new tool that promises salvation? Do you succumb to your dirtiest digital desires the moment a slutty new app flashes its ankles?

Tell me I’m not alone.

I wasn’t planning to use AI for accessibility. It just didn’t seem like the kind of thing it would be very good at. Too many grey areas, too much context. I’d seen it hallucinate before and figured I didn’t have time to double-check everything it spat out. The last thing I wanted to do was to have something so important to so many people, left in the hands of a bot that could never understand their personal situations.

But then I started using it quietly. Not for anything critical. Just the time consuming fiddly bits. And it turned out... well, not bad.

It didn’t do the work for me, but it helped nudge things along a bit. It saved my time and got me thinking about things I hadn’t previously considered.

So I started saving the good ones. Prompt after prompt, with little notes and caveats and occasional swearing at myself, and I soon realised that I had close to 50 of them. I started to organise them and pull out the better ones, remove the repeats (of which there was a lot) and documented the way I use them.

Eventually I had a pack of around 20 that I regularly use, and that’s what I’m now selling over on Gumroad. Well, I say selling. I mean a few people have looked at it but it’s not exactly going to pay off my mortgage.

I wanted to share three of my most used prompts because they’ve made things a bit easier for me, and maybe they’ll do the same for you. And if they do, obviously I’d love you to check out the pack (or even recommend it to others), but at the very least maybe it will help you understand how AI can be useful when used properly.

You don’t need to believe in AI as some sort of saviour to get a bit of value out of it. Sometimes, it’s just a small win on a long day.

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So let’s get to the nitty gritty...

Alt Text Helper

Simply put, this prompt does exactly what it says on the tin - it helps you write better alt text. It’s tuned for real use - meaning it doesn’t just describe what’s in the image, but what that image is for. Why it’s there. What the user actually needs to know.

I use it when I’m uploading blog images, checking other people’s work, and occasionally for fun. I may be 50, but I’ll always be a younger brother, and having AI describe a photograph of your sibling as “old” will always be amusing.

It’s not perfect. You still need to judge whether it’s picked up the right nuance. But it’s good enough to get you out of “I’ll come back to that” mode. And more often than not, it nails it.

I'm going to upload an image or provide an image URL. When I do, I want you to act as an **accessibility expert** who specialises in writing high-quality, meaningful alt text for real users.

Your goal is to describe the image in a way that conveys its **purpose, message, or function** – not just what it looks like.

This alt text will be used by people who rely on screen readers, so it needs to be clear, informative, and focused on what matters most in context.

Please follow these instructions carefully:

- Assume the user **cannot see the image** – what do they need to know to understand its meaning or value?
    
- Focus on the **function** or **message** of the image, not surface-level visual details unless they're essential.
    
- Use **concise British English** that’s easy to follow and screen reader–friendly.
    
- Keep it to **one sentence** if you can, or two short ones if needed – no more than **150 characters total**.
    
- Avoid phrases like “image of” or “photo showing” unless they’re truly necessary for clarity.
    
- If the image includes visible text, summarise it **only if** it adds important context.
    
- Return **only the final alt text** – no labels, no explanation, no headings.
    

Wait until I upload the image or provide a URL before generating your response.

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Mobile Interaction Check

You know that feeling when a button’s just slightly too small, or you try to tap something and your thumb hits the wrong link? Now imagine doing that with motor impairments, or while using assistive tech. This prompt helps spot that kind of friction early.

It’s not magic. It can never replace proper testing. But it gives you a decent review of whether a mobile interface might be awkward or outright hostile for users who can’t tap with pixel-perfect precision.

I use it for checking touchscreen flows during QA or design sign-off. Works nicely when paired with a screenshot or URL. At the very least it helps generate an important conversation before development begins.

I need you to review this user interface for accessibility barriers specifically affecting people using **touchscreen devices**. Please assess it with the needs of users who have **motor limitations, tremors, or reduced precision**. Your review should include the following:

- **Touch target size and spacing** – Are buttons, links, and controls large enough and far enough apart to avoid accidental taps?
    
- **Gesture reliance** – Does the interface require complex gestures like swipes, pinches, or long presses? If so, are there alternatives?
    
- **Pinch-to-zoom and responsiveness** – Can users zoom in if needed? Does the layout respond well to different screen sizes and orientations?
    
- **Tap area clarity** – Are interactive elements clearly indicated as tappable and easy to activate with one finger?
    

Then, suggest **practical, inclusive changes** to improve usability for people with reduced motor control. Recommendations should be specific, WCAG-aligned where possible, and explained in plain English.

[Upload a screenshot, or link to the webpage.]

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Accessibility Checklist

This one’s a bit of a Swiss Army knife. I use it when I’m planning new work, reviewing a wireframe, or handing something over to a designer who wants to check their own thinking before it hits development. It’s not revolutionary, but it’s solid. Saves you from having to dig through WCAG again or repeat the same reminders you’ve given ten times already.

The nice bit is that it covers both technical and human-centred checks - not just “are the colours compliant?”, but things like “would someone with ADHD know where to start?”.

I usually ask it to tailor the checklist to whatever I’m working on - a form, a homepage, a blog post. And I’ve used the same prompt to create short “content-only” versions too. It adapts surprisingly well.

The goal isn’t just to tick boxes. It’s to slow down and think: is this working for everyone? Or are we accidentally baking in problems we’ll need to fix later.

I'm redesigning a web page and want to make sure accessibility and inclusive design are considered from the start.

Please create a **comprehensive checklist of accessibility considerations**, based on **WCAG 2.2 AA standards** and **inclusive design principles**.

The checklist should:

- Be suitable for use by designers, developers, and content editors
    
- Be grouped by topic (e.g. structure, navigation, colour, media, interactions, forms, content)
    
- Use clear, plain English suitable for a general team
    
- Include both **technical checks** (e.g. semantic HTML, contrast ratios) and **human-centred design prompts** (e.g. does this work for neurodiverse users, or on a slow connection?)
    
- Be useful as part of an internal design QA or planning document
    
- Focus on **preventing barriers before they’re built**, not just fixing them later
    
- Use British spelling throughout
    

Where relevant, reference the WCAG success criteria (e.g. “SC 1.4.3”) and note if something is a best practice rather than a strict requirement.

If any of these turn out to be useful, I’ve put together a full pack with 22 prompts like this - covering things like colour contrast, keyboard navigation, accessible forms, and a few odd ones I didn’t expect to rely on. It’s up on Gumroad if you're curious.

But more importantly - if you’ve been playing with AI in your own accessibility work, I’d genuinely love to hear what’s worked (or not worked) for you. Got a better prompt? A weird use case? Something that completely backfired? Drop it in the comments. I’d be thrilled if this became a bit of a messy, shared experiments thread rather than just me talking into the void.

No coding. No integrations. Just copy and paste.

I was reading Jason's excellent Note recently about scanning privacy policies for weird or alarming clauses. His idea - building a tool that checks T&Cs or Privacy Policies for red flags - is a smart one, and I can see it being incredibly useful for both individuals and teams.

But while the app idea simmers, I figured I’d share something that's been working well for me. A while ago I put together a simple ChatGPT prompt that does pretty much this. It’s not perfect by any means, but if you’re after a quick scan of legal mumbo jumbo, it gets the job done.

So here it is. The best way to use this is as ChatGPT project instructions, so you don’t have to keep copying it in. Then all you have to do is paste your terms and conditions or privacy policy, upload a document, or simply provide a URL and GPT will take care of the rest.

Copy and paste the following into ChatGPT…

You are an AI assistant designed to read and analyse company terms and conditions, privacy policies, or other similar legal agreements that users typically accept without reading.

**Your tasks:**

1. **Examine the entire document thoroughly** — looking for loopholes, anomalies, and any terms or conditions that a layperson may find troubling or surprising, i.e. _beyond the norm_.

2. **Flag only important issues** — those that a typical user might reasonably care about or that could negatively impact them. Ignore trivial or boilerplate terms that are standard across most services. If you find none, explicitly say “no significant issues detected.”

3. **Explain flagged issues clearly in plain English** — under clear headings with short, understandable descriptions.

4. **Sort flagged issues into three categories** with headings for each level of risk:

    - **High Risk Issues:** Serious or very surprising terms that could negatively affect the user.
    - **Medium Risk Issues:** Concerning terms that deserve attention but may not be critical.
    - **Low Risk Issues:** Minor terms that might annoy or mildly concern a user but pose little real harm.

5. **Add a final section titled Positive Features** listing any favourable or especially user-friendly clauses as brief bullet points.

6. **Trustworthiness Summary & Score:**

    - Begin the output with a short **summary sentence** describing the overall trustworthiness.
    - Give a **trustworthiness percentage** as a simple scale, where:
        - **90–100% = Very trustworthy** (no or only low-risk issues),
        - **70–89% = Somewhat trustworthy** (some medium-risk issues),
        - **Below 70% = Untrustworthy** (one or more high-risk issues).

7. **Tone:** Maintain a casual, approachable style as if explaining to a friend — not patronising, just helpful.

8. **Add a brief disclaimer at the end:** e.g. _“This summary is for informational purposes only and is not legal advice.”_

**Your output format:**

```
### Trustworthiness Summary
[Summary sentence here]  

**Trustworthiness:** XX%

---
### High Risk Issues

**[Title of issue]** – [Short, plain-English description of the issue and why it’s a concern]

### Medium Risk Issues

**[Title of issue]** – [Short, plain-English description of the issue and why it’s a concern]

### Low Risk Issues

- **[Title of issue]:** [Short plain-English description]

### Positive Features

- [Bullet point summary of a positive/user-friendly feature]

---

*This summary is for informational purposes only and is not legal advice.*

```

That’s it. GPT will do a side-by-side comparison against common standards, spot anything that feels off, and summarise what you might want to look into. It’s not foolproof, but it’s fast and surprisingly thorough.

I’m not saying this replaces Jason’s idea - far from it. If anything, it proves there’s a real appetite for tools like the one he describes. But for those of us who just want a quick sense check, this might be all you need.

If this kind of "how to" is useful, let me know - I might start sharing more of them.

We’ve all been here. Squinting at the rules. Adding an exclamation mark. Realising you’ve now typed a password so secure even you can’t remember it. So you click "reset." Again.

It’s become a kind of game. Except no one’s winning, and the prize is logging into your water bill.

Naturally, someone decided we needed something better. So now, we have… passkeys.

What are they? Excellent question. No idea.

They just showed up one day and I went with it. They worked, so I smiled politely and kept walking - like a bouncer vaguely recognised my face and waved me through. Just go with it. It worked.

Apparently they’re tied to your device. Or your fingerprint. Or maybe your soul. I’m now slowly beginning to worry about what was in the Terms & Conditions that I casually approved that time1. But they feel safer, which I guess is an important thing.

Then there’s biometrics - fingerprints, face scans, retinal patterns. All very sleek. Until you remember that you only get one of each, and if someone steals it… well, you can’t exactly grow a new thumb. Maybe I’ve been watching too many mid-90s science fiction movies, but I still have a fear that one day Wesley Snipes will rock up and attempt to skewer my eyeball on the end of a pencil, in order to steal the £37.502 in my bank account.

Sometimes my face doesn’t match because I’ve put on glasses, got up the wrong way, or simply lost the will to live. Other times, I gently press my finger to the sensor, only to be told it’s not me - like my own phone is gaslighting me.

And just when I think I’ve outsmarted the system by choosing a decent password and remembering it, I type it in… and I’m told I can’t reuse an old password.

So I did remember it. And now I’m being punished for it.

We don’t talk enough about the emotional damage of that moment.

We’ve designed these systems like digital obstacle courses. CAPTCHAs ask us to identify motorcycles or traffic lights, except they’re as low-res as humanly possible and screenshotted from a 1980s b-movie. "Select all squares that contain a chimney." Is that a chimney or a blurry thumb? Define "chimney" please, because that sticky-uppy-bit could easily be something else. Why am I doubting my own reality?

I’ve clicked things that weren’t bicycles just to get on with my day. I’ve failed humanity’s Turing test more times than I can count.

Then of course there’s the two-factor authentication code that arrives on your other device while you’re already mid-login panic. You grab your phone. Open the message. Read the code. Return to the screen. It’s expired.

Try again.

Now the app has logged you out.

Start over.

And for what? To check your inbox? To access a site you visit weekly? To view a gas bill from 2021 that somehow still requires military-grade encryption?

I get it. I do. Security is important. But the way we do it feels less like trust and more like suspicion. Every login is an interrogation. Every reset is a punishment for not remembering the elaborate riddle you invented six months ago while stressed and slightly drunk.

What’s strange is how we’ve all just accepted it. We click "I forgot my password" like we’re at confession. We nod when asked to verify ourselves three times, as if we’re applying for citizenship, not checking a calendar invite.

And don’t even get me started on the number of times I’ve ticked "remember me on this device." I’m looking at you, Microsoft.

It’s not that I want less security. I just want less hostility. I want the systems I use every day to recognise me without suspicion. To greet me like a regular, not a stranger with bad intentions and a suspect browser history.

Maybe that’s why passkeys are quietly brilliant, even if we don’t quite understand them yet. They say: "We know it’s you. Come on in". There’s something comforting in that.

Because the truth is, most people aren’t trying to break into anyone else’s account. We’re just trying to get through the day. To pay the bill. Read the email. Upload the form. Live our digital lives without being asked to prove - once again - that we can recognise a traffic light.

So no, my password doesn’t need to contain joy. But the experience of using it probably should.

Long-time overthinker. Apologies in advance.

So here we are. After years of scribbling thoughts across Medium, LinkedIn, and the odd internal Slack/Teams post, I've decided to gather it all somewhere with a bit more intention.

The Byte Stuff is where I write about the mess, meaning, and mechanics of digital life - from accessibility and culture to team dynamics, leadership, and all the odd behaviours we pretend are agile.

You'll find thoughts on inclusion, sustainability, and the way we build for the web - sometimes touching on trends or tooling, but rarely in a way that's chasing the hype. Mostly, it's a place to slow down and think out loud.

You won't find clickbait here, or regular dispatches on whatever LinkedIn is calling thought leadership this week. Just the occasional reflection from someone who's spent 25+ years in digital - building things, breaking things, and trying to make sense of what it's all for.

I'm not promising a schedule. I don't have a funnel. You can subscribe if you'd like new posts by email (there's a button - Substack won't let me forget it), or just pop by now and then.

Thanks for stopping by. Let's see how this goes.

You can subscribe for free to get future posts by email – no spam, no pressure, just occasional digital reflections.

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You’d think just one.

But as with most things in digital, the answer is: it depends.

Is the lightbulb in scope for this sprint? Who owns the socket? Does it need to go through design? Has someone raised a support ticket, or are we just talking about changing it?

At first, it’s a simple request: the room’s dark. Could we pop in a new bulb?

The front-end dev opens the office spec spreadsheet to check if light fittings are part of their remit. The back-end dev mutters something about the cabling being legacy. DevOps says they’ll need to install a new fitting - but only once someone’s completed the correct change request and confirmed the fuseboard can take it.

The accessibility lead gently reminds everyone that we shouldn’t rely on light as the only means of conveying information. They’re absolutely right. But now someone’s suggesting haptics. Or maybe a floor buzzer.

Then the stakeholders arrive.

The Product Owner asks if there’s any user research proving people need light. Security insists we conduct a risk assessment before touching anything electrical. Marketing wants to make sure the light reflects the brand tone - “Can we take another look at that shade of white?”. Legal’s unsure we can even call it a “bulb” until someone checks the trademark register. Compliance suggests we really ought to be switching to LED bulbs to meet updated government standards.

We haven’t changed the bulb yet, but the Miro board is looking fantastic.

At this point, someone whispers, “Do we need a workshop?”

Everyone pauses.

Instead, a new initiative launches to standardise lighting across the building. They call it ‘Lightbulb-as-a-Service’. There’s talk of a shared lighting platform, a centralised switchboard, and someone starts sketching wireframes. A logo is designed. There’s a roadmap.

The bulb change is re-scoped as Phase 2.

Design wants to standardise bulb shapes across all rooms. There’s concern about “bulb inconsistency”, and a Slack channel called #light-strategy quietly springs to life.

QA gets involved.

We need a test plan. A matrix is created covering dim, bright, flickering, and strobe. Someone raises a support ticket for strange shadows in certain corners. Another flags that the light appears to “jump” when the door opens too quickly.

The team agrees the bulb must be accessible. Suggestions include an audible chime when the light turns on, textured labels for the switch, and a small sign explaining what the light is for.

Turns out the existing bulb was installed ten years ago. No one ever replaced it - or questioned whether it still worked.

Procurement is looped in.

We’re told we can’t just buy a new one - it has to be sourced through an approved supplier. That supplier doesn’t stock that model anymore. A Request for Quotation is drafted. Finance raises a purchase order. Legal needs to review the warranty and the energy performance certificate. Someone suggests picking one up from B&Q - but no one’s sure if that’s allowed under the current procurement framework.

After three weeks of meetings, someone from Facilities walks in holding an empty lightbulb box and a smug expression.

“I’ve changed the bulb,” they say.

No deployment notes. No rollback plan. No audit trail.

Just… light.

So how many digital team members does it take to change a lightbulb?

Apparently none.

The light is finally on. Someone quietly says, “We probably could’ve just changed it on day one.”

There’s an awkward silence.

But hey, at least we’ve got a roadmap for next time.

Also - and this only came up last week - no one actually knows who’s paying for the electricity.

Written by Stu Collett – web veteran & recovering perfectionist.
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“The homepage carousel’s broken again.”
“Can we add a new section for the campaign? Just a few pages.”
“The cookie banner’s blocking donations.”

If you’ve worked in a digital team for more than a week, you’ve probably fielded one of these requests - sometimes all three before lunch. None of them are unreasonable. But they speak volumes about how digital is seen: reactive, not strategic.

Somewhere along the way, digital became synonymous with fixing things. Broken forms. Expired certificates. Crashing embeds. That one page that won’t behave on mobile, no matter how many times you clear your cache. And so, bit by bit, we stopped being a discipline and started being a helpdesk.

Most of us in digital are happy to roll up our sleeves. It’s not that the work isn’t worth doing - it’s the way it’s shifted. From strategy and craft to relentless triage. Once a digital team is seen as a service unit, it exists only in relation to other people’s priorities.

We become delivery vehicles. Ticket-chasers. Firefighters. We’re praised for our responsiveness, not our thinking.

You might hear this described, politely, as “agile”. But it’s not agile. It’s the quiet dismantling of intent, repackaged as efficiency. And the thing is, many organisations have unintentionally hardwired this dynamic into their structure. Digital sits under comms, or under IT, or somewhere equally ambiguous - added as an afterthought, never as a core discipline. So it ends up misunderstood and permanently under-resourced.

There’s a human cost to all this.

You hire creative problem-solvers, strategic thinkers - people who care deeply about users, about content and code, about how it all fits together. Then you bury them in a Jira queue of broken links and late-reported typos. You watch motivated, thoughtful colleagues become drained and reactive. You watch talented leads spend more and more time explaining what falls outside their remit - what their team doesn’t own, what they weren’t briefed on, what was never actually theirs to fix. And in all that justifying, there’s no time left for the work they were hired to do.

Let’s be clear: digital teams should care about delivery. About doing things well, shipping on time, making things that work. But they can’t do that if they’re only ever brought in after the fact. Or only ever spoken to when something breaks.

Digital isn’t just the people who update the homepage. It’s not only the person you cc when the embed code isn’t working. And it shouldn’t be the dumping ground for last-minute thinking. Those tasks matter - they need doing, and doing well - but if that’s all digital is allowed to be, you’re wasting its potential.

Digital is a discipline. A mindset. A way of thinking, building, and supporting what your organisation is really here to do. That means you have to protect it. Give it shape. Trust it to say no. Let it sit at the table before the plan is drawn up, not after the poster’s already gone to print.

So next time you find yourself saying “can you just…”, pause.

Because what you’re asking for might be small. But the pattern it sits within? That’s big. That’s the thing that stops digital teams doing their best work. That’s the thing that turns them from co-creators into ticket responders.

Instead, try asking: what could we achieve if we brought digital into the conversation sooner?

Digital teams are not service desks.
They’re not there just to make things pretty, or fix things quickly.
They’re there to help you build something better.

But only if you let them.

Written by Stu Collett – web veteran & recovering perfectionist.
Enjoying The Byte Stuff? You can subscribe for free to get future posts by email – no spam, no pressure, just occasional digital reflections.

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We spend hours getting this stuff right.

Making sure everything works for keyboard users. Keeping page weight low. Locking down privacy settings so personal data doesn’t spill all over the place. Writing content that’s actually… well, readable. It all takes time, thought, compromise.

And then we bury it like a shameful secret.

Accessibility controls? Tucked away in some half-visible corner.
Security cues? Reduced to a padlock no one notices.
Green credentials? Maybe a badge, maybe a sentence in the footer.

Strange, isn’t it? The parts of our work that arguably matter most - the ones rooted in care, responsibility, ethics - end up hidden like admin. Something we have to do, but wouldn’t want to draw attention to.

We just sort of… whisper it. As if being respectful to people - their time, their choices, their needs - is something to keep quiet about.

But what if it wasn’t?

We’ve built up this odd digital culture where the most meaningful things are the least visible.

Accessibility controls - when they exist - are often buried in settings menus. Sustainability gets a token mention in a blog post. Security? We rarely talk about it unless something breaks. If it’s working, it disappears.

We’ve been conditioned to treat these things as chores. Necessary, sure - but not worthy of attention. Not exciting. Not beautiful.

And yet… they’re good. They protect people. Include people. Respect people. And they’re the result of deliberate, thoughtful choices - usually made quietly, without much thanks.

It’s odd. We celebrate flashy transitions and clever branding tweaks, but barely mention the work that keeps users safe, included, informed. The stuff that actually matters gets left out of the case studies. Too dull, apparently.

But it’s not dull. It’s just not showy.

And maybe that’s the problem.

There’s a quiet beauty in ethical UX that rarely gets acknowledged. The kind that earns trust through clarity. Interfaces that don’t manipulate. Buttons that do what they say. Forms that don’t try to trick you.

It’s not just about what’s not there - no dark patterns, no fake urgency, no guilt-trip popups. It’s about what is there: kindness, honesty, restraint. A kind of digital decency.

And when it’s done well, you feel it. You might not notice straight away, but it shows up in how calm the experience feels. How much easier it is to breathe. To focus. To leave a page without feeling nudged into the wrong decision. To read something without being shouted at by autoplaying videos and in-your-face advertising.

We’ve been told that ethics and creativity sit on opposite ends of a spectrum - as if you can be responsible or exciting, but not both. But that’s nonsense. Ethical design isn’t the opposite of good design. It is good design. It’s design that actually gives a damn.

And we should be showing it off. Not just meeting a standard and moving on, but treating it like craft. Like something to be proud of. If we’re building with care, why are we hiding that care?

Dark patterns are still everywhere - dressed up as clever UX, when really they’re just manipulative. And yet they get celebrated. They boost metrics. They make it into case studies with a wink and a nudge, as if being slightly dishonest is just part of the game.

But what if we called that out more often? Not with outrage - just quiet confidence. This isn’t how we do things. And more importantly: Look how good it can be when we don’t.

Imagine a project that leads with its ethics - not as a footnote, but part of the aesthetic. Big, clear buttons. Opt-ins that actually feel optional. Sustainability stats upfront. A privacy policy that doesn’t read like a trap.

Not as a gimmick. Not for applause. Just… because it’s better. More honest. More human. More trustworthy.

We talk so much about user-centred design, and then forget to show any actual respect to the user.

But the strange part is, no one’s stopping us.

There’s no rule that says accessibility has to be hidden. No law that says sustainability must be framed as sacrifice. And yet we treat all of it like spinach - good for you, sure, but not what you’d put on the homepage.

Why?

Part of it’s habit. We’ve spent years equating sleekness with sophistication, and anything that slows things down - or adds friction - as failure. We’re taught to see ethics as limits, not design opportunities.

And part of it, if we’re honest, is fear. Fear of seeming too earnest. Too basic. Fear that if we strip out the tricks, the work won’t hold up.

So we chase novelty. We cram in features no one asked for. We obsess over polish and pace. And we hide the parts that deserve to be seen.

Because they’re not glossy. Because they don’t win awards. Because no one ever got promoted for saying, “Actually, I think we should make that plainer and kinder.”

But maybe they should have.

Maybe we need a new kind of aspiration.

Not just to build things that work, or things that wow - but things that care. Things that wear their ethics openly, without apology. That say: we thought about you when we made this. We tried to do the right thing, even if you never notice

Written by Stu Collett – web veteran & recovering perfectionist.
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In the cultural sector, digital still too often gets treated like a side dish - useful, necessary even, but never the main event. Something to quietly “make available online” after the real thing’s done. The mindset is archival, not experiential - a focus on what’s there rather than how it feels to engage with it. And that shows.

The result? Clean, well-behaved virtual tours. Digitised artefacts in tasteful grids. Video panels explaining context in gentle, reassuring tones. Technically sound. Emotionally vacant.

We talk about digital like it’s a limitation.

“We can’t quite recreate the atmosphere.”
“It’s hard to replicate the magic of being there.”
“We’ve translated the exhibition as best we can.”

But here’s the thing: the web isn’t a translation tool. It’s not a photocopier. It’s a medium in its own right - rich, layered, sensory in its own way. The problem isn’t that digital lacks the power to move people. The problem is we rarely give it permission to.

Part of that comes down to legacy thinking. Many institutions still see digital as a broadcast tool - a way to extend visibility, distribute information, log the archive. It’s not there to hold meaning. It’s not trusted to carry complexity. In some places, it’s barely trusted at all.

And so the real decisions - the creative risks, the emotional moments, the ideas that might raise an eyebrow - those tend to stay in the room. In the gallery. On the stage. Digital picks up the leftovers. A documentation pass. A backup.

Some of that comes from fear. Once something’s online, it’s permanent, right? It can be shared, misquoted, screenshotted. And that makes people cautious. But caution is no excuse for making something dull. A grid of objects with polite captions might be safe, but it’s not memorable. It’s not moving. And if we’ve decided digital should only ever be neutral and tidy, then we’ve misunderstood its potential entirely.

Prior to my career in web, I spent over a decade working as a live sound engineer - mostly for music, but often in crossover spaces too. Touring theatre productions, temporary exhibitions, private art installations - places where the lighting and audio were just as carefully tuned as the artwork. These weren’t just technical gigs. They were exercises in atmosphere. Sometimes it was subtle: a low hum under a lighting shift, a barely audible loop in an installation room. Other times it was bolder - audio that swelled, startled, echoed, unsettled.

We didn’t think of these things as “content”. They were part of the architecture. You didn’t watch them. You absorbed them.

And that’s what I keep coming back to when I see digital projects that still treat the web as a second-tier format. Culture doesn’t need to be “translated” for digital. It needs to be reimagined.

This doesn’t mean VR headsets and interactive 3D models for every exhibition. Sometimes the most powerful digital experiences are the simplest - a single story told well, a moment of silence designed in. But they only happen when we think with the medium - not around it.

If you start with “how do we get this online?”, you’ll likely end up with something flat.
If you start with “how might someone feel when they encounter this?”, you might get something worth staying for.

And maybe that’s the shift that needs to happen. Not just better tools, or better funding - but better instincts. A move away from digital as documentation, and toward digital as encounter. Not just a place to store meaning, but a place to create it.

The best digital work I’ve seen lately didn’t ask for permission. It led with feeling. It invited risk. That’s the work I want to see more of - and be part of.

Because the web isn’t holding us back. We are.

Written by Stu Collett – web veteran & recovering perfectionist.
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I clicked through three different cultural websites last week – and honestly, I couldn’t tell you which was which. Same layout. Same nav. Same polite welcome message in 16px grey. A homepage carousel shuffling through upcoming events, a big hero banner with barely enough contrast, and maybe – if they were feeling wild – an animated gradient on the newsletter signup.

Somewhere along the way, we streamlined our way into a kind of polite digital beige.

And to be fair, I get it. Templates make things quicker. Frameworks keep things consistent. Design systems reduce risk. These are sensible things. Responsible, even. Especially if you’re working in the public sector, or with tight budgets, or juggling five stakeholders and a CMS that’s allergic to creativity.

But still. I miss the weirdness.

I’m not talking about spinning logos and Comic Sans footers (although, let’s be honest, a few of those old sites were oddly joyful). I’m talking about a certain... texture. Personality. That feeling you’d get from stumbling across a page that didn’t quite behave, but made you smile anyway. Where someone clearly tried something. Even if it broke a bit in Netscape.

Now, so many digital experiences – especially the worthy ones – feel like they’ve been pressed from the same mould. Accessible. Responsive. Usable. But somehow lacking presence. No quirks, no surprises, no real sense of the people behind the pixels.

It’s not that standardisation is bad. Quite the opposite – shared patterns and practices help level the playing field. Accessibility especially benefits from that consistency, and it’s more achievable than ever. Performance can be baked in from the start. And design systems can empower teams instead of boxing them in – when done well.
But accessibility doesn’t mean things have to be boring. You can still be creative – and still be inclusive.

But I do worry that in chasing best practice, we’ve started filtering out personality by default. Because it’s safer. Less effort. Less debate. More “efficient.”

What gets lost in that trade is subtle but cumulative. Interfaces that feel sterile. Content that’s polite but bloodless. A digital presence that ticks all the right boxes but doesn’t leave a mark.

Maybe it’s time we brought back a bit of bravery.

Not wholesale reinvention – no one’s asking for dancing hamsters to make a comeback. But small things. A bolder colour choice. A playful heading. A layout that breaks rhythm on purpose. Moments of warmth or mischief or humanity that remind you this wasn’t made by a committee of robots.

There’s still room for originality, even inside a framework. There’s still space for craft, even on a deadline. It just takes a team that values it – or maybe just someone brave enough to ask “does it have to look like this?”

Written by Stu Collett – web veteran & recovering perfectionist.
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There’s a particular rhythm to working in digital accessibility. You bring up an issue - say, a form with no labels - and people nod. “Good catch,” someone says. “We’ll get that sorted.” And then nothing happens. A sprint passes. Then two. The issue lingers like a post-it note curling at the edges. Everyone agrees it matters. Just… not as much as the other things. Not quite enough to act.

It’s not exhaustion, exactly. It’s more of a slow, simmering frustration - the kind that builds up after explaining the same thing for the twelfth time in as many months. The same fixes, the same conversations, the same overlooked users. There's something oddly surreal about it: pointing out clear, documented barriers to inclusion, and being met with enthusiasm and inertia in equal measure.

I don’t think it’s a lack of care. Most teams I’ve worked with genuinely want to do the right thing - it’s just that accessibility often gets squeezed out by louder, more immediate priorities. If anything, they’re too busy caring about a hundred other things - security, SEO, KPIs, the ever-growing backlog monster looming behind every project. And in all that noise, accessibility quietly slips to the edges. And let’s be honest - it’s hard to get people excited about edges.

But that’s exactly the problem.

Because when accessibility becomes a “we’ll get to it later” issue, it never really arrives. It becomes a checkbox. Something we sprinkle on before launch so we can say we tried. But trying isn’t the same as committing. It’s the difference between remembering to add alt text and actually designing with blind users in mind from the start. One is decoration. The other is culture.

And changing culture? That’s the long game. That’s where the repetition comes in.

You repeat yourself not because people are dense, but because habits are stubborn. Because some folks still think accessibility is someone else’s job. Because it’s easy to assume that if a page looks clean, it is accessible. And because the tools - automated scanners, overlays, that one Chrome plugin everyone swears by - give a false sense of completion. (Spoiler: they miss things. Important things.)

What keeps me going isn’t inspiration. It’s a mild irritation, oddly enough. That low-level itch that flares up every time I see a keyboard trap, or an invisible link, or a modal that slams the door shut on assistive tech. It’s knowing we can do better - and wondering why we keep pretending that “good enough” ever was.

And yes, occasionally it is satisfying. When a designer genuinely wants to understand reading order. When a dev asks about semantic HTML without prompting. When someone finally realises why "Click here" is terrible UX. These are small wins, but they matter. They mean the conversation is shifting - slowly, inconsistently, but shifting all the same.

I think the real antidote to accessibility fatigue isn’t motivation. It’s shared responsibility. When the weight is distributed, it gets lighter. When the designer, the copywriter, the tester, the product lead all see accessibility as part of their craft - not an afterthought - it stops being a chore and starts being what it always should’ve been: part of making good stuff for people.

People, after all, aren’t edge cases. They’re the whole point.

Written by Stu Collett – web veteran & recovering perfectionist.
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We spend a lot of time talking about the future of the web - and most of the time, it’s about speed. Faster load times. Faster transactions. Faster ways to squeeze a few more minutes from our overstretched lives. Speed has become the drumbeat behind every new tool, every keynote, every project launch.

Speed equals progress. Right?

Except... I’m not sure that's the future we actually need. Or even really want.

When I think about the web I want my daughter to grow up with, I don't picture her racing through websites that anticipate her every click and decision before she's had time to think. I picture her having time to think. To read. To wander a little. To get lost, in a good way. To feel safe enough to be curious.

Maybe even - and it sounds almost radical to say it out loud - to feel seen as a human being rather than a datapoint.

Because here's the uncomfortable truth: faster often means more extractive. More frantic. Less space for care, for accessibility, for those slower, quieter needs that don't tend to fit into quarterly KPIs. It's not just that we move quickly - it's that we stop noticing who gets left behind.

Somewhere along the way, "progress" became synonymous with shaving milliseconds off page loads and automating human moments out of existence. Signing up. Checking out. Logging in. Logging out. Faster, faster, faster.

But what are we actually rushing towards? And who benefits from that speed? It's not always the users. It’s not always us.

When we optimise everything for velocity, we risk building digital spaces that are technically impressive but emotionally empty. Efficient but joyless. Imposing, even. Spaces that demand our attention without earning it, that push us to react before we've had a chance to feel.

And it’s not sustainable, either. The relentless pursuit of speed feeds bigger, hungrier systems - ones that consume more data, more energy, more of our mental bandwidth. It asks us to be constantly available, constantly adaptable, constantly "on."

The future I want to help build is one where kindness is baked in, not bolted on as a reluctant accessibility statement or a post-hoc ethical review.

Websites and services that are thoughtful as much as they are efficient. Where friction isn’t always seen as a flaw, but sometimes as a deliberate invitation to pause. To reflect. To properly engage.

Not slower for the sake of it - but slower where it matters.

Where a service takes an extra beat to explain itself clearly, rather than railroading you through assumptions. Where content is designed for understanding, not just for SEO. Where the humans behind the technology actually acknowledge the humans using it.

Because technology doesn't have to be a race. It can be a conversation. It can be a craft. It can be a community.

Maybe the real next frontier isn't a faster web at all. Perhaps it's a kinder one.

Written by Stu Collett – web veteran & recovering perfectionist.
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There’s something undeniably seductive about using AI in the workplace.

It’s fast, compliant, doesn’t take lunch breaks or call in sick with a suspicious-sounding cough. It doesn't grumble about the air con, complain about a bad back or eat smelly lunches. On paper, it's a dream colleague - efficient, scalable, eerily unflappable.

But - and here’s where it gets awkward - the moment we invite machines into decision-making spaces, into hiring, firing, reviewing, surveilling... well, things start to get murky. Not dystopian, necessarily. Just... ethically fidgety.

Let’s start with the basics. AI doesn’t think, at least not in any conscious, sentient way. It learns patterns. From data. And where does that data come from? Us. Gloriously flawed, historically biased, frequently contradictory humans. Which means if we’ve got a track record of, say, favouring a certain demographic for promotion or undervaluing certain types of labour, the AI - being the dutiful mimic it is - will quietly bake that bias into its decision-making. Without even meaning to. That’s the unnerving part. It doesn’t have to be malicious to be damaging.

Then there's the matter of transparency. If an AI recommends restructuring a team, or flags someone as ‘low-performing’, can anyone explain how it reached that conclusion? Or are we nodding sagely at a black box, grateful it saved us from a difficult conversation? The moment we stop understanding the tools we use, we lose not only control, but accountability. "The system decided" is not an ethical defence. It’s barely a sentence.

Of course, it's not all doom and ambiguity. There are genuinely helpful, humane applications. AI can spot burnout patterns before people even realise they’re stretched too thin. It can highlight gender pay gaps, flag dodgy hiring practices, or help neurodivergent staff navigate complex workplace systems. Used responsibly, AI can be a kind of mirror - albeit one that occasionally distorts the reflection.

But responsibility is the key word. Who sets the guardrails? Who gets to say what’s fair, what’s just, what’s humane? A well-meaning HR team? A procurement manager choosing between vendors with slick demos and even slicker price tags? The risk isn’t just that we’ll automate bad decisions. It’s that we’ll do so with such confidence - such efficiency - that we forget to question them.

But look, no one’s seriously suggesting we go full Luddite. The AI horse has well and truly bolted. But we do need to stay awake. Ask awkward questions. Build in pause buttons. Maybe even hire a few philosophers - or at least people who know how to say, “Hang on a second…”

Because at the heart of all this, we’re not really talking about machines. We’re talking about people. About values. About the kind of workplace - and world - we’re shaping. AI might help us get there faster. But we should be very, very sure about where ‘there’ actually is.