Vitor Zanetti

Why do we glorify endless options? Sitting at my desk with a mouse and a keyboard that doesn’t assault me with RGB options, I’m convinced the opposite is true. The best products don’t drown you in choices; they just work. They’re hustle-less, designed to fade into the background so you can live, create, or simply listen to music without a manual. This isn’t just about gadgets, but a philosophy that values your time, sanity, and even the planet. Simplicity, not complexity, is the pinnacle of design.

Picture yourself buying a wireless speaker. The box boasts 12 EQ presets, app-controlled lightning, and “fully customizable” sound profiles. You think, “perfect, I’ll make it mine”. An hour later, you’re trapped in a maze of sliders, debating wether “warm bass” or “crisp vocals” are better for your Bossa Nova playlist. This is no accident. Psychologist Barry Schwartz, in his 2004 book The Paradox of Choice: Why More is Less, showed that too many options overwhelm us, leading to decision fatigue, poorer choices, and lingering regret. In tech, every dropdown menu, every toggle, stacks cognitive weight. You’re not using a device, but managing it. And those “free” and customizable options, like open-source software promising ultimate flexibility are rarely free, in the end. I once spent hours trying to mold a Linux distro into into a macOS-like workflow, only to end up with a clunky setup and a grudging respect for Apple’s curated ecosystem. Freedom, it turns out, often translates to frustration, a cycle of tweaking that steals time from creating.

Complexity doesn’t just tax your mind; it devours time and security. A 2019 study found users can spend 80% of their time learning complex software instead of using it productively (Nielsen Norman Group, 2019). That’s a four out of five minutes lost to menus, not work. Customizable systems demand constant maintenance — firmware updates, compatibility tweaks, endless troubleshooting when devices don’t sync. Security takes a hit, too. The more intricate the system, the more cracks for hackers to exploit. The 2021 Log4j vulnerability, for example, turned a complex logging tool’s flexibility into a global security nightmare (CISA, 2021). Now, contrast this with the original iPod: a wheel, your music, no fuss. It didn’t ask you to configure anything; it delivered joy in seconds. That’s the power of hustle-less design — it respects your time, keeps things tight, and lets you focus on what matters.

But here’s where it gets beautiful: constraints aren’t shackles; they’re liberation. Good design makes choices for you, not against you. Apple’s AirPods are a perfect example: pop them in, and they connect. No buttons to remap, not settings to fuss over. The W1 chip’s seamless pairing wasn’t just tech: it was a bold bet that users crave ease over options. It paid off. Constraints also spark creativity. When designers can’t lean on a button and computation photography, churns out pro-level photos without a manual. Wireless tech tells the same story. Early Bluetooth pairing was a gauntlet of PINs and prayers. Now, devices like Apple’s AirTag or Tile trackers connect with a tap, thanks to standards like Bluetooth 5.0 and curated ecosystems like Find My. Simplicity isn’t just user-friendly; it’s a competitive edge, a way to cut through the noise and deliver something that feels almost human.

Not everyone wants this, of course. I get the thrill of complexity — MATLAB’s endless parameters, Adobe Premiere’s granular controls. Coders, editors, and data scientists need that power. But for the mass market — people streaming Netflix, snapping vacation photos, or just trying to get through the day — tech should feel like an extension of themselves, not a second job. This is why market segmentation matters. Pro tools can be intricate; consumers products should be intuitive. And here’s the twist: simplicity commands a premium. A MacBook Air costs more than a Windows laptop with similar specs, yet people pay willingly. Why? Because a polished experience — where every trackpad click and every animation feels effortless saves mental energy. It’s not about raw power, but trust in a product that doesn’t demand you to become its sysadmin.

This trust extends to how we value our tools. Simplicity isn’t just about ease, but focus. The Kindle, for instance: no server syncing, no font calibration, just reading. They’re there, sure — but one must look for them. But I think the most reliable example of this would be a Nespresso machine: pop in a capsule, get coffee. No barista training required. These products don’t just solve problems; they disappear, letting you live. And they sell. Not for specs or capabilities alone, but experiences that feel curated, intentional, almost artisanal. This is the economics of defined design: users will pay more for less, not because they’re fooled, but because “less” means less hassle, less noise, less wasted time.

Simplicity also carries a deeper weight: sustainability. Complex products, with their fragile ecosystems and constant updates, often end up as e-waste. A recent report estimated 57 million tons of electronic waste annually, much of it from over-engineered devices that break or become obsolete too fast (World Economic Forum, 2021). Simpler designs, like Fairphone’s modular phones, prioritize longevity with fewer breakable parts and easier repairs. In my research on environmental systems, I’ve seen how overcomplexity in tech mirrors overcomplexity in urban planning—both lead to waste, inefficiency, and fragility. A hustle-less product, designed for durability, isn’t just user-friendly; it’s ethical. It’s a nod to a world drowning in discarded gadgets, a way to design with intention not just for users but for the planet.

This brings me to the heart of it. The “it just works” philosophy, immortalized by Steve Jobs, isn’t about cutting corner but cutting chaos. When I pick up my AirPods, I’m not pairing devices; I’m lost in a podcast. When I open my Kindle, I’m not tweaking settings; I’m reading Clarice Lispector. These products don’t merely function but fade, letting life take center stage. As we hurtle toward a hyper-connected future, the winners will be the designs that respect our time, our attention, and our world. So, the next time you’re seduced by a gadget promising “endless customization,” pause. Ask yourself: do I want to tinker, or do I want to live? For me, the choice is clear. Simplicity isn’t just design — it’s a way of being.