Last weekend, I took my 7-year-old daughter to the store. It was a quick errand—just a few things for the house. We navigated the aisles, she picked out some snacks, and then we made our way to checkout. As we stood in line at the self-checkout, I looked around and saw a scene that felt almost dystopian.
Adults filed in place, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on their phones. Among the beeps and boops, we were met with a robotic voice coming from the self-checkout machine: "Scan your items now." When a shopper next to us ran into an issue, a young employee with a lanyard trudged over, tapped the screen without a word, and walked away. No one looked up, no conversation—just people interacting with machines in silence, waiting for their turn to leave.
You might say, “Well yeah, that’s just how shopping is these days.” And maybe it is. But in that moment, I glanced down at my daughter. She was watching, observing how the world worked. What was she learning? That shopping is a solitary experience? That efficiency outweighs human connection? That eye contact, small talk, or even a simple acknowledgment between people isn’t necessary?
This isn’t an argument against self-checkout or automation. I appreciate convenience as much as anyone. But as I stood there with my daughter, I couldn’t help but wonder: what can we do differently? As designers, we hold the blueprints. The interfaces we create shape behavior, set expectations, and, in many ways, teach the next generation how the world operates. How can we design systems that don’t just remove friction, but also foster small, meaningful human interactions?