I'm all in favour of good user experience design. Just in case you haven't heard, I also am all in favour of cute puppies, saving the planet and soft French cheeses. Hey, someone's gotta grasp the really controverisal nettles.
But this morning, I got to the station in a state of barely disturbed slumber only to find that someone had redesigned the ticket vending machine. I have programmed the operation of the machine into my muscle memory - punch the 'London Cheap Day Travelcard' button (or Standard Day if it's before 8.31am - don't ask), then punch 'Young Persons Railcard', then put my card in, enter the number, wait a moment and then collect printed ticket and receipt.
Seems fairly easy. Only the geniuses who design these things decided that they should change all the menu layouts so that the simple task of buying a train ticket to the largest city in Europe should be made unnecessarily complex.
Now you have to choose from 'Destinations' or 'Travelcards' on the main screen. Well, I want to go to London, and I want a Travelcard. It pisses me off at a formal and a practical level, since you might say "I want to go to Brighton, but I'm not sure whether I need a Travelcard or not" - when in fact, Travelcards are only for people going to London. I chose Travelcards, and then I was presented with a list consisting of 'All Zones', and then each zone ticket from 1-6 and combinations of different zones. I bashed in Zone 1. No go. You can't buy a ticket for anything other than All Zones - which makes sense. If you are travelling from outside of London, you are going through all the zones anyway and the price of going into London is rolled into the ticket. Again, don't ask. But, why exactly is the machine offering Travelcards plural when there is actually only one option you can choose?
Having chosen the only option that works, it then presents me with a highly complex page listing all the different options I might want to add to my ticket. Hey, I haven't got time for this! My train goes in two minutes! Just leave me alone and let me buy the ticket! I guess I should be thankful that it's less complicated than booking a flight. Eventually, I manage to add my railcard to the ticket and get the thing to print with enough time to comically sprint across the bridge.
Here's my vision of the same procedure. I get to the station, push my credit card into the machine, it then says "Good morning, Mr Morris. The usual, then? That'll be 11.75 then. Enter your PIN. Done. Here's yout ticket. We've e-mailed the reciept to the address we have on file. Enjoy the journey - and, by the way, the Circle Line is right royally fucked, so steer clear." Okay, it's slightly creepy and Big Brotherly - but it means I don't have to think early in the morning.
At the very least, reduce the number of options. If you cannot actually buy a particular ticket, why offer it and then, when it's chosen, tell the customer that it's not actually available.
What's particularly irritating about this is if I get a decision wrong, then I'm breaking the law. Surely, in designing a machine which increases the probability of me cocking up what should otherwise be a simple procedure, the designer of the system is aiding and abetting frustration and failure.
