I Dreamed in Risograph: An ADHD-fueled open letter to prospective designers

The first time I lied to a printer, it was about the color blue. 

No, that’s not at all true. I’ve never lied … to a printer. (If your design education never smelled like rubber cement, you might not know: “printers” once referred to people — part craftsmen, part magicians. I’m not suggesting I lied to a block of, now, seemingly antiquated technology that can never connect to the network. Or jams. Or needs cleaning. Or ink. Or spits out a blank page. Or…)

Anyway. I guess what I’m saying is: it’s funny how things change in a very short time. Not so long ago, my design education was all paper and paste-up — posters, books, layouts, and boards. (Some of you have never had to cut illustration board with a dull X-Acto knife, and it shows.) But what hasn’t changed — and maybe never will — is how it feels to want to make something meaningful. To be unsure. To be on the edge of figuring it out.

What drew me to design wasn’t color theory, the language of form, or even typography.
Design, for me, was — and still is — a way of solving problems. A method. 

A lens for understanding the world. It’s the practice of seeing issues as systems: complex, messy, interconnected. And like any system, it can be broken down, studied, and rebuilt. In the same way a mechanic listens to a car, or a doctor examines the body, a designer learns to diagnose — to notice what isn’t working, and imagine what could.

I miss the tactile world that design once was — not that it’s entirely gone. But there’s something about putting ideas on paper that still matters. Problems that can’t be solved with a pencil usually don’t get resolved with pixels, either. (Let me pause there — we’re not here to lament the good old days. We are, however, here to do... whatever this is.)

Also, I once presented an entire concept deck with the word “sustainability” misspelled on every single slide. Everyone noticed, true story. 

Oh, I also closed an entire global help desk once, on accident. But, in my defense, they gave me too much power too soon. 

I once got the feedback “Did you read the brief?” Early on in my career, words you never want to hear. 

I also once got the feedback, “I hate it.” That’s not true. I’ve gotten that way more than once. 

I think what I’m saying is, you’ll be fine. 

“I hate it” isn’t the worst feedback you can get. Honestly, it might be some of the best. Praise is easy — a high-five, a “nailed it,” a ‘let’s do more of that.’ But praise doesn’t always give you a path forward. Hate, on the other hand, can teach. “That logo looks like a brick wall —I hate it.” Hm. That wasn’t the intention. But now that you say it… fair.

“I hate photos like that.”
Cool. Noted. I’ll never show those to you again.

“I wish we didn’t make this.” (Yes, that’s actual feedback I’ve received. And yes, sometimes the client does suck.)

What I’m trying to say is: negative feedback doesn’t diminish your value. Think of it like this: when you go to a museum, do you love every piece? Of course not. Maybe you love Monet and hate Pollock. But your distain doesn’t erase his work — it just means you’re not the audience. Our ideas are like that. Sometimes it’s just the wrong match. (And sometimes, yeah… the idea wasn’t that great to begin with. Sketching out on paper first can help eliminate some of those) What you want to avoid is indifference. “It’s just kind of… there.” That’s the worst feedback I’ve ever gotten. 

I was told:
Never use drop shadows.
Never outline type.
That I’d committed a “crime against typography.” (To be fair, I had — faux bold is a felony.)
That corporate design was bad.
That in-house designers weren’t “real” designers.
That everything I made should be “awesome.”

I think what I’m trying to say is: I was told a lot of things. Things that turned out… not always true in the real world. Imagine my surprise when, after working on a flyer, I was told: “I think you need to add a drop shadow.” By a rather prolific creative director, no less. After the shock wore off, I did — and you know what happened? Nothing. The design police did not show up and take my license. (Which — side note — we don’t even have, but maybe we should. Architects have licenses. Engineers. Lawyers. But I digress.)

Where was I?
Right — rules.

You’re going to hear a lot of them. And yes, they matter. But they’re not always steadfast. (It’s wild how often you hear “you can’t do that” in a creative education.) 

Design always has to have an objective, there is no creative before strategy. In school, the objective is academic theory and artistic construction. Once you leave, and the objective of design, ostensibly, shifts to being a vehicle for commerce, there are far less rules. You’ll see outlined type on sports jerseys. Drop shadows on cereal boxes. Web design in the early 2000s? Holy drop shadows, Batman. Because there are rules to design. And then there’s visual vernacular.

It’s okay to outline type in the context of sports.
It’s okay to use drop shadows in product photography.
It’s okay to work in corporate.

Corporate design isn’t inherently bad design.
Bad design is bad design. We study the work of Paul Rand — you know what that guy did?
Corporate design. Lots of it.

Oh, and the awesome thing?
Thanks — I hate it.

“We just need to make it awesome.”
“Would you say that’s awesome?”
“Just be awesome.”

Hot take: awesome as a design philosophy… sucks. Run from the creative directors who treat “awesome” like a brief. Maybe I’m not awesome — and that’s why I hate it. (Though, if you’ve read this far, I clearly have thoughts.) Here’s the thing: The problem with awesome is that it pulls us away from strategy. 

It centers taste instead of need. “When I think of what’s awesome, I think of…” And suddenly we’re referencing our favorite designers, posters we saw in college, lighting from that one Wes Anderson film… Not the client’s goals. Not the user. Not the brief. Just vibes. That’s the first problem — it puts your opinion at the center of the client’s problem.

What you think is awesome, and what actually solves the problem?
They might be worlds apart. And what happens when you and your creative director have different opinions on what’s awesome? Egos. Conflict. Noise. None of which help the client.

Awesome is not a strategy.

A clear understanding of the problem leads to a strong brief. And a strong brief leads to meaningful work — work you can evaluate for its cultural, social, or economic value. Not just whether or not it gave you a creative high. Also, “awesome” tends to show up when there’s no real feedback to give. It’s a placeholder. A creative shrug. A cop-out. (I’ve got so much more on this — but I’ll save it for another post.)

I think what I’m trying to say is: be intentional.
Make things that are meaningful. Thoughtful. Context-aware.
Think of design as a system — not just a skillset, but a way of seeing the world.

And if, in doing that, we make something “awesome”?
Sure. I’ll hear the argument.

Oh — also? Learn the language of business.
Understand how to translate design into outcomes.
Know how your work connects to pipeline, TAM, ICP, ARR.
(Yes, I’ll say more on that another time.)

Your definition of success will change.
I thought I’d end up at an agency.
Now I talk about buyer journeys and ICPs — and weirdly, I love it.

Maybe you won’t. Maybe you will.
Maybe this reads like wisdom.
Maybe it reads like a cautionary tale.

Either way, you’ll figure it out.
And if anything I said helps?
I’ll gladly take the credit.

Best of luck out there,

-Colton