Product designers are embracing how users actually feel after years of pushing flat and sleek
5 min
The tyranny of touch screens may be coming to an end.
Companies have spent nearly two decades cramming ever more functions onto tappable, swipeable displays. Now buttons, knobs, sliders and other physical controls are making a comeback in vehicles, appliances and personal electronics.
In cars, the widely emulated ultra-minimalism of Tesla’s touch-screen-centric control panels is giving way to actual buttons, knobs and toggles in new models from Kia , BMW ’s Mini, and Volkswagen , among others. This trend is delighting reviewers and making the display-focused interiors of Tesla and its imitators feel passé.
Similar re-buttonisation is occurring in everything from e-readers to induction stoves.
Perhaps the most prominent exponent of this button boom is the company that set us lurching toward touch screens in the first place. Apple added a third button it calls the “action button” to its full slate of new iPhone 16s unveiled this month, after introducing the feature on its upscale Apple Watch Ultra and Pro-model iPhones over the past couple of years. It also added a button-like “camera control” input on the iPhone’s side.
As Apple shows, companies aren’t just rediscovering buttons, they’re reconceiving them. The camera control includes touch features, and the company has also developed the “force sensor” that enables its AirPods to respond when you squeeze their stems.
Engineers and industrial designers—often prodded by user complaints—are tapping into our exquisitely sensitive sense of touch and spatial awareness, known as proprioception. And it’s all in service of making gadgets easier, more fun and, in some cases, safer to use. We want to touch type or operate cruise control without averting our eyes from the road.
To understand why buttons are making a comeback in a world in which any kind of controls are possible, it helps to understand how we got to the current, too-often sorry state of human-machine interfaces.
Touch screens have their virtues, which explains the initial enthusiasm for them. We can do a lot more by tapping our iPhones than we ever could have with the old-school BlackBerry , however much we miss those clicky little keyboards.
As soaring production drove down the price of such displays, though, they became something of a crutch for gadget designers and corporate bean counters.
“Now that touch screens are the cheapest option, they’re being deployed everywhere, even in places where they don’t belong,” says Sam Calisch, chief executive of Copper, a startup that makes induction ranges for cooking . In electric stoves and ovens, this has led to poor design decisions—for example, induction cooktops with touch-based controls that become inoperable when a pot boils over, as my Wall Street Journal colleague Nicole Nguyen lamented last year .
Even when our devices have buttons, they are too often the kind that are flat like touch screens, and have similar shortcomings. Capacitive buttons sit flush on hard surfaces and don’t actually give way when you press, and so can only signal they’ve been activated through sound or light. These, too, have taken over because they are cheap and easy to incorporate into the printed circuit boards that are already inside gadgets, whereas incorporating physical switches means additional wiring and complexity, Calisch says.
Anyone who has known the agony of having to mash a capacitive button on a newer washer, dryer or dishwasher knows how uniquely infuriating such cost-cutting measures—masquerading as futuristic interfaces—can be.
Fundamentally, the problem with touch-based interfaces is that they aren’t touch-based at all, because they need us to look when using them. Think, for example, of the screen of your smartphone, which requires your undivided gaze when you press on its smooth surface.
As a result, “touch screen” is a misnomer, says Rachel Plotnick, associate professor of cinema and media studies at Indiana University Bloomington, and author of the 2018 book “Power Button: A History of Pleasure, Panic, and the Politics of Pushing,” the definitive history of buttons. Such interfaces would be more accurately described as “sight-based,” she says.
The hazards of burying many of a vehicle’s controls inside touch-screen menus that need drivers to look at them have become so obvious that the one European automotive safety body has declared that vehicles must have physical switches and buttons to receive its highest safety rating. Responding to criticism from drivers, Volkswagen has pledged to bring back physical controls for certain oft-used features, such as climate control.
Newer electric vehicles from BMW Mini are bristling with physical controls. To make it so drivers never have to take their eyes off the road, industrial designers at Mini put into their vehicles a user-customizable head-up display that drivers can navigate using buttons and a scroll wheel on the steering wheel, says Patrick McKenna, head of product and marketing at Mini USA. These controls can also be accessed through the vehicle’s round touch screen, and via a voice assistant. The entire point of the vehicle’s interfaces is redundancy, safety and a reduction in distractions, he adds.
The switch back to physical interfaces is also, in many ways, a vibe shift. With touch screens ubiquitous, what was once viewed as luxurious is becoming tacky. Physical controls, done well, now signal the kind of thoughtfulness and exclusivity once attached to the original iPhone.
Take the knobs on the induction range from Copper. Made of walnut, they let cooks know, without looking, the level of heat they’ve set a burner to—just like physical knobs on a gas range. This is deliberate, says Calisch, who admits that in the past he’s put capacitive-touch sensors on other electronics he’s designed.
Physical controls are effective in part because of our sixth sense, known as proprioception. Distinct from the sense of touch, proprioception describes our innate awareness of where our body parts are. It is the reason we can know the position of all our limbs in three-dimensional space down to the precise position of the tips of our fingers.
Making good physical interfaces isn’t just about the utility of engaging our sense of touch; the big button comeback is also about joy. Think of the satisfying heft of the volume knob on a hi-fi stereo, or the way a proper ergonomic keyboard can make typing seem less of a chore.
A good example of this sense of fun is the hand crank on the side of the Playdate portable video game system, which also includes a familiar, plus-shaped D-pad and two buttons. Putting a controller that works like the crank on an old coffee grinder onto a gadget resembling the original Gameboy is about whimsy, but also introduces new game mechanics that would otherwise be cumbersome or even impossible on other devices, says Greg Maletic, director of special projects at Panic, the company that makes the Playdate.
Makers of musical instruments have always understood the importance of physical controls. Teenage Engineering, the Swedish consumer-electronics company Panic partnered with to make the Playdate, makes a variety of synthesisers bristling with a dizzying array of buttons, sliders and knobs.
Once you know what to look for, it becomes apparent that this kind of design thinking is showing up all over the place, and that adding physical controls back to a device ignominiously stripped of them can unlock new kinds of interaction and utility.
E-readers have begun adding back page-turn buttons. While Amazon has abandoned such buttons in its Kindles, competitors from Kobo, Nook and Boox all now offer models that include them.
Similarly, Apple—whose 2007 launch of the iPhone ushered in a touch-screen era—is adding a surprising variety of buttons back to devices that previously seemed on a trajectory to have none at all.
It restored the physical function keys atop the keyboards on its MacBook Pro computers in 2021, after replacing them with much fanfare in 2016 with a touch-screen strip that it touted as the Touch Bar. Apple boasted that restoring physical keys brought “back the familiar, tactile feel of mechanical keys that pro users love.”
The push to re-physicalise interfaces has even led to an unexpected side gig for Dr. Plotnick, the academic authority on buttons. Companies are tapping her to consult on how to improve their physical controls. At its heart, these consultations—which include advising on the function of potentially lifesaving buttons on medical devices—are about making interactions with machines less intimidating and more intuitive.
“You know, there’s often a lot of skill behind button pushing—even though it seems like the simplest thing in the world,” she says.
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Randy Boyagoda’s new novel, “Lords of Serendipity,” delivers a biting satire of cheating, politics and dysfunction across modern universities.
5 min
Administrative cowardice. Rampant cheating. The soaking and scamming of undergrads and grad students. Performative wokeism. Intensifying competition for international tuition dollars from an expansive China.
These are either the latest dire headlines about American higher ed or the myriad subplots of “Lords of Serendipity,” an ambitious new novel by Randy Boyagoda. Unlike most campus fiction, its scope extends well beyond the cloister of the liberal arts classroom to whammy the entire university system, from its financial model to its function within a globalized economy. Along the way, it skewers its lightning-rod targets with a precision too sharp to be considered entirely fictional.
That its author is not only well-versed in satire, having written four other novels in the genre, but is also a professor of English at the University of Toronto and an experienced college administrator, further blurs the lines between comic fiction and brutal fact. It’s the kind of no-holds-barred book only a consummate insider would know to write—but only one who is also conveniently outside the American university system could get away with writing.
“This is someone who’s got the inside dope on what can go on at universities, especially with international students, and what kind of con games are going on,” said Margaret Atwood, a friend and fellow Torontonian.
The novel, like Boyagoda himself, is often very funny—even as the dilemmas its characters face read as tragedy. Its cast includes the bickering members of a Sri Lankan hotel cleaner’s family, insecure American freshmen, dead-end third-tier college professors and their highflying Ivy League counterparts and dispirited university functionaries. An old-fashioned Dickensian tale, it sweeps across continents and campuses, from a classic liberal-arts college to a stand-in for Harvard University to an urban technical school to the dilapidated buildings of a state-run university in Sri Lanka.
“I’m a joyful person,” Boyagoda said in an interview, though he prefers to see his outlook on academia as “hopeful” rather than optimistic. He smiles and laughs frequently. He bikes everywhere. He derives energy from his students and from his four daughters, ages 14 to 20. They help him and his American wife, Anna, also an educator, care for Boyagoda’s father, an immigrant from Sri Lanka who has dementia and lives with the family.
The germ of the novel came to Boyagoda during the pandemic, when he was serving as a vice-dean. An urban legend was circulating about a statistics grad student selling passing grades to international students. The cheating scheme itself may well have been apocryphal, but it felt tantalizingly plausible.
“As a novelist, it stayed with me,” Boyagoda said. “Who would sell grades for a stats course? Why would someone buy grades? What’s motivating them? Why wouldn’t the university be doing something about it?” What he didn’t want to do, he explained, was write “another novel about a creative writing professor and his drama with students.”
In addition to writing novels—the first of which was a finalist for Canada’s prestigious Giller Prize; he’s written eight books in total—Boyagoda teaches literature full-time. For his students next semester, kids raised in a purportedly “post-literature era,” he’s assigning three 700-page novels, he noted mischievously, books by George Eliot, Ralph Ellison and Kiran Desai.
On RateMyProfessors, students remark on Boyagoda’s heavy assignments, tough grading and distaste for cellphones, but also hail his “comedy.” When alerted to these reviews, Boyagoda laughed. “Guilty as charged,” he said.
“Randy’s one of those people in academia who is very well educated but doesn’t have an ounce of superiority about him,” said John Irving, who frequently guest lectures in Boyagoda’s classroom. “It’s amazing to see how willing students are to talk in his classrooms, how little afraid they feel of being mocked or put down—he gets complete candor out of them.”
Negotiating competing interests seems to come naturally to him. Like many college campuses, after the Oct. 7 Hamas attack on Israel, the University of Toronto was embroiled in protests, encampments and discord; part of the school’s response was to convene a working group on civil discourse. Boyagoda was put in charge, serving for two years. It’s the kind of thankless task many professors would flee from, but Boyagoda relished the prospect and thinks the group, which is ongoing, made progress.
He has since pivoted to another formidable academic concern: the waning prestige of the humanities. In July, Boyagoda became the director of the Jackman Humanities Institute and special advisor on the humanities to the dean of arts and science. This fall, he is starting a series of gatherings he calls the Dead Book Club. (Dead writers feature heavily among his favorites: St. Augustine, Dante, William Faulkner, Evelyn Waugh, Saul Bellow.)
“The goal is to encourage students to read for its own sake and have conversation for its own sake,” Boyagoda said. “The importance of the humanities will be revealed to those who participate.”
“Lords of Serendipity,” which publishes next week, reflects Boyagoda’s commitment to the pursuit of knowledge: “I’m supposed to say I learn more from my students than they do from me, but no,” Boyagoda said. “I enjoy sharing my excitement and joy about literature and ideas. There are these moments when you are teaching and you can see someone’s face change because they didn’t know something and then they did. That moment when you’re actually watch someone enlarge themselves is deeply satisfying.”
In literary circles, Boyagoda is often referred to as a Catholic novelist, a description he embraces. “A novelist willing to give shape and voice to contemporary religious experience is needed,” Boyagoda said. “I understand myself as a Catholic novelist, provided that I’m not only a Catholic novelist, I’m also a South Asian novelist and I’m a Canadian novelist. I don’t want to be captive to one label.”
His characters, he said, are subjected to what he calls “Graham Greene character situations.”
“They are trying to do good in a fallen world and realize the most they can do is less harm than someone else would do in that same role,” he explained. “They have to accept they are complicit in something that provides some good thing to others. It’s a very Graham Greene way of thinking about sacrifice.”
The campus green they inhabit is a febrile zone in which lofty ideals and cynicism regularly collide. It’s a place where a traditional holiday college celebration is now an occasion for political protest. Kids freely police one another inside and out of the classroom with social media their constant, ready weapon of choice. International students, knowing their family’s financial futures hinge on their degrees, operate in terror of failure and deportation.
Early readers of the book include Gary Shteyngart and Junot Diaz, both of whom have taught at universities and written comic novels. They each contacted Boyagoda midway through to say, in essence, “You nailed it.”
As biting as “Lords of Serendipity” can be, Boyagoda’s faith in higher education remains undaunted.
“It’s absurd that we live in societies that make the decision to take people between the ages of 18 and 22, when they are most physically capable of contributing to our nations and communities, and tell them, ‘Go away for four years, and read and learn and have conversations,’” he said. “I want students to be aware of what an incredible privilege that is.”
Corrections & Amplifications
Randy Boyagoda is a special advisor on the humanities to the dean of arts and science at the University of Toronto. An earlier version of this article incorrectly said he is a special adviser to the dean of humanities. (Corrected on Sept. 2)
