I’m trying to remember the first time I saw the internet. Early 2000s, maybe the late '90s. It wasn’t the sterilized space we know today. It was a living organism—pulsating, sticky, unpredictable. Websites resembled algae-covered bulletin boards, with code flowing like a stream of consciousness. They connected in illogical ways, with no structure beyond the pure chaos of intuition. We were like explorers mapping unknown territory.

Banners flickered in epileptic frenzy, forums resembled the strangest depths where you could find random traces of thought, stray GIFs, makeshift manifestos written in Comic Sans, shouting about everything and nothing at the same time. Everyone was a little clumsy, but that made it authentic. UX wasn’t a thing yet. There was only experience. We felt like adults in a wild, unregulated place. Everyone was their own architect.

It wasn’t a network meant to be “used.” Because that was often difficult. It was a network meant to be experienced. A network that, over time, evolved into today’s world of orderly information.

The present-day picture is completely different. Now, we click and scroll through interfaces mastered to perfection—smooth, sterile, stripped of randomness, where everything has a precisely calculated function. We move through them like a well-lit showroom, where every item stands exactly where it was meant to. You know that at the end of this path, a “Buy Now” button awaits—or at least a “Learn More” if you hesitate. Every move is anticipated. Every impulse measured. Instead of drifting, we are on a meticulously planned guided tour.

This homogenization is often justified by the need for user-friendliness, following the mantra that everything should look familiar and be intuitive. While usability is undeniably crucial, overemphasizing it and making it the supreme goal of design can reduce our role, as designers, to mere people who simply apply styles and arrange pre-made elements, instead of creating original and deeply engaging experiences. Does that satisfy you? Does it satisfy me? Is this the kind of work worth waking up for and straining our eyes in front of a computer screen?

In our pursuit of “user-friendly,” we have lost something fundamental: ambiguity. The design world has become a corporate greenhouse cultivating perfect experiences—safe, predictable, algorithm-approved for effectiveness. As if we were creating an illusion rather than portraying the real world. As if this perfection were meant to reflect the absence of mistakes. A safe amusement park instead of a vibrant metropolis.

Designers have ceased to be creators. They have become system operators. Without asking unnecessary questions. Does this role—reduced to applying “skins”—truly satisfy us? Is it a job worth straining our eyes over? After all, human sensibility naturally loves experimentation. Instead of over-simplifying, we should create designs that invite exploration and discovery.

Maybe we should strive to design interactions that emotionally and sensorially engage the user, crafting websites that tell stories and create a sense of real connection with a brand or creator.

Websites have stopped being places for discovery and have become interfaces for transactions. They do inform about industry affiliation, but they don’t tell stories. They don’t reveal who they truly are or what makes them unique. They don’t touch emotions, don’t leave lasting memories, and don’t build relationships.

Understanding that these qualities define deeply human aspects is crucial. Forming emotional connections with audiences has a far greater impact than purely intellectual communication. To bring the web back to life, designers must shift their mindset about their role and their intended audience. Instead of focusing on designing interfaces for anonymous “users,” they should aim to create rich and personalized communication, lasting connections, and deep experiences for real people.

And no! This doesn’t mean AI should only be seen as a threat to creativity but rather as a potential tool supporting creative work. AI can simplify certain aspects of design, like generating color variations or suggesting layouts, but the risk lies in relinquishing complete control to AI, which could lead to the loss of an authentic human touch. The ideal solution might be a symbiosis between “handmade” and AI, where the designer uses AI for inspiration or rough sketches, but the final details and finishing touches remain handmade, highlighting their unique character.

In an era where democratization of design through AI-driven tools leads to aesthetic uniformity, handcrafted elements can serve as a striking counterpoint. Systems like Wix AI or layout generators in Figma make it easy to create professionally polished websites quickly, but their reliance on existing patterns inevitably leads to repetition. These tools serve business optimization, though not necessarily creativity.

Yes, algorithms are effective. Trained in analyzing user paths, they perfectly predict what you should click, what you desire before you even think about it. But is the internet just a machine for achieving goals? Shouldn’t we strive for something beyond a flawlessly designed consumption space? Should machines define who we are and what we want?
Where is the room for surprise? For imperfection? For that slightly embarrassing, amateurish, yet genuine energy the web had before anyone tried to tame it? Research by Van Gorp suggests that users interact with interfaces similarly to human relationships. And do we want our relationships to be dictated by algorithms?

This isn’t about blindly returning to the late '90s and early 2000s. Not about naive anarchy. We don’t need concrete-textured backgrounds and MP3 players embedded in HTML. Though, as I write this, it could have its campy charm. But maybe we should reject this strange obsession with standardization and optimized perfection? Maybe, now that we’ve mastered the internet so deeply, now that UX experts, data scientists, and optimization specialists work on it, it’s time for a kind of “jam session”? We should ask ourselves: How can we revive the web while avoiding chaos and amateurism, like jazz musicians who, having perfected composition theory and mastering their instruments, begin to improvise based on knowledge and intuition?

Instead of designing interfaces as smooth as a showroom model, let’s let them breathe. Give them personality. Experiment with typography, layouts, motion. Play with elements. Use our knowledge. Create websites that provoke reactions, that attract like a strangely beautiful, abandoned shopfront in a side alley. These bold designs communicate far more than generic counterparts. They are inherently tied to a sense of identity. They exude a distinct and unique personality. And as De Lera suggests in his “Emotion-Centered Design” method, personality and emotion are key elements in the design process.

Craftsmanship against the machine, or human versus algorithm—improvisation in the age of AI?

Ultimately, craftsmanship in the 21st century must go beyond manual object creation. It should become a creative method rooted in deep engagement, continuous experimentation, and critical thinking about form and materials. Uniqueness arises from deep involvement in every aspect of a project, not just from using specific visual techniques. Contemporary craftsmanship is increasingly interdisciplinary, blending graphic design, programming, interactivity, and physical experiences—perfectly reflecting the nature of modern websites.

Let’s stop thinking about “users.” Who is a “user” anyway? An anonymous figure in a sales funnel? A content consumer expected to react according to a UX strategy? A statistic?

No. There’s a person on the other side. Someone who wants to get lost, to be amazed, to feel something real. Who doesn’t just want to consume but to co-create. Who doesn’t want to be led through “intuitive experiences.” They want to experience something. To hear a unique melody, not a repetitive scheme.

I want the web to be alive again. Above all—to be human. I want to take part in a digital jam session, not an optimization puzzle.

Let’s tear down the showroom and start improvising.

Let the internet breathe. Let it live. Let it be human. Let it improvise.