Impact Is What We Should Really Be Measuring When We Talk About What Is ‘Good Design’
TL;DR: From iconic architecture to invisible decisions, impact should be the core metric. This article broadens the perspective on where design matters and argues for a mindset shift toward lasting, real-world outcomes.
We usually recognize design when we see it—an iconic chair, a clever app interface, a building that stops you in your tracks. It’s easy to associate design with the visual, the innovative, the bold. And there’s nothing wrong with that. A beautiful object or space can spark emotion, create pride, or make everyday life feel a little more special.
But sometimes, this focus on the visible side of design distracts us from something more important: what it actually does.
Redefining Design by Its Impact
For me, design is defined by its impact—not just how it looks or what it costs or who made it, but whether it makes something better for someone. That impact can be emotional, social, economic, environmental. Sometimes, it’s loud. Sometimes, it’s invisible. (Side note: this is exactly where many narrowly focused designers and architects fall short—assuming „function“ is limited to technical efficiency or economic utility, rather than including emotional resonance, social value, or behavioral effect.)
Case Study: Guggenheim Museum Bilbao
Yes, it’s a stunning building. The form is striking. The architecture is anything but quiet. But that’s not why I think it’s good design. It’s good because it completely transformed a struggling part of the city. It brought tourism, jobs, and culture. It created emotional pride for locals. And here’s the thing—those bold, unfamiliar shapes were part of the strategy. The building needed to stand out because its real job was to put Bilbao on the map. In that case, form followed impact. Even if the building itself could not be said to follow function in the narrow sense, in the broad context of the city, it becomes equally rational as the calculator from Dieter Rams.
The Bauhaus Paradox
Bauhaus had a bold vision. Strip design down to what’s essential. Make it accessible. Create a new aesthetic for modern life. The ambition was huge—and still worth admiring. In practice, however, many of the physical outcomes missed their own point. The furniture wasn’t especially comfortable. The pieces were often expensive. What was intended as design for the people became design for the elite. In the sense of translating this ambition into reality, Ikea did it better.
But that doesn’t mean Bauhaus failed entirely. Its broader legacy—normalizing interdisciplinary thinking between art, craft, and industry, and influencing the mindset around mass production—was massive. It paved the way for generations of designers to think beyond aesthetics or function in isolation and engage with how systems and disciplines could be integrated into design. Their products may have missed the point, but the real impact Bauhaus had was ideological—a new way of thinking about the role of design in society and its potential to shape modern life at scale.
A Small Fix With Big Results
One of my favorite examples comes from a small school in rural Africa. A charity donated a clean water tank so children could stop drinking from contaminated taps. But weeks later, 90% of the kids still used the old water sources. So the team asked a simple but crucial question: why?
- The tank was black and sat in direct sun—the water got too hot.
- It was in the “teachers’ area”—and let’s be honest, kids don’t want to hang around teachers during break.
The fix? Paint the tank white. Move it under a tree, on the kids’ side of the yard. That’s it. Usage jumped immediately.
That small shift—based on empathy, observation, and common sense—had just as much real impact as the Guggenheim Museum. Low budget. No architecture prize. Just smart thinking that made lives better.
Why Design Education Needs to Shift
And yet, design education still often trains students to create things—something to present on a table or pin up on a wall. Not all schools, of course, but many still treat physical output as the gold standard. I once had a teacher tell me, “If you don’t put an object on the table, you can’t graduate.” I don’t blame him—it’s a system problem.
To be clear: this isn’t about abandoning deep craft or specialization. We still need experts—facade designers, typographers, automotive steering wheel designers. But the most valuable specialists are the ones who understand the why behind what they build. The ones who constantly ask what real-world need they’re solving—besides how polished their output is.
The Role of Design in an AI World
The world is shifting—fast. Tools like ChatGPT, Midjourney, and Copilot are rapidly automating tasks that used to take years to master. Writing, designing, coding—done in seconds. If your value is based purely on technical execution, that’s a shaky place to be.
Which is why framing the right problem matters more than ever.
When AI can execute almost anything, the real skill is knowing what to build, why it matters, and for whom. The hard skill is no longer pushing pixels—it’s shaping direction.
That could mean choosing a wild shape for a museum—not for style’s sake, but to help put a city on the map. It could mean questioning whether your own ideology is getting in the way of making something truly useful. Or it could be as simple—and as powerful—as listening closely to the people you’re designing for, to understand why they’re avoiding your solution.
Figuring out what actually makes sense for real people still requires judgment, empathy, and care. And those are the skills we’ll need most to turn today’s technological potential into something that’s actually useful. Tech gives us power—but direction gives it meaning.
Closing Thought
Some companies like IDEO, Frog, and others have been promoting this mindset for years. The idea of design as a way of thinking, rather than just a method for producing products, isn’t new. But too often, it stays trapped in innovation departments and sticky-note workshops.
It rarely reaches the people who could benefit most: students, non-designers, solo builders. Especially now, as AI shrinks team sizes, this mindset becomes critical. In a small team, someone has to bring this lens—even if they aren’t the designated „designer.“ And in larger organizations, it’s often those furthest from design who most need to think this way.
I keep hearing narrow takes on what good design is, what matters most, what qualifies as functional. Often, these takes come from people who’ve worked in design for decades—and speak with authority. But I get the sense that, in some cases, their experience has become a limitation. Being anchored in a different era of design, they may feel overwhelmed by the complexity of today’s landscape—and miss the new opportunities that are emerging.
This piece is meant to widen that perspective. Instead of dismissing a piece of design simply because it doesn’t fit one’s worldview, I hope it encourages a more open lens—one that asks, before anything else: what did this design actually change? Did it solve a problem? Did it make something better? Did it reach someone who needed it? If the answer is yes, maybe it’s time to reconsider what we mean by ‘good.’ The goal isn’t to defend bad decisions or aesthetics for their own sake, but to remind ourselves what matters most: the difference something makes once it’s out in the world.