Chapter 1: The Shifting Information Landscape

In today’s educational environment, the tools and methods we use for information have evolved tremendously. This piece reflects on the college course catalog, a relic from a bygone era, to uncover insights about digital technology, information design, and how we often hinder ourselves by neglecting lessons from the past.

Forty years ago, I embarked on my college journey as a Freshman at UC Berkeley. Like most teenagers of my generation, I wasn’t particularly focused on planning my academic future. While my parents, both Berkeley graduates, didn’t hover over me, it was ultimately my responsibility to review the registration materials the university sent out. Among these documents was a comprehensive university catalog detailing majors, course requirements, and descriptions of nearly every class offered by various departments. However, the crucial piece of information was the course schedule, which was published in a concise booklet shortly before classes commenced.

This booklet contained a wealth of class summaries sorted by department and was a result of centuries of refined information design. Its thin, newsprint pages were easy to navigate and consistently accurate, serving as the sole means by which thousands of students, faculty, and administrators could synchronize their academic endeavors. Despite its humble appearance, it effectively provided necessary information, even if it was presented in smudgy nine-point type.

The summer before starting college, I participated in an American Field Service trip to the UK, engaging in outdoor work with the National Trust. I spent my days building stone walls, maintaining forests, and clearing ponds. Time felt different in that environment; it passed slowly as we marked progress through physical labor, whether by constructing a wall or removing invasive trees in Wimbledon Common. The highlight of the day was always mail call, when letters bearing names were eagerly awaited.

Reflecting on the digital information landscape of 1983, I was somewhat adept with computers, having learned Pascal and BASIC in high school. The IBM PC had only recently emerged, and my household had an Apple //, thanks to my schoolteacher mother. While I found these machines fascinating, I didn’t yet recognize their potential to revolutionize communication and information sharing. At that time, no one used email, the Macintosh was still a year away, and the World Wide Web was a decade from becoming a reality. In essence, 1983 marked the final year of my pre-digital existence.

Back then, information flowed at a leisurely pace. Society's institutions were built around this reality. Registration for university classes took place in person just before the semester began, relying on those printed booklets sent in the mail. If you were forgetful or away, you simply picked one up at the student services office. So when a friend asked which classes I would take upon joining him at Berkeley, I wasn’t worried; I’d decide when I returned. I hadn’t even chosen a major, as that decision felt distant.

I returned to Los Angeles just days before classes commenced and drove to Berkeley the day before. It was then that the reality struck — I had missed the registration week. My friends had already signed up for classes, and given Berkeley's chronic underfunding, most were full. Panic set in; I had a Navy scholarship, university-approved housing, and a new life awaiting me, but all hinged on being a registered student. To enroll, I needed at least 12 units of classes open to incoming Freshmen, but all the obvious options like introductory economics and anthropology were full. I had to dig deeper.

Thus began my information dilemma. With hundreds of classes available at Berkeley in Fall 1983, I had to identify at least three or four that would accept me and ideally be courses I was interested in. After a brief moment of anxiety, I realized that resolving this issue would take only about thirty minutes. I walked to student services, grabbed a copy of the course booklet, and started sifting through the less popular course listings. The woman at the counter had a computer, and every so often, I’d find a promising class. I would inquire about available slots, and she would check on her screen. Eventually, I ended up with two upper-level literature courses — one on Brecht and another on modern Russian authors — plus a two-unit astronomy seminar and a Spanish 3 section. I was all set with 13 units of coursework and ready to relax.

Fast forward four decades, and my youngest daughter Beatrix faced a similar situation. In December of last year, she had just completed her first semester at university. Like most incoming Freshmen, she had already chosen a major, and her first semester was primarily required classes. She registered online well before arriving on campus, with all communications handled via email. While my wife and I tried not to intrude too much, we were actively engaged with her newly created university parent accounts.

However, Bea’s second semester posed a unique challenge — elective courses. With the registration deadline approaching, she had an opportunity to explore classes outside her major. I shared my experiences with authors like Brecht, Gogol, and Turgenev, encouraging her to look through the course booklet for anything that piqued her interest.

Yet, the course booklet no longer existed. Everything was online, and the value of a physical artifact was largely lost. Students could no longer quickly scan hundreds of class listings by flipping pages. Instead, they were expected to navigate a convoluted series of search queries, which many of Bea’s friends advised her to avoid. After a few frustrating minutes, she abandoned the school’s interface. Determined to help her explore options beyond her predetermined major, I logged in using her credentials and dedicated hours to searching through the overwhelming number of classes available. The experience was so disheartening that the university had even posted a YouTube tutorial to guide students through the search process.

The tutorial titled "SERENDIPITY WITH ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE | Sun Qi | TEDxTianshanPark" explores how digital tools can foster unexpected discoveries in education.

In the end, I realized that poor information design had stifled the serendipity of discovering intriguing classes that could lead students to entirely different and more fulfilling paths. After all, how many 18-year-olds truly know what they want to pursue in life? Yet, the ease of online registration, combined with ineffective digital information design, has unintentionally created barriers to academic exploration. In every classroom where I’ve taught, I’ve witnessed students merely checking boxes instead of immersing themselves in the hidden treasures of a university education. For many, their academic workload has become a chore rather than an exciting journey.

I understand some might dismiss this as a trivial issue, but there’s a deeper concern at play. In our adaptation to an increasingly digital life, we've made countless subtle, unconscious choices that, when taken together, can steer us away from a flourishing society. I’m not necessarily advocating for a return to printed course booklets, but we should reflect on what we sacrifice when we prioritize convenience over serendipity and exploration in our information architectures. Once you adopt this perspective, it becomes evident in various aspects of our lives — including how we consume media, where we’ve outsourced our understanding of the world to algorithm-driven architectures that prioritize engagement over comprehension. As we enter a new era of artificial intelligence, where information design is obscured by hidden "weights" that influence outcomes, it’s crucial to consider what we might be losing as we move forward.

Chapter 2: Reimagining Information Design

To illustrate the importance of embracing serendipity in education and design, let’s explore another perspective on fostering unexpected discoveries.

The video titled "Engineering Serendipity - How to create more happy 'accidents'" by Daniel Doherty discusses strategies to cultivate environments conducive to unexpected yet beneficial outcomes.

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