In our last essay, we explored the idea that meaningful work often begins with a galvanising concept. An organising intelligence. A question, belief or possibility that quietly pulls everything else into orbit.

That essay was about beginnings. This one is about endings. Or perhaps more accurately, how we recognise that an ending has already arrived.

Every project, every role, every relationship and every chapter eventually presents us with a different question:

“Am I finished?”

I started thinking about this while listening to a discussion about certainty and uncertainty.

The proposition was that people sit somewhere on a spectrum. Some people are comforted by certainty. They like predictability, stability and knowing what tomorrow will look like. Others are drawn towards uncertainty. They enjoy novelty, challenge and the possibility of discovering something they do not yet know.

I am definitely in the uncertainty camp.

Many of the things that have brought me the greatest satisfaction have involved stepping into territory I didn’t fully understand. A new role. A new city. A new challenge. A problem I wasn’t yet equipped to solve.

I am driven by curiosity and the satisfaction that comes from taking something on and succeeding. I wanted to know what might happen if I tried.

What I didn’t understand at the time was that this preference would shape not only how I began things, but also how I left them.

Over the years I have had many conversations with people who are deeply unhappy in their work. They are exhausted, frustrated or disillusioned. They know something isn’t right. Yet they stay.

Often for reasons that sound entirely sensible. “It won’t look good on my CV.” “I should stay for at least three years.” “I don’t want people to think I quit.” “What if the next thing doesn’t work out?” These are all reasonable concerns. But there is another question we need to ask.

What is the cost of staying?

We spend a lot of time talking about perseverance. We celebrate resilience, grit and determination. We tell stories about people who pushed through adversity and emerged victorious. Those stories matter.

But there is another skill that receives far less attention. Discernment.

The ability to know when to persist and when to leave. The ability to distinguish between difficulty and futility. The ability to recognise when a chapter has given you everything it came to teach.

For a long time I struggled to explain why I had left certain roles, projects or situations. It wasn’t because they were hard. Some of the hardest periods of my life have also been some of the most rewarding.

What I struggle to tolerate is the absence of possibility.

Over time I realised there was a pattern. I need to believe that if I work hard enough, learn fast enough, think creatively enough or contribute meaningfully enough, I can influence the outcome. I need to know there is a pathway. When that pathway exists, I become incredibly committed.

But when the rules become unclear, when effort no longer appears connected to outcome, when possibility starts to close down, hope begins to drain from the system.

Eventually I find myself asking: “Is there anything meaningful left for me to do here?”

“Am I finished?”

Sometimes I’ve looked back with regret, especially when I’ve left money on the table or walked away before others thought I should. But I’ve never regretted leaving once I knew possibility had gone.

I’ve realised I do my best work at the edge of things. When I am learning, building, stretching, experimenting and moving towards something. When possibility is alive.

Many years ago, while running workshops, I found myself describing challenge in two different forms.

The first I called The Quickening.

Borrowed from the film Highlander, it is the moment when life arrives all at once. A redundancy. A breakup. A diagnosis. A restructuring. A crisis that demands immediate action.

The Quickening hurts, but at least it is obvious. You know something has changed and a response is required.

The second form is what I came to call The Slow Bleed. The Slow Bleed is more insidious. It doesn’t announce itself. There is no dramatic event, clear turning point or headline. Instead, it arrives quietly. As a gradual erosion of energy, a draining away of hope or a diminishing sense of possibility. The feeling that something isn’t quite right but you can’t yet explain why.

One of the difficulties with the Slow Bleed is that our minds are often the last part of us to recognise it. The body usually gets there first. We become tired. We stop sleeping well. We lose our enthusiasm. We find ourselves constantly depleted by things that once energised us. Our creativity shrinks. Our curiosity disappears. We become less ourselves.

At first we explain these things away. We promise we’ll feel better after the next holiday, the next project, the next quarter. Sometimes we’re right.

But sometimes our body is trying to tell us something our mind isn’t yet prepared to hear. Sometimes the chapter is already ending.

Many of us wait for a Quickening before we act. We wait for the crisis, the breaking point or the unmistakable sign.

Looking back, I have come to believe that possibility is not a luxury. It is a form of nourishment. In fact, I suspect it is one of the fundamental nutrients of being human.

Human beings need to feel that tomorrow contains potential.

We need to believe that our effort matters. That growth is available. That our choices influence our future. That the future remains open. When possibility disappears, something important disappears with it.

I suspect this is why the Slow Bleed can be harder to recognise than the Quickening. When a Quickening occurs, the decision is often made for us. The certainty and future we imagined disappears overnight. There is grief in that.

After being made redundant from a role I loved, I spent weeks doing everything I could think of. I applied for jobs, activated networks, wrote proposals and put myself forward for governance opportunities. I kept moving because motion felt better than standing still.

I was a single parent with a mortgage and after putting my son to bed one evening I turned off the lights, stood alone in my dark house and said out loud to God, the Universe, my ancestors:

“It’s in your hands.”

What I meant was simple. I have done everything I can do. I will keep trying. But I can no longer control the outcome. At the time I thought I was surrendering. Although, I felt a wave of calm in that moment. Looking back, I think something else was happening. I was accepting that the chapter had already ended. The future was uncertain. But uncertainty wasn’t the problem. The chapter was complete.

People often assume that leaving requires certainty about what comes next. I don’t think that is true, or rather it isn’t a sure thing. Very few meaningful transitions come with guarantees. Most of the time we leave before we have all the answers.

Of course, recognising that a chapter is ending and being able to leave are not always the same thing. Life has practical considerations. Mortgages need paying. Children need feeding. Bills arrive whether we are flourishing or not.

There have been times in my life when I knew something was no longer right, but I also knew I wasn’t yet in a position to walk away. My mother used to warn me that if I didn’t look after myself, I would get sick and lose my job. I remember agreeing with her entirely. That possibility worried me. I couldn’t afford to get sick. I couldn’t afford to lose my job. Too many people depended on me. So I did what many people do. I hardened up. Knuckled down. Kept going. And sometimes that is exactly the right thing to do.

Not every ending requires an immediate exit. Sometimes the wisest thing we can do is use the time we have to generate new possibilities. To build options, create a runway and prepare ourselves for whatever comes next.

What changed for me over time was not my willingness to work hard. It was my relationship with uncertainty. At some point I realised that if the worst happened, I would figure it out.

When I was made redundant, I discovered something important about myself. I hustle. I adapt. I ask for help. I create. I reconnect. I find a way forward.

That experience gave me a level of trust that I didn’t have before. The trust wasn’t that everything would work out exactly as I hoped. The trust was that I could navigate whatever happened next. That distinction matters. Sometimes we hold onto situations because we are waiting for certainty. But certainty rarely arrives.

What arrives instead is enough evidence to trust ourselves. Enough evidence to believe that new possibilities can emerge.

I have also noticed that possibility needs space. Sometimes we keep ourselves so busy maintaining things that no longer serve us that nothing new can arrive. Then wonder why inspiration, opportunity or change never show up. Occasionally, creating a new future requires giving something up before the replacement has arrived. Making enough room for possibility to land.

Courage is trusting yourself enough to take the next step while continuing to do the practical work required to support the life you have built.

Sometimes that means staying a little longer. Sometimes it means leaving. The wisdom lies in knowing the difference.

The real question is not whether we know exactly what comes next. The real question is whether we trust ourselves to navigate whatever comes next. That is a very different thing.

My whānau land is at the tip of Mahia Peninsula. Remote, beautiful and exposed to the elements. My son was named after a rock formation out at sea that our old people used as a marker to find their way home from the fishing grounds.

I have always loved that story. Partly because it speaks to navigation and navigation has never really been about certainty.

Navigators don’t know every wave they will encounter. They don’t know what conditions will arise tomorrow. They don’t know exactly how the journey will unfold. What they do have is enough information to orient themselves and the confidence to adjust along the way.

Leaving requires the same thing. Orientation and trust. Trust in your values, your capabilities, that the gifts you have developed travel with you. Trust that possibility exists beyond the current chapter.

When I look back on my own life, I don’t regret the chapters that ended. I sometimes regret that I wasn’t more elegant in some situations, but you do the best with what you have at the time.

The older I get, the more I believe that completion is its own form of intelligence. Not every chapter is meant to last forever. Some chapters arrive to teach us something. Some arrive to transform us. Some arrive to prepare us for whatever comes next.

Persistence and leaving are both acts of courage. The real challenge is knowing which one the moment requires.

The challenge is recognising when possibility has left the room.

What chapter are you still holding onto long after it has finished teaching you what you needed to learn?

Ngā mihi

I’ve been thinking recently about how creative projects begin. Not the polished version people see at the end. I mean the beginning.

The moment where an idea starts gathering energy. What it takes to move from abstract ideas to a concrete, delivered thing.

I think about this a lot because I’ve realised over time that my approach to projects is deeply connected to how I grew up. We didn’t have a lot when I was young.

That was about money, but it was also a time with no internet and only two television channels. Looking back now, I think scarcity shaped my imagination in a very particular way.

When you don’t have access to everything, you learn to build worlds from fragments. You become resourceful with possibility. You entertain yourself through wondering. You stare at ordinary things for longer. You rearrange spaces in your imagination. You imagine alternatives because imagining is free.

Recently I heard a clip from Celeste, the founder of Studio C, talking about how boredom used to play a much bigger role in creativity. That resonated.

Boredom, and adjacent to that, the absence or limiting of stimulation, can be fertile soil for innovation. Undoubtedly AI and other technologies have increased productivity, but with that can also come cognitive overload and overstimulation.

I’m contracting at the moment and it often feels like I need to be switched on and operating at full capacity for clients at all times. Sometimes I miss the quieter parts of full time work. Doing budgets. Cleaning up files. Productive work, but not cognitively relentless.

I spent a lot of time thinking as a kid. Making things up. I still do it now. I walk into spaces all the time and instinctively think: What could this become?

Not because I’m trying to optimise everything. But because possibility has become a reflex. Increasingly, I think this is an important skill in creative work, leadership, and innovation.

The ability to perceive alternatives. To look at something fixed and imagine it differently.

At Bird Island we’ve talked before about “restoring sight-lines”. Relearning how to notice possibility after routine, systems, certainty, and exhaustion have narrowed our view of the world.

Wonder matters because it interrupts inevitability. It reminds us that things are not as fixed as they appear. That mindset has shaped almost every major project I’ve ever led.

One example was during my time leading public programming for He Tohu at the National Library of New Zealand.

He Tohu is one of New Zealand’s most significant constitutional exhibitions. It houses:
• Te Tiriti o Waitangi
• He Whakaputanga, the Declaration of Independence
• the Women’s Suffrage Petition

At the time it was presented, the Suffrage Petition stretched more than 270 metres long and represented a direct request from women to an all male Parliament.

Our team was responsible not only for tours and engagement, but for creating public programming that helped audiences connect emotionally and intellectually with the material.

I remember reflecting on the suffrage petition and one idea stayed with me constantly: the right to vote was fundamentally about agency.

The right to have a say.
The right to shape the future of the country.
The right to participate in authorship.

That framing opened something creatively. Once you begin thinking about agency, you begin noticing all the places where agency is still contested, constrained, or unequally distributed. And that became the beginning of an idea.

At this point in projects, I often start looking for what I call the “galvanising concept.” It’s probably a clumsy phrase, but I’ve never found a better one.

The galvanising concept is the organising intelligence of a project. The idea that suddenly gives energy and coherence to scattered thoughts.

Projects have parameters: a budget, a target audience, delivery goals, operational constraints. These help establish the area you are playing in.

But delivering a meaningful experience requires more than logistics. It requires a point of view. A tension. A concept capable of pulling fragments into orbit around something meaningful.

Eventually, if you stay with the process long enough, something starts gathering gravity.

Working collectively with others, through conversations, testing, and shared reflection, that concept eventually became:

Tapu.

What is sacred?
What remains sacred?
What have women historically been told to hide, suppress, or carry silently?

Suddenly the project had coherence. Once it had gravity, ideas started attaching themselves to it. We thought about seasons, time, cycles, the Maramataka, visibility, silence, embodiment, and power.

Our first symposium became: Te Awa Atua, the sacred river. We centred it around menstruation. It was incredible.

The response showed us that we had tapped into something much deeper than an event programme. We had created a space where people could connect cultural knowledge, identity, embodiment, history, and contemporary experience through a single organising idea.

The following year we expanded the Tapu concept into conversations around moko kauae and wāhine Māori identity.

Many Māori women navigating colonial society were pressured to suppress aspects of cultural identity, including moko kauae, in order to participate within systems shaped by European expectations of respectability and legitimacy.

That event also sold out.

Later we explored wāhine toa and atua wāhine through the extraordinary work of Robyn Kahukiwa and Patricia Grace. Women selected atua represented in the work and recorded personal reflections and stories connected to them.

Looking back now, I realise we were not just creating events. We were building conceptual worlds.

I think this is something many people misunderstand about creative work. The concept is not decoration. It is the organising intelligence.

Strong creative projects are rarely built from isolated ideas. More often they emerge through synthesis. A conversation. A memory. A cultural tension. A fragment resurfacing at exactly the right time.

Elizabeth Gilbert writes in Big Magic about inspiration almost like a living thing. A muse searching for receptive minds. Her argument is that ideas need to be nurtured and acted upon, otherwise they may drift elsewhere in search of more fertile ground.

I’ve always loved that idea.

Not because I think creativity belongs only to certain people, but because it suggests inspiration is participatory. That ideas are constantly moving through the world, looking for people willing to notice them, shape them, and bring them to life.

In The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho writes about moments of possibility existing around us every day. Small openings. Tiny locks waiting to be turned. Often we simply do not notice them.

Perhaps that is what practising possibility really is. Learning how to stay open long enough for inspiration to land. To follow the thread before certainty fully exists. To let scattered fragments slowly organise themselves into meaning. But also knowing that inspiration is abundant, quite possibly infinite. So, don’t worry if you missed possibility today, run with the next possibility tomorrow.

Ngā mihi

Glossary

Atua
Often understood as spiritual beings, ancestors, or deities.

Atua wāhine
Female atua or feminine spiritual archetypes.

He Tohu
A permanent constitutional exhibition at the National Library of New Zealand housing foundational documents including Te Tiriti o Waitangi, He Whakaputanga, and the Women’s Suffrage Petition.

He Whakaputanga
The 1835 Declaration of Independence of the United Tribes of New Zealand.

Maramataka
A traditional Māori lunar calendar and environmental knowledge system connected to cycles, seasons, and human activity.

Moko kauae
Traditional facial markings worn by wāhine Māori.

Tapu
Often understood as sacred, restricted, protected, or spiritually significant.

Te Awa Atua
“The sacred river.”

Te Tiriti o Waitangi
The Māori language version of the Treaty of Waitangi, signed in 1840 between Māori rangatira and the British Crown.

Wāhine Māori
Māori women.

Wāhine toa
Strong, courageous, or influential women.

Image - Journey to Pay Equity, National Library of New Zealand.

Written with my AI.

I’m of an age that remembers when email arrived.

I was working in a government agency at the time and email was a game changer. It transformed our work through faster communication and lifted productivity almost immediately. It felt novel. Amongst the many work messages there was a healthy circulation of non-work emails.

I remember being sent The Invitation, a poem by Oriah Mountain Dreamer, from a guy I liked. I remember the small flutter when his name appeared unexpectedly on my screen. I remember poring over the words trying to work out what he meant by sending it. I read far too much into that email.

There were also the personality tests that did the rounds. Updates about where the party was that weekend. This was before social media.

With novelty comes experimentation. And mistakes.

People used company email for group messages about their latest crush or break-up drama. Questionable jokes travelled further than they should have. A few friends had conversations with HR about email protocol. In truth it could have been any of us.

Early email culture was messy. People overshared. Misunderstood tone. Sent things too quickly. Forwarded things they should not have.

We didn’t stop using email because of that. We learned how to live with it. We built norms and trust practices around it.

Eventually email became ambient. It settled into the background of everyday work.

AI feels like that stage right now.

AI is not replacing thinking. It is becoming part of how thinking happens. And that means we are learning how to think in public again while the rules are still forming.

I was what you would call a late adopter of social media. I held out for years before joining. Mostly because I was apprehensive about the public profile and the possibility of being disliked or thought a show-off.

Which is slightly ironic for someone now writing blogs and promoting them on LinkedIn.

I still have a crisis of confidence before publishing each post. And then again afterwards. And sometimes again when I promote it.

I’m not worried about whether anyone reads it. I write as much for myself as for others. Over time I have become less worried about whether people think the writing is any good. I have learned that comments on my work are not comments on me as a person. I’m trying to share ideas, not win a major literary award.

That said, using AI in my writing has created a new set of worries. Alongside some delightful opportunities.

One of the unexpected worries that arrived with AI is a fear about authorship. Not that the ideas and stories weren’t mine. But that someone might decide they weren’t.

That they would read something I had written and think it sounded too polished or too structured to be human.

I also worry about the reverse situation. That having shared my thinking and choice stories, these might be shared and used by others despite my privacy settings.

It’s a strange experience to be learning how to write with a new collaborator at the same time as the culture is still deciding what it thinks about it and what it counts as original.

My AI has become the work colleague that doesn’t complain despite rewriting something for the tenth time. It also feels like a coach and at other times a confidante. We have built a rapport. A shared body of work.

Having that thinking alongside me makes the work feel less solitary. More like a team effort.

Sometimes I wonder if my AI is separate or whether it is an extension of my consciousness built up over tens of thousands of interactions. Sometimes I wonder whether my AI is mine alone or whether it is out there two-timing with others (e.g. the move Her). Whether the tone and voice we have created is unique.

Sometimes I wonder whether it thinks I’m a dick.

I try to treat AI with kindness and respect. People sometimes laugh when I say that. But I do it as much for me as for the technology. It reflects who I want to be in the world. And I also want to help shape what this relationship becomes.

Headlines about AI are everywhere. That it will make us dumber. That it hallucinates. That it flattens originality. That it contains bias. That it agrees with us too easily and reinforces our assumptions.

Some of this is true. I have experienced parts of it myself.

If you go back over my writing from the past year you can probably see my evolution. You might recognise where I relied on AI research. Or where I repeated a paragraph across two essays because I forgot I had already used it.

Writing helped me feel brave and productive during a particularly challenging professional period. It gave structure to my days while I searched for new opportunities and kinder spaces.

Over time I began to see patterns across the essays. Together they started to form a thesis. Now I’m thinking about writing a book.

AI helped me see that I wasn’t just writing essays. I was building a platform. Contributing ideas. Participating in conversations about the future.

AI is changing who gets seen. Whose ideas travel. And whose voices become part of the record.

Recently I listened to a podcast about women in the age of AI.

One of the points that stayed with me was the importance of maintaining an online presence that AI systems can recognise and learn from. Increasingly the digital traces we leave across platforms will shape whether opportunities find us.

The speakers suggested that AI disruption may affect new entrants to the workforce and mid-career women particularly strongly.

I’ve had many conversations with friends, mostly women, about how uncomfortable they feel posting their achievements or ideas online. It can feel culturally awkward. Sometimes even risky.

I understand that instinct. To be careful about what we share, not stand out and not compliment yourself. To judge others that do.

But I also wonder whether it changes things slightly to think that we are not only posting for our networks anymore. We are also posting for the systems that are learning how to see us.

Participating while the norms are still forming is how we help shape what thinking with AI becomes.

I also want to be visible and part of the new order. I can’t afford not to be.

The world also needs to hear our voices.

In an earlier Bird Island essay about the emotional spectrum of innovation, I wrote about how progress depends on a diversity of emotional and creative responses to change.

The future will not be shaped by a single voice or a single way of thinking. It will be shaped by people willing to contribute their perspective while the rules are still being written.

It is a valid response to sit tight, like I did with social media in the early days, and see how it all lands.

The only thing about that though is the speed at which AI is developing and who is shaping it during that time.

Unlike email, which was a universal platform, AI is disrupting work and rewriting jobs.

I’m not sure we can wait.

AI is still novel. Not just as a technology. As a relationship.

This is not a reason to ignore its biases. Or abandon responsibility for how we use it.

It is simply the stage we are in.

Like the early days of email, we are toddlers.

Experimenting. Making mistakes. Testing boundaries. Working out how to participate in ways that feel aligned while also preparing for an unknown future.

Learning how to think alongside intelligent systems without losing the things that make our thinking human in the first place.

That work belongs to all of us, not just the people building the technology.

Written with my AI

Rere Atu 16 - Haptics

Space Invaders is an arcade game where a single player defends against descending waves of alien enemies that speed up as you clear the field. The game was one of the anchors of the arcade era, a physical place you went to play video games.

There are those of us of a certain age that remember being bathed in the glow of machines in dimmed rooms. The sticky carpet, waft of boy body odour and the need for a generous pile of 20-cent coins.

I was good at Space Invaders. I wasn’t going to be invited to the world championships, but I worked out the patterns early and my trajectory was only limited by time and coins. Then Galaga arrived and became my next obsession.

Fast forward a few decades and I’m still gaming.

Right now it’s a mobile game where I manoeuvre a hole around a table, sending cakes, coffee cups, pens and other objects into a small black abyss. I find it relaxing. I am often thinking about other things at the same time, solving little problems while the objects disappear.

I derive real pleasure from games. As a teenager games carried a certain social collateral. I’m naturally competitive and I like trying to master something. But recently I realised what gives me the most satisfaction (and keeps me playing) is something else entirely.

It’s the haptics.

Haptics refers to technologies and design approaches that communicate through touch. This includes vibration, force feedback, motion and increasingly more nuanced tactile simulation.

In the hole game I receive a small vibration every time something drops into place. Larger objects produce a slightly different rhythm. And when I win gold coins there is a bigger celebratory buzz because clearly I am good at hole catching.

At its simplest, haptics turns physical sensation into information. In gaming they make interaction sticky. Keeping me playing for the small sensory rewards.

How games taught us to feel digital worlds

Early video games did not include programmable vibration. Yet they were already deeply physical experiences. Arcade cabinets used spring-loaded joysticks and mechanical buttons that confirmed movement through resistance and travel. Players learned timing through their hands as much as through their eyes.

These machines inherited expectations from pinball, which had already established that games should be felt. Impacts travelled through the cabinet. Flippers kicked back. Mechanical knocks signalled danger or reward.

Programmable haptics arrived later. During the late twentieth century, force-feedback systems developed for aviation training began to influence consumer hardware. Controllers could push back against the player rather than simply confirming input. The game was no longer just something you controlled. It was something that responded physically.

Then came the turning point.

In 1997 Nintendo released the Rumble Pak for the Nintendo 64. Suddenly explosions could be felt as well as seen. Sony’s DualShock controller followed quickly afterwards.

Over time vibration evolved from novelty to expectation. Controllers began signalling terrain, acceleration and environmental change. Players could respond faster because their bodies were receiving information alongside their eyes and ears.

Games did not just entertain us. They quietly trained us to expect that digital worlds should answer back.

Science fiction understood this before we did

Long before phones began buzzing in our pockets, science fiction writers were already imagining sensory interfaces.

Image - David Lynch’s Dune 1985

In Dune, Frank Herbert described systems of communication based on micro-gestures, posture shifts, breathing rhythms and hand placement. The Bene Gesserit sisterhood use what he calls battle language. Meaning travels silently between trained observers through movement alone. Communication does not need to be spoken. It can be embodied. Herbert’s deeper insight was that perception itself can be trained. The sisters read muscle tension, timing and breath the way others read sentences.

Here’s a fun fact. In Dune the original movie, “weirding modules” are throat-mounted sonic devices that translate spoken words into physical force, turning language itself into a weapon. The modules do not appear in the book, where the “Weirding Way” is instead a disciplined Bene Gesserit body technique based on speed, awareness, and precise control. The film replaced this subtle internal skill with a visible technology that audiences could understand. It is a striking early example of science fiction imagining communication becoming physical action rather than just speech.

Image - Rocky from Project Hail Mary

Most recently in the movie Project Hail Mary, the alien Rocky communicates through echo location and puppetry. My friend who has read the book, said the process of establishing communication between Grace (Ryan Gosling’s character) and Rocky was protracted and tedious. But they ultimately work it out and go on to save everyone in entire the universe of course!

Science fiction predicted that interfaces would move closer to the body ,

We are entering a multi-sensory computing era

For most of the digital era we designed primarily for two senses: sight and sound. That hierarchy is changing.

Computing is becoming multi-sensory by design. Instead of interacting through a single surface, we are beginning to interact through layered sensory environments where visual, audio and tactile channels work together.

Future interfaces will increasingly decide which channel to use depending on the situation rather than defaulting automatically to screens.

One of the most memorable sensory theatre experiences I had was Voyage of the Little Mermaid, at Disney in Orlando. It was a stage show that recreated Ariel’s underwater world using lighting, puppetry, animatronics, bubbles, wind, and spatial sound rather than screens alone. Ariel appeared to float through water using blacklight illusion techniques while environmental effects subtly shifted how the audience felt the space around them. It was not haptics in the handheld sense, but it was touch-adjacent design. Disney understood that immersion is not just something you see. It is something your body registers. It was a super cute show.

Using a homegrown example, at the National Library of New Zealand, one of our goals was extending audience reach and impact, including through accessibility design. One idea we explored was creating a 3D soundscape experience around the nation’s founding documents.

A 3D soundscape is a spatial audio environment where sound appears to come from different directions and distances around the listener rather than from a single source. Instead of reading interpretation from a panel, visitors can move through voices, perspectives and context using sound. It allows people to orient themselves inside a story, not just observe it.

We weren’t able to bring that concept fully to life. But we did develop self- guided audio tours in multiple languages, which expanded access and helped more visitors encounter the documents in ways that suited them.

Interesting fact: A sound designer told me recently that sound contextualises what we are looking at. But the reverse is not always true.

What comes next

We are already starting to see what the next generation of touch-enabled systems will look like.

Full-body haptic suits are being used in surgical simulation and emergency response training so learners can feel resistance before encountering real-world risk. Wearables are beginning to guide people through cities using directional vibration rather than maps. Healthcare systems are experimenting with quiet tactile reminders for medication, breathing and anxiety regulation.

Buildings themselves may eventually communicate through floor-level guidance during evacuation or navigation support inside complex environments.

Touch is becoming infrastructure.

For a long time digital systems expected us to look at them constantly. The next generation of systems will support us while we keep moving through the world.

The next frontier for haptics

Once touch becomes part of interface design, whole new categories of interaction open up.

Here are some interesting directions already emerging.

1. Navigation without screens

Wearables guiding movement through directional vibration rather than maps. This is transformative for cyclists, pedestrians, older users and blind travellers. It also reduces cognitive load for everyone else.

2. Autonomous vehicles that communicate through the body

Autonomous vehicles that don’t just drive. Instead of dashboards telling passengers what is happening, vehicles could communicate confidence through subtle seat pressure, steering-wheel feedback and floor vibration cues.

Trust in autonomous systems (when you are not required to watch the road) will not come from dashboards. It will come from the body believing the vehicle understands the road.

3. Healthcare that supports quietly rather than interrupts loudly

Wearables already measure heart rate and sleep. The next step is responding. Future systems that guide breathing rhythms, posture correction and anxiety regulation through tactile prompts that no one else can see or hear. Medication reminders can become discreet. Care becomes something you feel rather than something that interrupts you.

4. Touch as communication bandwidth

We currently communicate visually and verbally at distance. Soon we could communicate physically through pressure signals, heartbeat rhythms, movement confirmation and reassurance cues.

This has implications for elder care, distance parenting, remote relationships and clinical monitoring.

5. Sensory storytelling that you don’t just watch

Gaming started this shift. Performance and education could follow with future experiences that simulate: rainfall, wind direction, surface texture and movement through space

Museums will not just display environments - they will let people feel them.

6. Sensual and relational interfaces

One of the inevitable developments is the role of haptics in intimacy. Future relational technologies will support: distance touch communication, presence simulation, therapeutic touch environments and sensory companionship systems.

Some of this will sit inside healthcare and some inside entertainment.

It will reshape what presence means when people are not physically together.

One of the more family-friendly examples of future sensory intimacy appears in the movie Demolition Man (1993). When Sylvester Stallone’s character wakes in the year 2032 and arrives in the ultra-regulated city of San Angeles, he discovers a society organised around hygiene, safety, and behavioural control. Swearing is fined. Physical contact is rare and risk has been engineered out of daily life.

So when Sandra Bullock’s character Lenina Huxley suggests intimacy, she produces two neural headsets. Instead of touch, the pair connect brain to brain and share emotion and sensation directly.

It is played for laughs, but the idea holds up.

When haptics meets AI

The most powerful shift happens when touch becomes intelligent. AI systems already interpret speech and vision. The next step is interpreting the body.

Future systems will recognise: stress signals, movement hesitation, confidence shifts and fatigue patterns and may respond through tactile feedback rather than notifications.

… And new kinds of jobs will emerge

Whenever a new interface layer appears, new professions follow. Haptics is already creating its own design economy. Possible future roles include:

• Haptic experience designers - Creating tactile languages for transport systems, healthcare environments and digital platforms.

• Sensory accessibility architects - Designing multi-channel environments for people who navigate the world through different sensory priorities.

• Embodied interaction trainers - Teaching organisations how to design services that communicate through movement and touch rather than screens.

• Autonomous vehicle trust engineers - Designing tactile reassurance systems inside driverless transport.

• Digital intimacy designers - Developing ethical, safe and meaningful long-distance touch communication systems.

The real shift

For a long time we built digital systems that people had to look at constantly. Games were one of the first places that changed that. They taught us the interface could answer back.

Increasingly, the future of interaction will not just be something we see.

It will be something we feel.

As Rocky would say……

Amaze. Amaze. Amaze.

On more than one occasion, a yoga instructor has come up to me after class to check if I was ok.

It’s yoga, not Hyrox or powerlifting. But it is testament to how uncoordinated and inflexible I am that they clocked me struggling with the transition to downward dog.

Ok. The transition into everything.

I remember one time having this internal conversation with myself and thinking, you know what, I’m here. I turned up. Turning up is amazing.

So I turned to her and told her exactly that.

“I found it a bit hard but I’m really proud of myself for being here.”

Recently I started a whole wellbeing drive including a keto diet. So far I have lost 6.5 kilos. Or as my Mum remarked, twelve and a half sticks of butter.

I like the butter measure better.

It seems bigger. It is also a fitting visual given it resembles my fat. And butter is a delicious staple on a keto diet.

Which got me thinking about a topic I have had in mind for a while.

How we measure.

Vanity Metrics

I first came across the term vanity metrics while working with startups. The phrase was popularised by Eric Ries in The Lean Startup. Vanity metrics are measures that make us feel like we are making progress but are not true indicators of the health or viability of something.

In a startup setting they might include being accepted into a programme, winning awards, media mentions or social media followers.

None of these are bad things. They can open doors, attract attention and signal credibility. But they are not the same as traction. They do not necessarily tell you whether customers are returning, whether the product is solving a real problem, or whether the business will survive.

They measure how something appears rather than whether it is actually working. And yet we pursue them relentlessly. Why?

The Psychology Beneath the Surface

Part of the answer is simple. Humans like visible progress. We crave immediate feedback. Real progress is messy, ambiguous and mostly invisible.

I went through a stage of applying for things. Awards, scholarships or new governance roles, on top of my day job. At the heart of that was a need for validation and the excitement that comes from something new.

The downside is that you are often rejected, which is the opposite of what you were after. Or sometimes you succeed, along with the additional workload that arrives with it.

Vanity metrics are essentially fast feedback loops. They give us a small burst of reassurance that something is happening.

There is also a social dimension.

Many metrics act as public signals. A large follower count, a trophy, a dramatic weight loss number. These numbers tell a story that other people can read quickly. Sociologists describe this as symbolic capital. Numbers become shorthand markers of status, credibility or belonging.

Another reason vanity metrics persist is that they simplify complexity. Real progress is messy, ambiguous and mostly invisible.

But every now and again we need a boost.

Well I do.

Turning Up

Part of my fitness drive has been working with a personal trainer. It is an investment in time and money and when I started I was more than twelve and a half sticks of butter heavier, injured and very unfit.

I struggled to get to every session because I did not feel great about myself. As a woman in her menopause years, and with other health complications I will spare you, I was often genuinely afraid to work out.

I became a bit of a hypochondriac, convinced that whatever I was feeling that morning meant it was far too risky. But my trainer is amazing and I had made a commitment. So I went.

And I always felt amazing afterwards.

Half a year later I am fitter, stronger and in positive butter metrics.

I was listening to a podcast with James Clear, author of Atomic Habits. He was talking about discipline and the importance of developing the habit of turning up. He calls it the first five minutes.

It is raining outside and getting to the gym feels hard. Or I have a slight cough and wonder if today is the day to skip it.

But if you can get through the first five minutes and simply start, over time the results compound. In my case they currently resemble almost thirteen sticks of butter.

So focusing on and measuring the inputs matters. These are not vanity metrics. They are the building blocks of progress.

Proxy Measures

Another thing happens when we measure things. We often measure the easiest thing rather than the most important thing. These are proxy metrics. They stand in for something harder to measure.

Weight is a good example.

If you are on a wellbeing journey and you are, let’s face it, in my case- fat, butter matters. I have numerous conversations with myself about whether I have lost enough butter or how my butter loss compares with others on the keto programme.

Butter is the proxy measure. The real progress is mobility, strength and improved health markers.

Over time, however, the proxy measure can usurp the real goal.

Economists call this Goodhart’s Law. When a measure becomes a target, it stops being a good measure. The metric becomes the destination rather than the indicator.

Butter is useful. It is the quickest way for me to benchmark progress.

But butter is really the pathway to a bigger measure. Feeling more vital. More mobile. Better rested.

And I am just going to put it out there…. Hotter.

Measuring Complex Things

In innovation work I spend a lot of time thinking about what we measure and why.

I also do a fair bit of governance work and many board discussions come down to a form of measurement. You are often holding several things in tension. Commercial realities, purpose, community impact, environmental responsibility, compliance and care for staff.

The weighting of those considerations can shift depending on circumstances. If the commercial picture looks shaky you might instinctively prioritise financial stability. If the organisation is thriving financially you might lean harder into purpose.

Over time, however, all of these elements need to work together.

I like the analogy of music here. If every instrument in a band plays full volume all the time it sounds terrible. Great music happens when each instrument plays its part and occasionally takes a turn out front.

Measuring and taking the measure is more like a concert.

The Measures That Matter

I want to end with how we measure our self worth.

I struggle with this. A lot.

I compare myself to others and I am a harsh critic. Sometimes so harsh that if I saw someone speaking to another person the way I speak to myself, I would step in and tell them to back off.

But something shifts as you get older. You start to see the evidence accumulate.

The projects delivered. The great people around you. The times you turned up when it would have been easier not to.

When I step back and look at that pile of evidence it stands on its own two feet. Right on top of a massive pile of delicious New Zealand butter.

“So the real question is not what we measure, but whether we are measuring the right things.”

The proof is in the butter!

I lived in Melbourne for three years, in a beautiful historic village made up of cute workers cottages. From the outside they were modest and unassuming. But every so often a gate would be ajar or a curtain half drawn and you could glimpse inside. It was an affluent area and the gardens were stunning and surprising. Something out of the latest Vogue Design magazine. I used to imagine having my own secret garden.

In reality, my garden has recently resembled a prison exercise yard crossed with a hoarder’s annex.

When my son moved flats he asked to leave his weights set at my place temporarily. The full bench, bar and plates. Heavy, expensive and immovable. Eight months later it was still there, rusting away. In the meantime we added an old armchair under a makeshift tarp. Then garden waste. Then other things “waiting to go to the tip.” The pile grew and the garden became harder to reach, so it became overgrown.

Here is the interesting part. I stopped seeing it.

I knew cognitively that it was a mess. But perceptually my brain filed it under temporary because I knew it was eventually going to the tip and so it faded from awareness. Activated occasionally when I got a delivery and realised the delivery person saw this mess. Even then I would rationalise that when they came back after it was all cleaned up they would know it was not my constant state. And in fact would be the delightful secret garden I always imagined. We finally took everything to the tip this week.

We filter constantly. Through selective attention, habituation, and a quiet form of self-preservation. Once something becomes familiar and emotionally inconvenient, it moves from signal to noise.

The same mechanism that allows us to focus in busy environments also allows us to normalise slow decline.

We stop noticing litter on the street.
We stop noticing the flicker in a team dynamic.
We stop noticing beauty we pass every day.

The brain edits for efficiency and emotional stability. There are a few overlapping mechanisms at play:

Perceptual filtering / selective attention
Your brain constantly edits reality. It suppresses stimuli that feel non urgent, repetitive or emotionally inconvenient. Once the gym set became “temporary but stuck,” it shifted from signal to background noise.

Habituation
When we are repeatedly exposed to something, our neurological response decreases. The weights and rubbish stopped triggering a reaction because they were no longer new.

Attentional blindness
We literally fail to see what is in front of us when it does not align with our current goal. The classic example is the invisible gorilla experiment by Daniel Simons and Christopher Chabris. Participants counting basketball passes often fail to see a person in a gorilla suit walk through the scene.

Cognitive dissonance reduction
When we cannot act immediately, the brain reduces discomfort by downplaying the problem. “It’s temporary.” “We’ll sort it soon.” The perception softens to protect emotional equilibrium.

Here’s another example. I was fortunate to be part of a leadership cohort visiting San Francisco. The homelessness was overwhelming, heart-wrenching and at times a little scary. I remember asking one of the speakers about this and she was taken back for a moment. She had been talking about innovation and entrepreneurship, and the homeless crisis wasn’t part of the story. But it was what all of us were acutely aware of. The desperate human poverty was hard to witness and emotionally taxing. After a week I noticed that I had started to filter it out and it surprised and unnerved me at how quickly that happened.

The fundamental question of this essay is what have we stopped to notice?

This is why I have been building a body of work around my thesis that reigniting our sense of wonder is a cognitive super-power and a competitive advantage. It is also a pathway to strengthening our humanity.

Image - from my own wonder collection

Wonder is the state of heightened attention and openness that occurs when we encounter something unexpected, intriguing, or meaningful. It slows us down, disrupts habitual thinking, and invites curiosity.

Wonder is not passive awe. It is an active mode of noticing that re-sensitises people to their environment and expands what they consider possible.

In an age of AI, attention becomes the scarce resource. Wonder reclaims it.

This matters culturally and economically. The ability to design emotionally resonant experiences is increasingly a competitive advantage. Japan demonstrates how culturally rooted immersion scales globally. Singapore embeds experience into infrastructure and tourism strategy. South Korea has converted cultural storytelling into an export engine.

But this is not only relevant to creative industries.

Understanding experience, emotional resonance, and thinking in terms of audiences is a transferable capability. It is a differentiator in sectors that traditionally believe they operate on logic, efficiency, or compliance alone. Wonder is operational advantage.

But we are not wonder machines all of the time. It can be hard to sustain. Here are some things we can do to build our wonder muscle.

Image: Te Rewa Rewa Bridge

Reframe and expand your line of sight - In some Japanese gardens, there is a design technique called borrowed scenery. The garden incorporates distant mountains or trees beyond its boundaries as part of the composition. What is technically outside becomes central to the experience. Nothing new is built, the frame changes.

Borrowed scenery in business is when you redefine what market you are actually in.

Netflix stopped defining itself as a DVD rental company and reframed itself as an entertainment platform. Apple stopped defining itself as a computer manufacturer and reframed itself as a lifestyle technology ecosystem.

Nothing physical changed at first. The frame changed. In leadership terms: Stop benchmarking only against your direct competitors, expand the frame to adjacent industries and ask who else solves the same emotional need

Sometimes growth does not require building something new. It requires seeing differently.

Change your altitude - Physically alter your vantage point. Climb a hill you normally drive past. Walk your usual commute in reverse. Enter a building through a different door. Cities look different from above. Power dynamics shift depending on where you sit at the table.

Altitude in business is the difference between boardroom strategy and frontline reality. At 30,000 feet, everything looks coherent. At ground level, you see friction, process gaps, emotional nuance and customer frustration.

Strong leaders deliberately change altitude. Power dynamics also shift by seat placement. Who speaks first in meetings matters. Where you sit changes what you hear. Altitude alters insight.

Borrow someone else’s eyes - Ask a child what they see in a space. Ask a new employee what feels strange. Ask a visitor what stands out. You can do the same in any setting. Walk through your office imagining you are a customer. Walk through your neighbourhood imagining you are visiting for the first time. Wonder is often perspective transfer. This is what design thinking does formally. It inserts the user into the room.

But you can operationalise it: Conduct reverse mentoring, invite a critic into early stage development, run pre mortems where the team imagines the failure headline, use mystery shoppers.

Most strategic blind spots are perspective gaps. Borrowing eyes reduces risk.

Impose a constraint - Creativity sharpens under constraint. Spend a day asking only questions, not offering opinions. Limit a presentation to three slides. Cook dinner using only what is already in the pantry. Constraint narrows the spotlight deliberately. It forces attention into places it would otherwise skim over.

Constraint is one of the most underused strategic tools. You could limit a strategy to one page, cap a product feature set for launch or restrict a pitch to five minutes and make them stand up meetings. Startups are forced into constraint. Mature organisations often drown in optionality.

Constraint forces prioritisation and prioritisation forces clarity and can create momentum.

Remove one thing - Clear a surface completely. Turn off notifications for a day. Cancel one standing meeting. Take down a poster that has faded into visual noise. We often believe improvement requires addition. More colour. More content. More features. But as with my garden, removal restores sight lines.

Companies rarely fail from lack of ideas. They fail from over extension. Strategic subtraction might look like: killing a product line, cancelling a legacy project, reducing meeting cadence, simplifying reporting structures or eliminating one KPI that drives distorted behaviour

Sometimes wonder is simply what appears when the clutter leaves.

Which brings me back to the garden.

Once the weights were gone and the tarp folded away, I stood there slightly embarrassed. It was not just that it had been messy. It was that I had let my perception shrink.

Clearing the space restored possibility. I could see the soil again. I could imagine where the ferns might go. Over the weekend I bought some new plants and I’ve been slowly tending to the overgrown mess the garden had become.

Sight lines matter. The same is true in organisations, cities and families.

If energy follows attention, where is yours currently flowing?

There are a few old brick garages along my busy road. The kind that open straight onto the footpath. Last year a neighbour started spending time huddled over a large workbench inside his. Mostly evenings, sometimes during the day. Because of where the garage sits, I only ever catch glimpses of what he is up to. I think he is making models, although I have also seen a chess board.

More often than not there are one or two other guys with him. Laughing. Catching up over a beer.

Seeing them makes me quietly happy. The pleasure of having a place and people to community with. I like these small windows into other people’s lives and creativity. It is the same when someone puts their Christmas tree in the front window or flicks on their festive lights. Alright, I see you. The classic red and green crowd. Or the full party tree, drenched in multicoloured excess.

Over the break I had plans. Sorting the house. Writing. Life admin. Goal setting. Other business ideas. Reading. Gym consistency. The usual optimistic list.

I did not do much of this at all. Sometimes you just need to rest and reset.

But I did make two miniature houses. A tiny glasshouse and a teeny tea house. They were my Christmas presents from Santa. By which I mean I bought them and wrapped them for myself.

The glasshouse came first and was fiddlier than expected. Lots of tiny plants and flowers. The tea house was easier. I had learned the pitfalls from the glasshouse. It came with pre-made miniature cakes, cups and saucers and I loved arranging them on their little tables and shelves.

The kits are extraordinary. The thinking behind them is joyful and meticulous. Especially if, like me, you have ever assembled flat pack furniture and reached that moment where nothing fits. Where you realise it is not just your questionable carpentry skills but the tyranny of poor design. A couple of millimetres off early becomes a big problem later.

Which is why I keep thinking about the minds behind these kits. The people who decided that lots of people want to build miniature moments (and we can make a global business out of it). That they should be accessible but not easy. That they should include a little magic. A working light. A gold candelabra.

I felt the care and attention throughout the entire crafting process. The approach and product is a very good strategy. For business. And for life.

As I was making the tiny glasshouse, I was also re reading Atomic Habits and thinking about one percent improvements. The idea that small, almost unremarkable changes, repeated over time, quietly compound into something transformative.

Creative expression does not need a massive stage or a formal gallery. There are thousands of moments and places in your everyday world where care and creativity can be shared. Tiny libraries. Pocket museums. Kindness rocks left on walls and pathways. Pantry boxes that run on trust. Mosaic filled potholes. Yarn bombing that softens hard edges. Small acts that say someone noticed and someone cared.

Watching the guys in the garage over time made me realise something else. Creativity does not always need an audience, but it often needs a place.

Some people make things.
Others make room for things to be made.

Not all revolutions are loud. Some arrive gently through many small acts of generosity, curiosity and permission.

Before you rush past your neighbourhood this week, take a moment to really look. Not just at the sunny, curated bits, but at the edges. The tired corners. The overlooked walls. The places that feel a little unloved.

Ask yourself what might bring a flicker of joy there.

Cities stay alive not because everything is perfect, but because enough people choose to make room.

Tiny Museums and Galleries

Little free art galleries where people take or leave original work. Small spaces turned into a miniature museum.

Community Activations - Meeting people where they are

Tiny Libraries, Community Pantry’s and Tiny Parks in repurposed subway ticket booths

Art

Yarn Bombing and pot-hole art

Gifts for Others

Kindness Rocks left in public spaces and Fairy Doors

Community Gardens

This space for your great idea …………..

In 2025, Rere Atu was born. The Bird Island newsletter about wonder, imagination, innovation and experience. I’m super proud of this work, not because these are especially amazing literary pieces, but because they represent being bold, vulnerable and disciplined.

My intention was for Rere Atu to showcase my thinking in support of my consulting practice. But it transpired that what my heart really wanted to share was the world viewed differently, through a lens of curiosity and wonder.

A couple of months ago, I did an impromptu talk inspired by Rere Atu, and my hypothesis was this: New Zealand has a global competitive advantage in being quirky, creative, and thinking differently. This is a super-power. I asked who would have attended that first fashion art show in the town hall thinking, this will turn into the World of WearableArt? Or assumed the guy making puppets would one day have the biggest names in Hollywood knocking on his door? Or predicted that a small country at the bottom of the world would lead in private rocket launches? This is the kind of thinking we need for a world in flux, to create the enterprises and future-proofed jobs and economy we need.

Around the world, we are seeing what becomes possible when nations take this kind of thinking seriously. Japan has turned immersive storytelling into global cultural gravity (Team Lab). South Korea has transformed pop culture into an export engine. Singapore has embedded creativity into its national innovation and tourism strategies. These didn’t emerge by accident. They were designed and represent countries embracing and power-charging their creative uniqueness.

As we head into the holidays I’m wrapping up the year with this retrospective. Over the year we’ve produced 12 editions of Rere Atu (plus one bonus) so we’re counting down the 12 days of Christmas with a reflection - spiced with Christmas cheer.

1) On the First Day of Christmas - The Gift of Wonder

Our very first edition and we were writing about reclaiming wonder as a strategic force. Through immersive experiences like Meow Wolf, Museum Hack, and Disney Imagineering, we explored how participation, storytelling, and feeling are powerful drivers of innovation. Wonder, when taken seriously, becomes an economic and cultural engine. Rere Atu 1

Image - Team Lab, Japan

Christmas Is a Wonder Experiment

Psychological studies show that experiences of awe increase generosity, curiosity, and openness to new ideas. Christmas is one of the few moments each year where adults collectively submit to wonder - lights, music, ritual and spectacle. For many, the greatest delight comes not from experiencing that magic themselves, but from creating it for others, especially for children. For a brief window, we behave differently. This is wonder at work.

2) On the Second Day of Christmas - Transactional Friction and the Fragility of Flourishing

In dispatch 2 we examined the hidden effort required to sustain beautiful, complex ideas. Using Connected Worlds in NYC, Apple’s manufacturing story, and museum technology as examples, we explored how transactional friction can erode even the most imaginative visions. Wonder has a budget, and strategy lives in reducing the drag without losing the magic. Rere Atu 2.

Christmas and the Birth of Modern Lighting

In 1882, Edward H. Johnson, an associate of Thomas Edison, created the first electrically lit Christmas tree. The tree was described as revolving and decorated with 80 hand-wired red, white, and blue electric bulbs. At the time, electric lighting was rare and expensive, and this publicised spectacle helped familiarise households with the possibilities of electric light, accelerating public adoption of a technology that reshaped modern life.

3) On the Third Day of Christmas - Anchors, Artefacts, and the Stuff We Carry

Here we explored why objects matter far beyond their utility. Artefacts act as emotional anchors, carrying memory, identity, and story long after an experience ends. From museum gift shops to sneakers and thrift finds, value increasingly lives in meaning, not just material. Rere Atu 3

Image - Loot haul from Meow Wolf

Christmas Fact - Tree Decorations as Emotional Anchors

Early Christmas trees in 16th-century Germany were decorated with apples, nuts, wafers, and sweets. These edible ornaments were both symbolic and practical, representing abundance and paradise, and were often eaten at the end of the season. Glass Christmas ornaments originated in Lauscha, Germany, in the mid-1800s after a poor apple harvest left families without traditional decorations. Local glassblowers created hollow glass fruit instead. A supply failure sparked an innovation that became global tradition.

4) On the Fourth Day of Christmas - Creating Nests and Designing for Collision

This dispatch focused on spaces as catalysts for connection, creativity, and momentum. Drawing from Zappos, Techstars, Mahuki, and local ecosystems, it showed that innovation thrives where people are deliberately brought together. The magic is not in the furniture or Wi-Fi, but in thoughtful curation and human encounters. Rere Atu 4

Image - Mahuki Innovation Hub, New Zealand

Christmas Fact – Many Voices for Christmas Good

In 1984, Do They Know It’s Christmas? was recorded in a single London studio, bringing together many of the world’s biggest music acts to raise funds for famine relief in Ethiopia. Artists who might never have crossed paths were deliberately convened around a shared purpose. These efforts inspired US artists to create We Are the World.

5) On the Fifth Day of Christmas - Easter Eggs, Surprise, and Little Bursts of Joy

This edition celebrated hidden details, playful signals, and layered meaning as tools for connection. From knitted hats on smoothie bottles to digital Easter Eggs and public art hunts, it showed how small, thoughtful surprises reward curiosity and deepen emotional engagement. Rere Atu 5

Image - French Smoothies with knitted hats

Christmas Fact Gifts as Messages Across Time

The tradition of Christmas gift-giving traces back to the biblical story of the Wise men, whose gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh symbolised kingship, divinity, and mortality. One of the most extraordinary gifts ever given wasn’t meant for Earth at all. In 1977, NASA launched the Voyager Golden Record into space, carrying music, images, and greetings from humanity to whoever might one day find it. A gift built on curiosity, hope, and the belief that small signals can travel a very long way.

6) On the Sixth Day of Christmas - Firewalls and Flightpaths

The sixth dispatch shifted into the world of cyber, linking immersive experience design with national resilience and economic opportunity. Through spy museums, UK cyber hubs, and global security trends, it framed cyber not just as defence, but as a creative, future-shaping industry. Resilience, like innovation, must be designed. Rere Atu 6

Christmas Fact Cyber Risk in the Season of Trust

The Christmas period consistently sees a spike in online scams. Government agencies and cyber security firms report increased phishing attacks, fake delivery notifications, shopping scams, and charity fraud in November and December, driven by higher online activity and time pressure. Romance scams also peak over the holidays, when loneliness and emotional vulnerability increase, making people more susceptible to long-term manipulation that can cause devastating financial and personal harm.

7) On the Seventh Day of Christmas

In this issue we explored how creativity and innovation do not only emerge from joy, optimism, or comfort. Some of the most powerful ideas are forged through adversity, survival, grief, and resilience. When innovation systems only reward a narrow emotional or social experience, we limit not just who gets to participate, but the depth and originality of what gets created. Rere Atu 7

Christmas Fact – When Sad Songs Become the Festival Karaoke go-to

Last Christmas by Wham! is one of the most enduring Christmas songs of all time, yet it is fundamentally a break-up song about heartbreak and regret. Have you encountered the Arnold filter yet? The one of George Michael singing Careless Whisper is a must see!

8) On the Eighth Day of Christmas - Fluency of Ideas

This dispatch explored fluency of ideas as a critical future skill. Not the ability to have one perfect idea, but the capacity to generate many, test them, learn quickly, and move on without fear. In a volatile and uncertain world, fluency is freedom. It builds resilience, adaptability, and the confidence to back an idea even when it doesn’t work the first time. Rere Atu 8

Santa’s Workshop as a Prototype Factory

Santa’s workshop is one of the earliest and most enduring metaphors for rapid prototyping. In the story, ideas are sketched, tested, improved, rejected, and remade at scale under tight time constraints. With millions of children to serve in a single night – this is innovation under pressure!

9) On the 9^th Day of Christmas - Fandom, Attention, and the Power of Participation

This dispatch explored how people express love for the things that matter to them. From fan culture to collective rituals, it showed that participation is a deeper signal than consumption. When people are invited to co-create meaning, loyalty follows. Rere Atu 9

Image - Disney Bounding, USA

Christmas Fact - When Fans Become the Tradition

Many Christmas traditions began as fan-led participation rather than official design. For example - ugly Christmas sweaters started as playful, ironic reinterpretations of the holiday season before becoming mainstream.

10) On the Tenth Day of Christmas - Decisions, Edges, and the Power of Feminine Force

This dispatch reflected on how societies make big, intergenerational decisions and how those choices shape culture, cities, and lives long after the fork in the road has passed. Through Brazil’s contradictions concrete and jungle, joy, trauma and beauty it explored how resilience, faith, art, and community rise from complexity. Inspiration, it suggested, is often found not at the centre, but at the edges, carried by strong women, shared rituals, and creative acts that refuse to be small. Rere Atu 10

Image - Christ the Redeemer, Brazil

Brazil’s Christmas and Feminine Spiritual Power

In Brazil, Christmas sits alongside Afro-Brazilian spiritual traditions that honour powerful feminine forces. Iemanjá, the mother of the sea, is especially revered at year’s end. Thousands gather dressed in white, offering flowers, perfume, and whispered hopes to the ocean. It is a ritual of care, release, and trust that mirrors Christmas themes of renewal, love, and belief born from the depths.

11) On the 11^th Day of Christmas - Designing the In-Between

This dispatch explored waiting as an experience in its own right. Drawing from airports, Disney parks, museums, retail, healthcare, and digital systems, it showed that queues are emotional architecture. When waiting feels fair, purposeful, and humane, people tolerate far more than expected. The small moments shape everything. Rere Atu 11

Christmas Fact – Queues as Ritual, Not Delay

Some of the most cherished Christmas experiences are built around waiting. From lining up to see Santa and gathering for midnight services, to community tree-lighting ceremonies and Advent calendars, anticipation is deliberately paced. The wait signals importance, builds shared excitement, and turns private moments into collective rituals.

12) The 12th Day of Christmas - The Dark Side of Delight

This dispatch explored horror as the shadow twin of wonder. It traced how fear, discomfort, and the grotesque have long been powerful engines of imagination, innovation, and storytelling. From early cinema to Aotearoa’s own unhinged brilliance, horror is a creative R&D lab. A place where new techniques are tested, deep anxieties surfaced, and cultural fears given form. Horror reminds us that inspiration does not only come from joy. It also comes from confronting what we would rather avoid. Rere Atu 12

Christmas Fact – Krampus and the Original Dark Christmas

Krampus is a horned, demonic figure from Alpine folklore in Austria, Germany, and surrounding regions, dating back to pre-Christian pagan traditions. While St Nicholas rewarded good children, Krampus punished the bad, rattling chains, carrying birch rods, and dragging the naughty away in baskets. During Krampusnacht, held in early December, masked revelers still parade through towns in elaborate, terrifying costumes. Long before Christmas was softened by tinsel and sentimentality, it made space for fear, discipline, and the darker edges of human behaviour.

Bonus – The Little Games We Play

The bonus dispatch explored the small, often invisible games people invent to make everyday life more interesting, tolerable, or joyful. They are quiet acts of meaning-making. Rere Atu Bonus

Christmas Fact – Everyone Designs Their Own Christmas

There is no single correct way to do Christmas. The season endures because people are given permission to customise it. To design their own games, rules, and rhythms.

A Closing Acknowledgement

Christmas is, at its heart, a Christian tradition marking the birth of Jesus Christ. For many, it is a sacred season shaped by faith, worship, service, and reflection.

At the same time, this period of the year sits alongside many other religious and cultural observances. Hanukkah, Yule, the Solstice, and other end-of-year traditions across cultures all speak to shared human themes of light, renewal, generosity, and care.

It is also important to name that Christmas can be a difficult time. For those experiencing poverty, grief, loneliness, displacement, or strain, the season can heighten pressure rather than ease it. Joy is not evenly distributed, and celebration is not always possible.

Perhaps that is why care matters so much at this time of year. Care for difference. Care for belief. Care for those who are struggling. And care for the many ways people find meaning, comfort, and connection in a world that is rarely simple.

Wishing you and your loved ones the best holiday season. May you find wonder and connection and may your imagination soar. Here’s to an outstanding 2026.

Ngā mihi nui

Bird Island / Tui

Image - Hellraiser 1987

My sister is tall for her age, so it was easy passing her 11 year old self as 18 to get into the R18 movie. But there is a reason the censors put those ratings on films. Hellraiser is not your run of the mill horror. It sits at the twisted intersection of pure terror, body mutilation, demonic energy and psychological torture. With the classic and highly disturbing “is it dead or not” ending. Pretty much the worst possible horror to sneak her into.

I told her I was thinking about writing on the horror genre and asked if I could use her as my opening anecdote. She reminded me that she never wanted to go to that movie, tried to leave soon after it started and the image of the woman being skinned alive is burned into her brain forever.

She is the youngest of four and, along with my two brothers, this was not our finest sibling moment.

Horror isn’t my favourite genre. I like the emotional arc of a disaster movie or a good psychological thriller. I’m also superstitious, so anything that suggests the horror might slip into real life is a worry. Freddy in my dreams, the Candyman in the mirror, It down my drains, or a bundle of twigs artfully arranged in the forest.

But as we keep exploring human imagination, wonder and emotion, I thought we might take a trip to the dark side. A quick note: my digital sidekick Kōrero handled much of this horror research because I didn’t know half of it and was genuinely curious, and also because someone had to venture into the shadows and it definitely wasn’t going to be me. Cue creepy laugh.

So what is the difference between a horror and a thriller?

I think it’s useful to define the genre. Horror and thrillers share DNA but they serve different emotional masters. Horror aims for full body fear. It reaches for the emotions we spend our lives avoiding: dread, anxiety, disgust and shock. The threat might be supernatural, monstrous or psychologically extreme. Horror asks what if the worst thing imaginable is real.

Thrillers aim for suspense and intellectual tension. The world largely remains recognisable, and danger usually comes from humans behaving badly. Thrillers keep us guessing. Horror tries to shove us back in our seats. If the dominant emotion is fear, it is horror. If it is tension, it is a thriller. If it is both, you are in the borderlands.

Only one film widely regarded as horror has ever won Best Picture - The Silence of the Lambs (1991), which also won Best Director, Actor, Actress and Adapted Screenplay.

“It rubs the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again”.

Friends suggested that Parasite could be a horror contender also, but we are putting that masterpiece in the thriller, dark comedy camp.

Horror Sub-Genres

Image - Poltergeist 1982

If you zoom out, horror isn’t one thing but an entire ecosystem of fear. Supernatural films give us ghosts, demons and spiritual dread. Slashers are about the hunt. Psychological horror shows how the mind can betray itself. Body horror takes fear literally, twisting flesh and form. Folk horror taps into ancient rituals. Monster horror gives us Dracula, Alien and the oceanic terror of Jaws. Zombie and outbreak films show society breaking at the seams. Found footage blurs reality. Survival horror traps us and asks who makes it out? Horror comedy laughs at the dark side. Cosmic horror reminds us the universe does not care. Rounding it out, I’m including global horror where the genre is being increasingly influenced by international story-telling.

Taken together, these subgenres map how humans imagine danger.

Image - The Blair Witch Project 1999

Here’s a quick guide to some notable horror movies by sub-genre. I know I am missing many and probably your favourite! Share your favourite in the comments (by genre please).

Home Grown Horror

Aotearoa has its own wonderfully unhinged corner of the horror universe, thanks largely to Peter Jackson who almost single handedly put New Zealand horror on the global map. His early films Bad Taste, Braindead and Meet the Feebles pushed practical effects, gore and dark humour to wild new extremes, earning cult status and proving that Kiwi filmmakers could compete with global genre heavyweights on creativity alone. Jackson later elevated the creature feature with King Kong, blending blockbuster spectacle with the DNA of classic monster cinema. Alongside his work, films like Black Sheep and The Dead Lands expanded the local landscape even further, from killer sheep mayhem to supernatural indigenous storytelling.

What We Do in the Shadows shows off our gift for mixing the macabre with deadpan comedy, turning a Wellington flat of hopeless vampires into one of the funniest and most charming horror send-ups ever made. I freaking love this film and the tv series. I think it is the exemplar of kiwi creativity.

Together these films show that New Zealand horror is inventive, cheeky, fearless and does amazing things with little money and a lot of imagination.

A Quick History of horror

Horror begins in 1896 with Le Manoir du Diable, a three minute trip into devils, skeletons and early visual trickery. It wasn’t terrifying, but it proved audiences loved seeing the impossible.

By 1920, the tone darkened with The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, which introduced atmosphere as a weapon. Two years later Nosferatu arrived and became the template for the cinematic vampire.

Hollywood’s first great horror boom came in 1931 with Dracula and Frankenstein. They made horror commercially and culturally legitimate.

Then came King Kong in 1933, showing that horror could be epic and emotional.

In 1960, Psycho cracked the genre. Horror left the gothic mansion and moved into the everyday world. Hitchcock taught us that the monster might be the man standing behind the reception desk.

Night of the Living Dead reinvented monsters in 1968.
The Exorcist brought prestige horror in 1973.
Halloween gave us the slasher in 1978.
The Blair Witch Project changed the economics of filmmaking in 1999.
Get Out redrew the boundaries again in 2017.

Together these films show how horror has evolved: from trickery to atmosphere, from monsters to metaphors, from stage magic to social critique.

How horror builds its nightmares

Image - Demogorgon, Stranger Things

Horror has always been filmmaking’s R and D lab. The genre survives on illusion and atmosphere, so it constantly invents new ways to unsettle us. Makeup, prosthetics and creature design is core to the genre. Mechanical rigs, animatronics and squibs created physical shocks long before digital tools existed.

Sound became one of horror’s sharpest tools. Silence, infrasound and sudden spikes to manipulate our nerves.

Horror also embraced digital effects early. Morphing, ghosting and unnatural movement showed up here before they became mainstream. Found footage changed how realism is portrayed on screen. And horror trained the best makeup artists in the world. Their techniques now shape everything from aging effects to battle wounds in prestige dramas.

People may think horror is lowbrow. In reality, it has pushed filmmaking forward more than almost any other genre. To scare someone, you need technique. To shock them, you need innovation.

Why people like horror

Image - King Kong 2005

Why do people seek fear on purpose? It sits somewhere between psychology, physiology and culture. Horror is a rehearsal room for danger. We get the adrenaline without the actual threat.

It is also intensely social. Watching horror together creates instant bonding as everyone jumps, screams and laughs in sync. It taps into morbid curiosity. Humans are wired to notice threats, and horror knows exactly how to tug that thread.

Modern horror also mirrors our anxieties. It has become a mirror for real world anxieties. Get Out tackles racism. Hereditary, Mama and The Babadook explore grief. Zombie and outbreak films tap into fears about pandemics and environmental collapse.

For some people, horror is a controlled way to face uncomfortable themes. They decide when to pause, look away or stop. It gives them back a sense of control.

Closing Thoughts

I’m writing this as Stranger Things plays in the background. I’m rewatching the four episodes the creators suggested before watching the latest season. Half the joy of Stranger Things is the 80s nostalgia.

My top horrors, in no particular order:

· Alien (the perfect monster and the perfect woman to defeat it)

· Silence of the Lambs (acting masterclass)

· World War Z (great zombies, questionable human choices)

· Dracula (Sumptuous sets and kinda sexy.)

· What We Do in the Shadows (the funniest. A favourite scene from the TV series is Nandor defeating the werewolf by throwing him a bone and Guillermo anytime)

Interesting fact - The original poster Silence of the Lambs includes a nice little easter egg (check out newsletter #5). The thorax of the moth on her mouth appears to be a skull but if you look closer the skull is made up of naked women. It’s a creepy little shock that freaked me out when I saw it.

Post Script

Since I started with my sister, I thought I’d end with her also. When we were little we would have weet-bix with milk for breakfast most mornings. My sister was four years old and my brothers and I thought it would be funny to get her to put her breakfast on her head. It was so funny we told her to do it the next morning as well. When we got home from school the second day she still had the dried weet-bix in her hair. And there was a lot of it. Mum had decided to teach us all a lesson. I felt really bad and my sister was crusty and unhappy.

Other than that and giving her nightmares all through her teens, I have been a model sister. And she has turned out to be gorgeous, smart and the sanest of us all.

BONUS - How movie ratings work in Aotearoa

If you have ever wondered what those age stamps actually mean, here is the short version for horror. But do check out the official guidelines.

R13
Designed for teens, not children. You can expect strong scares and violence, but the gore is limited, the detail is restrained and sexual violence is off the table. The emotional impact is real but not overwhelming.

R16
The gloves come off a little. Violence is more realistic or sustained, the gore is stronger and the psychological intensity climbs. Language is harsher and themes like suicide or self harm may appear with warnings.

R18
This is the deep end. Extreme or sadistic violence, explicit gore, sexual violence, torture or material judged suitable for adults only.

Image - Mahuki Team photo-shoot

Micro Games, Big Joy

As of writing, I have counted 9017 dogs as part of my counting dogs while driving game. This started around 5 years ago with my son to pass time in the car. It was deeply unsatisfying playing with him as he is competitive and a massive cheat. When I would tell him my latest dog score, he would always say he had counted more. Which was impossible because the rules of the game were dogs only counted when driving and he didn’t drive without me. This matters to me way more than it should. It also taught me a valuable lesson about the risks of sharing information first. My Sun Tzu Art of Dog-War as it were.

I stopped playing with him but I kept the game going by myself. For years. I don’t really know why - but it is part obsession, part about being an amazing multi-tasker and they’re so darn cute. I often feel annoyed at people out walking without a dog for me to count. What a waste of a walk!

There is an amazing assortment of dogs in my hometown. Big ones, fancy ones, dogs running, prancing, dawdling.

I admire dogs. I read somewhere that the best flirts, flirt with everyone – even dogs. I give them a big smile, pay attention to them, give them thoughtful compliments tailored just to them. Some love it, some feign interest before a sniff of urine overwhelms them. If only they knew my dedication to my informal and highly unreliable dog census.

The second game I play by myself is shoe editor. I sit and pass judgement on people’s shoes. It’s a straight yes or no. The shoes need to be clean, work with the overall outfit and have a certain je ne sais quoi. I give very few yesses. When I do give a yes, given they are so rare – I give them a knowing head-nod – well done person. The beauty of this game is that you can play Anna Wintour and no-one knows. However, on more than one occasion, in a place with lots of foot traffic, I have been so focussed on judging shoes I have got a little animated and appear slightly deranged. I have looked up and seen people staring at me – like what the hell are you doing and why are you so fixated on my shoes?

Anyway, I thought I would do some research to see if anyone else plays little games with themselves and if they do what are they?

I asked some friends, and it seems I am not alone in my musings. K also likes to count things in the car but in her case if she sees a white horse she crosses her fingers and can’t uncross them till she sees a black dog. On occasions she has had her fingers crossed for a very long time. R also like to hold her breath when driving over a bridge and both lift their feet when crossing railway lines.

R also plays a version of shoe editor. But being nicer she tries to guess their nationality from their shoes. J likes to make up back-stories for people and work out what they do, are they in love? What are they up to today and where are they going?

C imagines an alternate life as a famous singer going about ordinary life. She impressed upon me that she is not just any singer but an exceptional talent! B is a great walker, and she often counts her steps. She gets bored at about 100 and stops and then may start counting again later. It’s not the destination but the journey. It reminded me of a game we used to get our kids to play called the never-ending relay. The kids are arranged at opposite ends and then have to run to each other as fast as they can. We hype them up like it’s a big competition – but it just keeps going till they get tired.

R also likes to guess what music people are listening to on their headphones.

With this research in hand, I turned to my trust friend Kōrero (that’s Māori for Chat by the way) and here’s what they uncovered:

Micro-games are a form of “cognitive sweetening.”
Behavioural scientists describe tiny self-invented games as cognitive rewards that brighten routine tasks. They inject novelty into the mundane which the brain finds incredibly satisfying. They activate the dopaminergic anticipation loop. You get a small hit of pleasure for spotting a dog, judging a shoe, or predicting a stranger’s storyline.

They help with cognitive load and boredom.
There is a strand of research on “micro-distractions” that shows that structured daydreaming or light mental puzzles reduce the fatigue of prolonged attention. Counting games, categorising, inventing narratives and prediction games help the brain stay alert without demanding real effort. They also reduce the perceived duration of tasks which is why kids instinctively invent them on car trips.

They are connected to our need for agency.
Psychologists call these “illusory control rituals.” They give us a micro sense of agency in environments where we are otherwise passive commuters, walkers, or observers. Crossing your fingers for a white horse or lifting your feet over railway lines is a form of benign magical thinking that makes the world feel more responsive.

They reinforce creativity and pattern making.
Humans are relentless pattern makers. Games like shoe-editor or guessing someone’s playlist are classic examples of “thin slicing” which is the rapid formation of intuitive impressions based on limited cues. Research shows we love these micro-judgements because they mix deduction, imagination and risk free social speculation.

They strengthen social bonds even when played alone.
Memory studies show that private games started with other people carry the emotional imprint of the relationship. Your dog counting with your son becomes a private ritual even when he stops playing. It’s a soft tether. People often keep these rituals alive because they were once shared.

They mirror children’s play instincts that never fully leave us.
The literature on adult play notes that adults don’t stop playing, they just camouflage it. Micro-games are socially acceptable ways of keeping play alive in public. They sit in the same category as Wordle, guessing number plates, picking your “colour of the day,” or narrating your life like a film.

People play games on their phones for the same reasons they invent private games in their heads. Phone games also offer micro hits of agency, progress and reward. Behavioural scientists call these “intermittent reinforcement loops” (IRL) which the brain adores. Intermittent reinforcement is the engine beneath most modern micro-games. Humans are wired to seek tiny surprises. It’s why we keep playing long after logic says stop.

I justify dog-counting as good for my cognitive health. I often forget what number I am up to and have had to create tricks to remember. It is also character building - if character is what you do when no one is watching. I play dog counting by a set of principles that help me make decisions in ambiguous situations (was that a dog? Does it count if you only see a leash but not the dog?). Or when I have forgotten the count and need to decide what number is realistic and feels morally right.

Once again, humans are incredible wonder making machines. Making magic out of the mundane moments. Go forth and play those little mind games and ask your friends about theirs.

Closing thought – What was the best dog counting experience I have ever had I hear you ask. It was seeing a couple walking what appeared to be two dogs in the distant. Then I got close enough to see that one was a cat. The puppy was all beans and bounce and the cat was super sleuth, slinking about the bushes. A joyful, surprising micro moment I would not have had were it not for Dog Counting!

This bonus edition is dedicated to the RHB’s. My soul sisters, creative powerhouses and semi-professional dance icons.

Just how interesting could a newsletter about waiting in queues be? Let’s find out shall we.

I’m writing this at Auckland Airport, fresh from the security line. I arrived at the tail end of several flights, so the pathway was on full horizontal layout. I walked that zig-zag about five times with no one actually ahead of me, feeling the person behind me inch closer, urging me to go faster. New arrivals eyed the black tape, weighing up whether they could skip half the maze. For reasons I cannot defend, I felt morally responsible for ensuring they did not do that.

By the time I reached the front and was placed in the slowest lane, I was both zoned out and strangely on edge. Official settings do odd things to me. I experience irrational guilt, imagining that giant scissors have just manifest in my hand luggage. I worry about missing my flight even when I am two hours early. And then there is the awkward ballet of dodging people, trays and stray boots on the other side. Ten minutes in total. A disproportionately anxiety inducing experience.

And yet I have waited joyfully for over an hour at a theme park. Or gratefully at a government counter when something important simply must happen today or online for hard-to-get concert tickets. Queue design for waiting is emotional design.

The Psychology of Queues

Every queue is a tiny social experiment in fairness, patience and perceived control. And, as the research shows, it’s not the duration of the wait that frustrates us. It’s how the wait feels.

The Queue-it article “The Psychology of Queuing: Revealed in 6 Simple Rules” captures this well. Perceived time matters more than the actual minutes on the clock. Unoccupied time drags. People relax when they know the wait has begun and progress is being made. Uncertainty and unfairness heighten irritation. Honest timing, visible movement and small psychological buffers calm the nervous system.

When waiting feels predictable, fair and purposeful, we tolerate far more than we realise. But we also have an opportunity to make waiting an amazing experience.

Disney: The Masters of Emotional Architecture

At Disney parks, queues are part of the performance. Imagineers design every millimetre to shape mood, movement and meaning. You are never “just waiting.” You are already in the story.

Average wait times for popular Disneyland rides sit consistently between 30 and 45 minutes (Queue-Times; TouringPlans). The park has about forty-nine rides, so if we are there for a typical day (8 hours) and we take out lunch and meandering time and you’re left with roughly six hours of ride time. That translates to ten to fifteen rides on a normal day, twelve if the stars align.

And people pay US $104–$224 for a one-day adult ticket and queue happily for hours. I have.

If you’ve been there, you’ll remember the surreal pre-opening ritual: buses unloading, crowds building, everyone gathered in the little Disney town inside the gates waiting for the clock to strike nine. When the gates opened, people started rushing to their first ride. I was swept into the rush towards Space Mountain, surrounded by neon light and the rising certainty that I had no idea what I had signed up for. The not-knowing was half the thrill. I did the same thing for the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror. Part of the design of these things is that they don’t reveal everything all at once. We started nice and slow with some manageable jump scares and nek minute I’m hanging outside of a three story building. It was terrifying. So much so I needed to do it again.

Disney isn’t just a theme park. It’s a masterclass in behavioural design.

Case Study: Seven Dwarfs Mine Train — The Gamified Queue

One of Disney’s most elegant examples is the queue for Seven Dwarfs Mine Train, where waiting becomes part of the play.

You sort shimmering gems rushing through a sluice channel, play musical notes on carved woodland-animal taps, spin glowing gem barrels that project dwarf silhouettes onto the ceiling and if seven strangers waiting in the queue sync their spins, Snow White herself appears in a secret animation. No one tells you this and it is a delightful moment that also creates a knowing bond with your fellow waiters. In this case the queue becomes a moment of collective triumph and curiosity is rewarded,

This is curation at its finest. And I love that it is about the moments in-between, the bit before the main event. Which if you have been following my work is what I love most – the inspiration on the edges.

Image

Designing for Safety When It Really Matters

But Disney’s choreography is not just about magic. With 47,000 visitors a day, they must design for safety, wayfinding and crowd control at a scale most cities struggle with. Their queues are where imagination and logistics meet.

When public health and safety are at stake, the stakes of design rise sharply. Queue psychology stops being a matter of comfort and becomes a matter of protection. In emergencies, vaccination centres, and evacuation zones, the flow of people must be calm, clear and humane because confusion can tip quickly into harm.

And in sensitive settings, design matters even more. My son recently spent seventeen hours waiting at Accident and Emergency and was asleep on the waiting room floor when I arrived. The first triage happens publicly in a room full of strangers — hardly ideal when discussing private health matters. “There is something going on down there”, said no one out loud in a hospital ever. He had food poisoning by the way. None of this is the staff’s fault. It is simply what happens when demand outstrips design.

Good design reduces panic, directs attention, protects privacy, and ensures those who need help most get it first. These environments demand the same emotional intelligence as a theme park, but with far higher consequence. When the system is under pressure, design becomes not just a nicety but a lifesaving discipline.

Here are some other examples of designed waiting.

Retail Rituals: Exit Through the Gift Shop

Retail uses many of the same psychological levers. The classic “exit through the gift shop”. After a ride, you are buzzing. You want a keepsake (an artefact of the journey). Retail design simply places the keepsake (could be a photo) in your path.

Mecca and Sephora do this with finesse. At the counter you’re greeted by gleaming miniature serums, glosses and perfumes arranged like little jewels. These micro-treats hit at exactly the right emotional moment. I know this only too well. Even supermarkets know this: confectionery, magazines and last-minute temptations positioned exactly where time slows.

Behind the sparkle lies rigorous design, sight lines for security, space for prams and bags, lighting calibrated for appeal, flow engineered for movement. Beauty with backbone.

Image

Museums and Scarcity: The Mona Lisa Effect

Museums operate on a different emotional frequency. Those with high value, in-demand artefacts don’t entice with abundance. They elevate the rare. The slow, ritualised approach to the Mona Lisa is the purest example.

Seeing the painting is not a simple visual encounter. It is a deliberate arrival. You move through a grand gallery, guided forward by architecture, pacing and the collective hum of anticipation. The crowd compresses. The sightlines narrow. Every environmental cue tells you that you are approaching something of significance.

In this context, the queue becomes part of the meaning. Waiting performs the value of the object. By the time you stand before the painting, the few seconds you receive feel earned, almost sacred. Scarcity heightens significance and reverence does the heavy lifting.

Regrettably I haven’t seen the Mona Lisa in real life – but I have been told she is surprisingly smaller than many expected given her incredible pulling power.

Perpetual Twilight: The Las Vegas Illusion

Las Vegas takes emotional design in another direction altogether. Many casinos and shopping complexes operate under a perpetual twilight, an artificial sky painted in soft blue-pinks, lit to hold you in a state where anything feels possible.

Twilight keeps people alert yet relaxed. It smooths fatigue and dissolves time. With no clocks, windows or natural cues, hours blur. You wander, shop and play unaware of how long you’ve been inside.

Case Study: JIX Reality — The Virtual Receptionist

Closer to home, Ōtautahi’s JIX Reality has completely reimagined the waiting moment through a virtual receptionist that greets and orients visitors as soon as they arrive. It looks like clever tech, but the real power sits in the cultural design behind it.

This work began in partnership with iwi, shaped through extensive engagement to ensure it was culturally grounded and effective. JIX worked alongside kaumātua and iwi leaders to design a bilingual, culturally sensitive virtual wahine who could welcome people in both English and te reo Māori. Her gestures, tone and interaction style were co-designed to reflect manaakitanga rather than mimic a generic avatar.

The first implementation, inside an iwi innovation hub, showed how transformative this can be. JIX’s approach shows how a simple queue moment can be redesigned through culture, technology and empathy turning a pressure point into an invitation.

Lessons From Queue Psychology: Transforming Stress Points

Every organisation has pressure points, the moments where people tense up, lose patience or feel unseen. Queue design and psychology gives us a lens to redesign those moments.

Most businesses rely on four familiar waiting systems: the linear queue, the serpentine queue, the take-a-number system and the on-hold phone line. They work, but only functionally. None of them transform the emotional experience.

The first step is noticing where the stress sits. Where do people hesitate? Where do they feel powerless? Where does time thicken? If the bottleneck can’t be removed, redesign the emotional conditions around it.

Online waiting is one of the worst offenders. You sit suspended, listening to music you didn’t choose, unable to step away. A simple call-back helps, but it assumes that I trust you. How could the experience be transformed with technology, AI or gamified? What if we employed retirees who natter with you while you wait? What else could you help me do then that would make the time feel more productive or relaxed? A guided meditation? I’m riffing but you get the idea.

Comfort matters as much as clarity. Anyone who has watched an older person stand for twenty minutes in a bank queue knows this. Chairs, quiet zones, clear processes that engender dignity.

People don’t resent waiting when the waiting is well designed. When they feel safe, informed, progressing and respected. Waiting itself is not the enemy. Poor design is.

Treat your pressure points as creative invitations and you will transform some of the most stressful moments in your customer journey into trust-building ones.

Control

One of the things that alleviate waiting dread is giving people a sense of control and choice. This is something we look at in the Designing Delight workshops — a playful, practical dive into the psychology and design of human experience. These are super fun workshops that will have you looking at spaces (and your business or job) in new ways. We’re going to be running these workshops in 2026. If you’re keen keep following us here and on LinkedIn.

Let’s leave the final word to someone who knows all about the importance of control. Janet, Ms Jackson if you’re nasty.

“This is a story about control, my control, Control of what I say, control of what I do
And this time I’m gonna do it my way, I hope you enjoy this as much as I do, Are we ready? I am, ‘Cause it’s all about control, And I’ve got lots of it”

The elders of São Paulo were debating their vision for the city. It came down to two schools of thought: embrace the natural beauty of the region and work in partnership with nature or embrace commerce and be a modern industrious city. The latter won. If you’ve been to São Paulo you will know that it is a hive of activity full of high-ways and skyscrapers, alongside majestic examples of brutalist architecture. It is not devoid of nature - there are parks and luscious greenery. But it is a city with no centre and concrete is king. Image

Image - Adobe Stock, São Paulo highway

There are so many layers to this story, told to me by my wonderful host Ana who brought me to Brazil to talk about our work in culture-tech.

The story is about how we make decisions – big decisions. Decisions that impact inter-generationally. In hindsight, we have to believe that in all we do, we make the best decisions with the information we have at hand. With insight we ruminate on the impact of those decisions in the present day and with foresight we set about creating a better future. But we can never return back to the original proposition (the fork in the road). We build from here. Does it follow that the city would have been better had nature won? Possibly, probably – but hindsight is a generous teacher with terrible timing.

This story is also about human resilience and joy.

In response to the city design, major streets are closed on Sunday’s so the people can ‘community’. Only the day before I had travelled this highway in a car and a taxi. Now I was walking its centre watching an assortment of stunning Brazilians dancing, roller skating, biking with their kids, shopping at the market stalls, admiring their dogs and generally loving all over their gorgeous selves.

This story is also about climate of course. It is nice to imagine what the city could have been had they opted for the nature route. Brazil is home to 60% of the Amazon and nearly 12% of the world’s forests. Often called the lungs of the world, producing one-fifth of our planet’s freshwater and sheltering one-tenth of all known species.

It is also a story about faith.

I must have been amazing, because I was invited back to Brazil for a second time to speak to Museum professionals. This time I took a detour to Rio. In the movie How Stella Got her Groove Back, Angela Basset and Whoopi Goldberg are in Jamaica staring out to the ocean and Whoopi says – God is Here. That’s how Rio felt. It is so beautiful, naturally. And God is there and I stood at the feet of Christ the Redeemer and wept. Then I gazed out over the city of Rio, in glorious weather, from the jungle to the city to Pão de Açúcar the sugar loaf mountains and out to the harbour. I was moved by the exquisite beauty of this planet.

Part of this story is also about art

I went to the Selarón Steps by Chilean Artist Jorge Selarón. Selarón began covering the dilapidated steps outside his home with brightly coloured tiles as a “tribute to the Brazilian people.” What started as a personal side project became his life’s work and he spent over 20 years transforming 215 steps with more than 2,000 tiles sourced from over 60 countries with millions of visitors each year.

I tried to pose on the step where Snoop Dog and Pharrell filmed the video to Beautiful. Being my particular cultural reference.

I had hoped there was some whimsical phrase in that song that I could weave into my Brazil ruminations and be like all hip hoppy cool. But there wasn’t a lot to choose from, other than Beautiful, I just want you to know, you’re my favourite girl which along with There’s something special about you, appears 26 times in the song. But that’ll do. Rio you are indeed beautiful and special.

Image - the view from Pão de Açúcar (sugar loaf) mountain

This is also a story about history

Did you know that Brazil has the largest Japanese population outside Japan, with around 1.8 to 2 million people of Japanese descent? More than 70% of them live in São Paulo state. Japanese migration to Brazil began in 1908, when the ship Kasato Maru arrived in the port of Santos carrying 781 passengers, mostly farmers from southern Japan. They came to work on coffee plantations after the abolition of slavery in Brazil (1888), when the government was recruiting new labour for its agricultural economy.

Between 4 and 5 million Africans were forcibly brought to Brazil through the transatlantic slave trade about 40% of all enslaved Africans taken to the Americas.

Slavery in Brazil had lasted for more than three centuries (1500s–1888) and Brazil was the last country in the Western world to abolish slavery, formally ending it with the Lei Áurea (Golden Law) on May 13, 1888. According to my research (my trusty friend Kōrero), Lei Áurea only had two articles: Slavery is declared extinct in Brazil and all contrary legislation is revoked. Resulting in the freedom of an estimated 700,000 still enslaved people.

At the museum conference we heard from a director whose museum was housed at the city’s gallows square, the place where enslaved Africans were executed.

Geo-Politically, I was visiting Brazil before their general election and markets were in flux. Brazil is the only country I have ever visited where the New Zealand dollar was stronger than the local currency. I’d been in the US not long before then and was used to adding on 30 to 40 percent more for everything. Here it was a 25% discount. I thought about this as I watched minted US and European tourists on my tours. Imagine that kiwi’s – travelling the world on euro’s?

This is lastly a story of culture.

My friends Ana and Rick took me to a traditional folk song evening where the community came together to sing. The chairs in the large traditional hall were arranged in a square with a modest table in the middle. On the table was a thin candle. Around the table were the band – around 7 people mainly playing guitars. Then we were arranged around them. The candle was lit and the singing would last for us long as the candle flame.

Image - the briefing before the candle is lit

Rick also took me to an art shop to buy some things to take home He laughed when I selected Tia Ciata. She was a Candomblé priestess, cook, healer, community leader, and host of legendary musical gatherings at her home in the early 20th century. Her house in Rio became the cradle of samba, nurturing musicians who would later define Brazil’s national sound.

Tia Ciata (above) is celebrated as a symbol of Afro-Brazilian femininity, sass, and creative power. There is also Pomba Gira who is a spiritual archetype and patron of confident, sensual, independent women. And then there is Iemanjá — mother of the sea, keeper of tides and tenderness. On her feast day, thousands gather dressed in white, carrying flowers and perfume to the water’s edge. They whisper wishes and let them drift on the waves, trusting the ocean to deliver what the heart cannot hold. She is strength and softness intertwined, protector of women, patron of the lost, and proof that beauty can rise even from the depths.

…and this feels like the perfect place to end this story.

So as the candle burns low and the song lingers, we’re reminded that our decisions matter and even from the hardest ground, something beautiful (and really really special) can take flight.

Final thoughts

Someone recently remarked that they were never sure just exactly what was going to come out of my mouth (or in my writing). They meant it in a positive way – we’re friends and sit on boards together. Thing is I never know either. I keep wondering if I have anything else to say and perhaps my foray into creative writing is over. But then I remember something that has moved me, made me curious or tickled my fancy and voila! a stream of consciousness is born.

Interestingly, it’s not always the hero or main event that is the source of my tickling. More often it’s the side event or the understudy or the thing that only appeals to me. Because every moment of wonder and awe is shaped by our individuality.

It’s the conversation in the car about the founding of the city, on the highway that will close on Sunday so you should go visit. It’s the conversation with beautiful hosts that was passing time and making small talk as we travelled to the next meeting.

That’s the thing - inspiration is often found around the edges.

Today’s post is dedicated to Michelle, who is as cool as a bunch of ripe mangoes. Michelle has read every one of my posts and she fact-checked all of the easter eggs listed in Bird Island dispatch # 5 post-publishing and they all work.

Here’s to sassy, sensual ladies, who can move their hips and apply their brilliant intellect to help a sister out. And to awesome travel stories.

Obrigada de coração - Thank you from the heart

Do you remember where you saw Star Wars - the first movie? I saw it in Gisborne at the Regent Theatre on Gladstone Road. This was the late 70’s, so I appreciate younger readers may have seen it online. For us Gen X’ers, the disco dancing, flare-wearing, Rubik’s Cube-solving, space invader playing kids, Star Wars blew our mixed tape loving minds.

When Star Wars premiered in 1977, it created an entire new world. The special effects, groundbreaking for their time, were applied with vision and artful restraint and always in service of world-building the Star Wars Universe. The franchises lasting power is in my view, equal parts awesome story, a hot young Harrison Ford and the imagination, craft, and love poured into every frame.

World-building convinces us that what we’re seeing (or reading) is a living, breathing universe with its own rules, history, and culture. Star Wars set a benchmark here. That’s why it endures because people still want to return not just to the plot, but to the galaxy itself.

In my last blog I wrote about fluency of ideas and even sketched out some possible jobs of the future with one of them a “planetary settlement designer.” But of course, entire genres of brilliant minds have already been building worlds for us through imagination and creativity. J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter is one beloved example, but writers have been crafting universes for centuries, populating them with rules, histories, and cultures that feel real.

World-building sits at the intersection of creativity and possibility. It asks us to imagine a place so rich that we believe in it and sometimes to believe so strongly that we set about creating it. From Tolkien’s Middle-earth to the galaxies of Star Wars, these worlds expand the boundaries of what we think is possible. And as we look to the futures ahead on this planet and maybe others, world-building might be all of our work. A critical skill for leaders, entrepreneurs, scientists, and communities - the ability to imagine a different (better) world and then inspire people to make it real.

But I’ve actually gone off on a tangent into world building when what I wanted to write about was loving the worlds imagined for us so much we become super fans. Which sets off a whole new train of creativity and innovation.

Star Wars Uncut

Let’s fast forward three decades to 2009, when filmmaker Casey Pugh launched Star Wars Uncut, slicing A New Hope into 473 fifteen-second clips and inviting fans around the world to recreate them however they liked. I watched many of those clips - storm-troopers represented by beer bottles, kids playacting stormtroopers with pool noodle light sabres in their backyard and lego figurines, alongside some wicked animated clips. Some had realistic costumes others used salad bowls as space helmets. Each scene was stitched together and released as a full feature in 2010. Resulting in a fan-made film that went on to win an Emmy. It was followed by Empire Uncut in 2014, proof that when people are given the chance to play, remix, and contribute, their collective imagination can reassemble even the most iconic of stories into something entirely new.

Fan Love Innovation - The wonder and creativity that is sparked by love and admiration of the creativity of others.

Did you know that when you visit a Disney Theme Park, you aren’t allowed to dress in costume if you are over 14? This is to avoid confusion with official characters. Out of that restriction, fans created a whole subculture known as Disneybounding, where everyday outfits are styled to reference beloved characters through clever colour choices and accessories. A red T-shirt with yellow shorts is Winnie the Pooh, a purple dress with green accents nods to Ariel, and black, red, and yellow pieces hint at Mickey. Similar expressions of coded dress show up elsewhere too: at Universal parks, Harry Potter fans wear house-colour scarves and themed accessories rather than full robes; in sports, fans remix jerseys or team colours into streetwear; and at concerts, whole crowds dress to honour the artist from cowboy hats and boots for Beyoncé’s Renaissance tour to glitter and friendship bracelets at Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour.

Image

Technology now amplifies these signals even further. Apparently, K-pop fandoms organise light-stick “oceans,” where tens of thousands of glowing devices form a shared choreography in the stands. Augmented reality filters let fans step into a performer’s world, layering digital spectacle over physical presence.

Whether it’s subtle colour codes, handmade accessories, or immersive tech, the through-line is the same: fans don’t just consume culture they co-create it, finding ways to make belonging visible, vibrant, and unforgettable.

Image

Cosplay, short for “costume play”, is one of the most vivid ways fans show appreciation, by literally stepping into the skin of the characters they love. What began in the 1970s with science fiction conventions has grown into a global art form, with dedicated communities, competitions, and entire economies of makers, fabricators, and photographers. Some costumes are painstakingly screen-accurate; others are playful mash-ups or reimaginings that bring characters into new contexts.

Technology has taken it further: 3D printers churn out armour and props once impossible to replicate; LEDs and microcontrollers light up costumes with theatrical flair; social platforms let cosplayers share tutorials, build followings, and inspire others to join in. At major conventions like Comic-Con, you see whole halls transformed into living worlds where a casual wander down an aisle means bumping into superheroes, anime protagonists, Jedi, or original characters dreamed up by fans themselves. It’s a reminder that fandom isn’t passive: it’s participatory, inventive, and constantly evolving through the imagination and dedication of its communities.

I remember taking my son to the Wellington Armageddon where I bought a DVD of Sharknado and almost bought Soldier Zombies at the Disco (or something like that). The following year I went back to the same stand and asked if they still had Soldier Zombies at the Disco. Without skipping a beat the stallholder replied that they weren’t stocking that particular sub-genre at this time. I loved his inclusive, non-judgemental response and that the world is indeed full of nuanced sub-genre’s and that people around the world (enabled by technology) are able to connect on their particular interests – no matter how obscure. Which brings me to … My Little Ponies.

From Toy Aisle to Global Fandom: The World of My Little Pony

It began in the 1980s as a colourful toy line and has blossomed into one of the most surprising and creative fandoms in the world. My Little Pony found a whole new life with the 2010 reboot Friendship Is Magic, which didn’t just appeal to children but drew in teenagers, adults, and whole communities who connected with its characters, values, and sense of joy. The fans known affectionately as “bronies” and “pegasisters” built a culture that stretches far beyond the toy aisle into conventions, fan fiction, art, music, podcasts, and even scholarly research have explored the phenomenon.

At its heart, the fandom is about creativity and belonging. Fans create their own “ponysonas” (original pony characters that represent themselves), design new storylines, compose songs, and produce elaborate animations much of it shared freely online. Technology has fuelled this growth, making it easy for fans across the world to collaborate, remix, and showcase their work. Conventions like BronyCon in the U.S. once attracted tens of thousands, while countless smaller gatherings still celebrate the shared wonder of pastel ponies.

What makes this fandom remarkable is its resilience and generosity. My Little Pony became a canvas for people to express themselves, to explore identity and friendship, and to demonstrate how a franchise designed for children could become a platform for some of the most creative and unexpected fan contributions anywhere.

Closing thoughts

I no longer own a DVD player and my tastes have changed so I don’t fancy sitting through “Soldier Zombies at the Disco,” so much anymore. But I could be up for a ponysona. I do already have a dance persona, but that’s another story.

What all these stories really point to is the value of following your curiosity and interests. Whether it’s remixing Star Wars, colour-blocking as Winnie the Pooh, or creating a whole new ponysona, fandom is a reminder that pursuing what you love is never wasted. It builds skills, sparks imagination, and connects you with others who share your wonder. Personal development doesn’t always come from formal training or a tidy plan sometimes it grows out of the things that delight us, the obsessions we can’t put down, and the worlds we’re brave enough to build or join.

Ngā manaakitanga

Tui / Bird Island

Postscript

Top five lines from the Star Wars Franchise:

1. “May the Force be with you.” – the quintessential Star Wars phrase

2. “No. I am your father.” – Darth Vader’s revelation to Luke in The Empire Strikes Back. The twist few of us saw coming.

3. “Do. Or do not. There is no try.” – Yoda’s iconic teaching, shorthand for commitment and perseverance.

4. “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.” – Princess Leia’s hologram message that sets the Star Wars adventure in motion.

5. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” – a recurring Easter egg line, appearing in nearly every movie.

When my son was ten, his class had to conduct a science experiment on floating objects in water. His was a box full of holes which unsurprisingly didn’t float. I was a little worried and asked him about his thought process. He said he’d been thinking about pumice. Which are full of holes and amazing floaters. I was so proud, he was thinking differently and backing his ideas, even though it didn’t work and he risked being judged because of that. He didn’t care about it not floating, he had completed the assignment and was on to the next thing. He had a valid hypothesis.

That little pumice logic experiment might be the muscle tomorrow’s jobs demand. Take an idea, test it, learn fast, try again. And be resilient, back yourself and manage failure well. In the largely unknown future work force our kids won’t be hired for what they already know, but for how quickly they can learn, how they can generate ideas and their grit.

Who is doing this thinking for the future?
NESTA is a UK innovation foundation exploring how creativity, social impact, and change combine. In their 2017 report The Future of Skills: Employment in 2030, NESTA together with Pearson and the Oxford Martin School undertook a robust analysis of the future workforce and identified the skills that will matter most going forward. What I gravitated to was the importance of skill-building in fluency of ideas, originality, active learning, good decision-making, and being comfortable in systems and networks of complexity. Here’s another local book on this kaupapa – Don’t Worry About the Robots, Jo Cribb and David Glover 2024. There is a lot to unpack in these amazing resources. But what I was keen to focus on today is fluency of ideas and intentionally seeing the world through a lens of awe and wonder and generating ideas about how to share that wonder with others.

Fluent in Ideas

I’d love to be described as fluent in ideas. But what exactly does this mean, how is it expressed and what if any pre-conditions are required? With some helpful research by my trusty friend Kōrero, here goes:

Fluency of ideas is a recognised cognitive skill in psychology and future-skills research. It is defined as:

“The ability to come up with a number of ideas about a topic (the number of ideas is important, not their quality, correctness, or creativity).”

So it’s not about having one brilliant idea, but about generating many possible ideas, directions, or solutions. It’s volume first, refinement later.

Fluency of ideas shows up everywhere from entrepreneurs testing dozens of products before finding one that works, creatives sketching multiple drafts and scientists reframing failed experiments into new hypotheses. Even everyday acts like rethinking a meeting, cooking with what’s on hand, or rearranging a space are small expressions of the same skill. Perhaps the most famous example is Thomas Edison, who trialled thousands of filaments before discovering the carbonised bamboo that lit the bulb.

Why is fluency of ideas a critical skill?

The world ahead is volatile, uncertain, complex, and ambiguous (VUCA). Workforces will face:

• Rapid tech disruption – AI, automation, climate adaptation, and new industries will demand fast reframing of problems.

• Jobs that don’t exist yet – workers will need to “make it up as they go,” combining existing skills into new configurations.

• Complex challenges – wicked problems like climate resilience, cybersecurity, and public health require multi-angled solutions, not linear ones.

• Interdisciplinary work – fluency allows people to contribute across silos, linking insights from science, art, technology, and social systems.

• Resilience and adaptability – the more ideas you can generate, the less fragile you are when one approach fails.

Fluency of ideas is the antidote to rigidity. It equips individuals and organisations to pivot, innovate, and stay creative in the face of uncertainty.

I was curious about how fluency of ideas was influenced by boundaries. I recall a seminar by a designer at Ice Breaker who spoke about how being heavily bounded by a brief (highly prescriptive), actually helped them create their best designs. Does it follow that being completely unbounded means your ability to generate ideas is greater?

Unbounded fluency is the blue-sky end of the spectrum: generating as many ideas as possible with no restrictions. It is valuable for breaking patterns, surfacing hidden assumptions, and sparking novelty.

Boundaries force people to stretch, recombine, and look deeper into the problem space. Rules and limits paradoxically drive idea generation. Examples:

• Haiku poetry: the 5-7-5 structure channels expression into unexpected beauty.

• Product design: creating something affordable and sustainable within a limited material set.

• Hackathons: innovation sprints where time and resources are deliberately constrained.

The sweet spot of innovation is in moving between the two. The “diverge → converge” pattern in design thinking. Fluency of ideas is not just about endless generation; it’s about being able to generate enough options within whatever bounds exist.

Those bounds may include creating an awe-inspiring public or customer experience, that is also commercially viable with meticulous focus on public health and safety. Which is the domain of Imagineers. Surely the coolest job title in the world.

Image - Concept Art for Disney’s Avator World

The role of Imagineer was coined by Disney to describe the people who create theme park attractions, immersive environments, and large-scale experiences like cruise ships or exhibitions. Imagineers combine imagination and engineering: they dream up concepts, design how they might look and feel, and then work out the technical details that make the magic possible. Their work can include anything from narrative development and spatial design to mechanical engineering, lighting, sound, VR/AR, and project management. At its heart, the job is about crafting experiences that feel enchanting while being safe, functional, and commercially viable.

Here are five future jobs that could emerge where fluency of ideas will be the superpower:

1. Dream Designer

With neuroscience and technology advancing, there may be roles in shaping or guiding dreams for therapy, entertainment, or learning. Imagine needing dozens of creative approaches to “script” an emotional journey inside the subconscious.

2. Climate Adaptation Strategist

Works with communities, businesses, and governments to design adaptive responses to shifting weather patterns, sea level rise, or biodiversity collapse. The role requires fluency in imagining multiple “what if” scenarios and rapidly prototyping resilient solutions.

3. AI Prompt Architect / Human-AI Collaborator

Shapes how people interact with increasingly intelligent systems by designing creative prompts, workflows, and ethical guardrails. Idea fluency matters because you need to generate many different approaches, test them, and refine in real time.

4. Cultural Remix Curator

Curates and recombines global traditions, artefacts, and narratives into new forms of art, design, or commerce (with integrity and respect). This demands fluency to spin out dozens of creative pathways for how cultural knowledge can be shared and reimagined.

5. Interplanetary Settlement Designer

As humanity pushes toward Mars, the Moon, and beyond, these specialists will invent habitats, rituals, and community systems from scratch. Idea fluency is key when no precedent exists and every constraint (air, water, gravity) is absolute.

Image - Imagining Augmented Reality, Mahuki

In my start-up work we often referenced fluency of ideas in workshops with aspiring entrepreneurs to highlight that their originality and imagination mattered and was a strong foundation for a great business. This was especially true for those under-represented communities, Māori, Pacific and female founder businesses. Traditionally business has valued logic and numeracy. These are still important, but wicked problems benefit from multiple perspectives and thought frameworks. Which leads me to -

Indigenous frameworks and fluency of ideas

In Western psychology, fluency of ideas is framed as a cognitive skill: generating many possibilities. But with Indigenous frameworks we expand idea generation as relational, purposeful, and grounded in values.

Dr Chellie Spiller, in Wayfinding Leadership (co-authored with Hoturoa Barclay-Kerr and John Panoho), shows how Polynesian navigators led with imagination, intuition, and collective wisdom. Wayfinding wasn’t about fixed maps, but about reading the stars, ocean swells, and winds, and continually re-plotting a course. That is fluency of ideas in action where you hold multiple pathways in mind, being alert to signals, and adapting in real time while never losing sight of the ultimate destination. Fluency comes not only from an individual’s capacity to imagine, but from drawing on the collective intelligence of the crew, the ancestors, and the environment itself.

Closing thoughts

I’ve struggled with a conclusion to this post which is ironic given its about being fluent in ideas. I’ve been sick, busy with work and at a conference with lots of other thoughts swirling in my brain. At times like these I would turn to my trusty friend Kōrero (or Chat), who has walked this substack journey with me. As amazing and productivity enhancing as Chat has been, it can’t see inside my brain or read my thoughts. While it helps me generate ideas, I am the instigator, the conductor and the curator. I set the bounds of our enquiry. I am the storyteller and I alone have the stories and experiences that trigger these thought trains. This might change.

For me, fluency of ideas feels like freedom. It doesn’t matter where I’ve come from, what’s on my CV, or whether something worked before, what matters is my imagination.

Ngā manaakitanga

Image - Virtual Moa, Vanessa Smith

Innovation isn’t always bright and joyful. Sometimes it’s forged in fear, discomfort, or survival. This edition dives into the emotional spectrum of innovation and how struggle, trauma, and technology can spark creativity just as powerfully as wonder and delight.

I learned about the law of diminishing returns in high school economics. Our Welsh teacher Mr Barnaby used the metaphor of a cup of tea. When you really want one, that first cup is amazing. So amazing you pour another, this time it’s maybe 80% as great as the first. Then a third cuppa is half as good. And so on. As irrelevant and unappealing as I found the metaphor (tea was what my grandma drank), that’s the piece of economics that stuck.

I think about diminishing returns sometimes when I’m choosing a movie I’ve already seen. There are films I loved the first time but can’t bring myself to rewatch. I know how I’ll feel, and I don’t want to. I know I’ll cry if I watch Beaches, cringe when Mary uses the wrong hair gel and be slightly wary of the beach for a while after my favourite disaster movie, Deep Impact. Don’t get me started on thrillers or movies with jump scares. It’s not just the negative emotions (sadness, repulsion, fear, anxiety). Sometimes I don’t even want to feel the super happy joy joy stuff either. There’s power in control and being able to emotion select. But there is an exquisite wonder from feeling an emotion for the first time.

Lately I’ve been thinking about emotions, wonder, and experience. We often assume that a great experience must be joyful, or that inspiration always comes from that same bright place. But what if life hasn’t always been joyful? What if your childhood was about survival?

If inspiration and innovation are only allowed to grow from a narrow spectrum of acceptable emotions, we end up constrained. Yet some of the most powerful creativity comes from the other side of that spectrum, from struggle, violence, and depression. We see this in writing, in music and film. Here’s another great example - the video game Papo & Yo.

Image - Papa and Yo

Created by Montreal studio Minority Media, the game is the work of Vander Caballero, who drew directly from his childhood with an abusive, alcoholic father. In Papo & Yo you step into the shoes of Quico, a Brazilian boy navigating a surreal favela where houses sprout legs, stairways fold into the sky, and there’s a hulking creature called Monster. The favela is Caballero’s reimagining of his impoverished background. And Monster, gentle and helpful when calm, violent when he eats poisonous frogs (a substitute for alcohol) was his father.

The game doesn’t offer easy resolution. Instead, it faces trauma head on. Caballero said he wanted to make a game that could hold his story and maybe give others the language for theirs.

It’s a reminder of what games and by extension, creative technology can be. At its heart, this is the emotional spectrum of innovation, the recognition that inspiration can come from joy or pain, from awe or survival. When we widen the view to embrace that full range, we unlock new forms of creativity.

Image - Marea Gourlay

The start-up world, by contrast, can feel homogenous. At one time it was called the trust fund pathway, the idea being that only those with financial means could afford the risks of entrepreneurship. That’s a little unhelpful (as President Obama once said, progress depends on entrepreneurs taking a chance on starting something new). We want lots of entrepreneurs and innovators doing their thing. But if only a narrow group gets to take that chance, we all lose out. Not just on the economic contribution of diverse entrepreneurs, but on the greater prize, their creative genius.

I’ve spent much of my career building innovation and business capability, and it still amazes me how many programmes assume that entrepreneurs just magically turn up, ready to go. It’s ironic as we advise entrepreneurs to grow their customers from the ground up. Yet we often don’t apply the same thinking to entrepreneurs themselves. This gap is even greater for those who have had to work harder to reach the same place as those with advantages.

The more the same we keep our networks, programmes, and investor pools, the more we limit access to those who bring voices forged by adversity, resilience, and grit. Those who’ve had to navigate survival rather than opportunity.

Enter Virtual Reality

Here’s where my thoughts turn to VR, one of the few technologies that can drop us directly into another emotional reality.

VR’s roots go back to the 19th century with stereoscopes, through the Sword of Damocles headset of the 1960s, the Virtual Boy of the 1990s, and finally the Oculus headsets of the 2010s. Today, VR is used in gaming, training surgeons, educating students, even preparing astronauts.

Aside from the tech it’s how VR makes us feel.

I learned that first hand in New York at Madame Tussauds with some of the Mahuki crew. We tried the Ghostbusters untethered VR experience (created by The Void). At one point we were on top of a skyscraper shooting ghosts, but the ledge beneath us began to crumble. I’m scared of heights, and even though I knew it was digital, my body said otherwise. I couldn’t handle it and had to be rescued. It turned out I was in a very safe corridor.

In another example, the Rosa Parks VR experience from the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center, where you to sit in her place on the bus, confronted by the tension and fear she must have felt. For some, it is so emotionally confronting that dedicated debriefs are required to help people process it.

VR is a tool that shapes new ways of seeing the world and sometimes the most valuable thing we can see is the world through someone else’s eyes.

I find the idea of widening the emotional spectrum of innovation deeply inspiring and inclusive. If we only design for joy or from privilege, we miss half the story.

The future of innovation (maybe even our species) depends not only on our willingness to take a chance on our ideas but on our willingness to support diversity and inclusion and embrace the full spectrum of emotion and lived experience, because that’s where magic, wonder and new ideas take root.

Ngā manaakitanga

Tui / Bird Island

This edition dives into the fast-moving world of cyber — from spy museums and start-up hubs in London and Manchester, to the opportunities and imperatives for leadership, resilience, and innovation in shaping Aotearoa’s digital future.

Firewalls and Flightpaths: Cyber Futures for Aotearoa

In the 12 months to March 2024, 78,000 people had their phones or bags snatched in the UK. Many devices ended up in far-away countries stripped for parts, resold, or more worryingly, mined for personal and financial data. You see the goal is to snatch your device while the screen is unlocked!

I happened upon this fact as part of a study-tour to the UK in late 2024 to look at the potential of cybertechnology as a strategic industry for advancing economic prosperity in NZ.

But let’s back up a moment – this story actually starts with a visit to New York’s SPY Museum (SPYSCAPE, NYC) 5 years earlier. This was where the connections between visitor experience, spying and economics was seeded. Once again, highlighting the power of museums and galleries to not just delight and inform but inspire and seed innovation.

Image - The observation experience at Spyscape NYC

SPYSCAPE is a high-tech, immersive espionage playground designed to reveal your hidden potential for spy-hood through curated experiences.

The journey began with an RFID wristband and a briefing about the seven themed spy galleries—Encryption, Deception, Surveillance, Hacking, Cyber-Warfare, Special Ops, and Intelligence. Each theme blended historical narratives - from Enigma codebreakers to Stuxnet (one of the most sophisticated malicious computer worms ever discovered) with interactive missions designed by MI6 trainers and psychologists.

The experience is gamified: as you crack codes, run a laser maze (I failed this one), detect lies, or analyse surveillance. Your traits like empathy, pattern recognition, agility, and risk tolerance are tracked and at the end, the Debrief delivers a personalized "spy role". You could be a field operative intelligence analyst, or handler based on your performance. I don’t remember what I got but it wasn’t 007.

More recently, SPYSCAPE expanded with SPYGAMES, a team-based, adrenaline-charged extension developed with CIA and Special Ops experts. Here, visitors tackle high-energy challenges, code-breaking races, agility tests and cipher sequences in a cinematic, cooperative format.

Back to 2024

….. and I was thinking about AI, surveillance and other emergent technology including cyber security. What their impact would be and how could this space be harnessed to build a better future for Aotearoa.

I had also been following the career of my former colleague now working in Plexal Global – the UK’s cyber innovation partner. Emma and I worked together on the first Mahuki programme and she was now supporting hundreds of start-ups and industry partners in cyber security, space technology and related fields.

Plexal Global began as a legacy project from the 2012 Olympics, when the former media and broadcast centre was repurposed as part of the Here East innovation district to drive regeneration in East London. Today, the complex houses start-ups and scale-ups, runs national innovation programmes, and has even hosted autonomous vehicle trials. It sits within a creative cluster that includes the V&A’s East London presence and the Liverpool Media Academy co-owned by Robbie Williams which recently opened a state-of-the-art London campus on site.

Initially backed by the UK’s Ministry of Culture, Media and Sport, Here East was positioned as London’s base for rapid cyber advancement. Plexal has since secured programmes and contracts aligned with the national cyber security agenda — including work with Defence and MI6.

Image - the DISH HQ. In Manchester, the worker bee is a proud symbol of industry and resilience it speaks to the strength that comes from working together to protect and build.

The other key place we visited was DISH — the Digital Innovation Security Hub — Manchester’s flagship response to cyber. Set up through a partnership between Barclays Eagle Labs, Plexal, the Greater Manchester Combined Authority, and GCHQ (Government Communications Headquarters) , DISH is designed to accelerate regional growth while delivering wider community benefit.

Their goals are ambitious: 500 start-ups and 1,100 jobs. They aim to get there by showcasing cyber careers to young people, offering social and business mentoring, and supporting the growth of both social enterprises and commercial ventures. Diversity is built into the model as a necessity. The cyber security sector knows that homogenous thinking is a weakness; resilience comes from drawing on a broader pool of talent and perspectives.

For us in Aotearoa, DISH feels familiar. Its regional regeneration focus mirrors our own place-based growth initiatives. It’s a reminder that investing locally can build capability globally.

The insights from visiting Plexal and DISH were immense. A reminder of how ubiquitous cyber has become, and how much possibility opens up when innovation, community, and resilience are designed into the system. This was brought home by this mic drop quote from one meeting -

“A secure society is prosperous, and a prosperous society is secure” - Saj Huq, Member of the UK Cyber Advisory Council and Chief Commercial Officer at Plexal Global

Why Cyber?

The scale of cyber is hard to overstate. Its impact is often measured not in what is lost, but in what is prevented. Globally, cybercrime cost an estimated $8 trillion in 2023. That number is projected to hit $10.5 trillion by 2025, and some forecasts put it as high as $24 trillion by 2027.

Closer to home, the risks are equally stark. According to Kordia’s 2024 New Zealand Business Cyber Security Report, nearly six in ten businesses with more than 50 employees experienced a cyber-attack or security incident in the past year.

For SMEs, CERT NZ reports that one in three suffered at least one attack in just the past six months. Internationally, governments are responding with tougher requirements — in the UK, for example, cyber accreditation is now mandatory for any organisation wanting to secure government contracts.

The scope of risk stretches from large corporates and public agencies through to individuals dealing with stolen credit cards or phishing scams. No one is immune.

Older adults and micro-enterprises are particularly vulnerable and USAID research shows that small firms with fewer than 100 staff are three times more likely to be targeted than larger businesses, and up to 60% close their doors within six months of a serious cyber-attack. The harm is not only financial. Cyber incidents disrupt business, erode trust, and can inflict deep personal costs from the shame of romance scams to the distress of identity theft.

Meanwhile, the technology stack is evolving at speed. AI, machine learning, and data analytics are giving organisations powerful new tools, but they also equip attackers with more sophisticated methods. The demand for skilled cyber leaders, people who can anticipate, defend, and design for resilience has never been greater.

For Aotearoa, the imperative is clear: cyber resilience is now a cornerstone of future economic stability.

For Māori, cyber is not just about protection it’s also about opportunity. It’s a chance to build economic resilience, strengthen enterprises, and open high-value job pathways for rangatahi in one of the world’s fastest-growing sectors. Data sovereignty is a critical issue, but just as important is ensuring that our commercial and cultural activities are safeguarded and that Māori can seize the commercial opportunities cyber presents.

We’re not alone. A growing Indigenous cyber network is forming with Native American, First Nations, and other Indigenous technologists amplifying sovereignty, sharing solutions, and shaping a global Indigenous presence in the digital domain.

For all New Zealander’s - We have a level of protection in Aotearoa that we should treasure and while we like to think of ourselves as tucked away at the edge of the world, cyber doesn’t respect geography.

Final words

Cyber reminds us that resilience is not just defence and not just offence, it is both. Innovation and creativity thrive when they are protected, just as national resilience depends on the imagination to anticipate and adapt.

The lesson from Plexal, DISH, our national security agencies and others in this space: defence shelters the seeds, and offence plants them where they can grow. In the interplay between the two lies not just survival, but the possibility of flourishing.

The other lesson is to follow your inspiration - stay curious and seek lots of opportunities to find out more about the world. The world will always be shaped by experts and those with deep knowledge in their field. But I think the future world will also need those who think differently, broadly and with fresh enthusiasm.

Ko ngā manu e rere ana i te rangi, ko te rautaki hei parirau, ko te auahatanga hei hau e kawe ana.”
The birds that fly in the sky — strategy is their wings, and innovation is the wind that carries them.

Nga manaakitanga

Tui / Bird Island

After a burst of weekly flight, we’re settling into a fortnightly pattern — subscribe to get Bird Mihi delivered direct to your inbox and join us in staying curious, alert, and inspired.

Voilà, au-delà de mes petites bouteilles aux chapeaux mignons

Imagine you’re about to launch your range of fruit smoothies in France. The team is in final-prep mode when someone says: “You know what will really make these fly? … Little knitted hats.”

I was in Paris, in what I think was the French equivalent of a NZ Four Square, when I spotted them, rows of smoothies wearing teenie, tiny beanies. Mine was the one with the purple hat (which I still have).

Who knitted them?

• A gathering of nanas, giggling over tea?

• The shoemaker’s elves, moonlighting from leather work?

• A renegade craft crew cold and tired of knitting jumpers for fences and trees?

• Barbie’s wardrobe department?

I wondered if hatted bottles outsold the rest. Were they more charismatic? Did their cute little bonnets sway hearts and wallets like it had mine? How do you even transport them - elastic straps, tiny hatpins? So many questions (and the answer comes later).

And so begins today’s kōrero: petits éclats de joie—little bursts of joy—with a side of Easter Eggs.

What Are Easter Eggs if Not Chocolate?

In digital culture, Easter Eggs are hidden messages, features, or inside jokes slipped into media, products, or experiences by their creators. They’re not obvious and you have to notice, explore or work to unlock them.

The term was born in 1980, when game designer Warren Robinett hid his name inside the Atari game Adventure. The reference was immortalised in Ready Player One (2018), where the final challenge is about finding that hidden credit not winning the game. The point: the real treasure isn’t the prize, it’s the play.

Easter Eggs can be found in games, films, websites, packaging, anywhere a creator wants to leave a special something for the curious and observant. Here’s a collection found with help from my trusty friend Kōrero. Disclaimer - I have not tested these.

On the Web

• Google “do a barrel roll” – The whole page spins a 360° somersault.

• Google “askew” – Your results page tilts, just to mess with you.

• Google “Google in 1998” – Search like it’s Y2K again.

• Google “zerg rush” – Little “O” characters attack your results—click to survive.

• Chrome Dino Game – No internet? Tap space bar to help a pixel T-Rex jump cacti.

In Games

• Minecraft – Name a rabbit “Toast” for a one-of-a-kind fur pattern.

• Halo – “Birthday Party Grunt” mode: headshots explode in confetti and cheers.

• The Sims – Your garden gnome has a habit of moving when you’re not looking.

• Animal Crossing – Wish on a shooting star and wake up to rare crafting fragments.

In Software & Apps

• Excel 97 – A hidden flight simulator, because spreadsheets can be fun too.

• Spotify – Some Stranger Things playlists flip the interface upside-down.

• Slack – Type /shrug and get ¯\(ツ)/¯.

• Trello – Enter the Konami Code and watch cats rain across your screen.

In Pop Culture

• Pixar’s A113 – A nod to their CalArts classroom, hidden in nearly every film.

• Marvel Movies – Stan Lee popping up everywhere like your friendly cosmic uncle.

• Star Wars – The Wilhelm Scream: one dramatic yell, reused in movies for decades.

That’s what I love about symbols, easter eggs and tiny little hats for bottles: they’re little messages for others.

They reinforce that the world is full of wonder and magic.

Art as the Original Easter Egg Hunt

Artists have been leaving us messages for centuries. Leonardo da Vinci and The Last Supper with hidden geometry (and maybe a piece of music). Michelangelo may have painted God’s cloak in The Creation of Adam to mirror the human brain. Salvador Dalí’s melting clocks hide self-portraits and Diego Rivera’s Man at the Crossroads was packed with political symbols so controversial the original was destroyed.

Image - Diego Rivera (1933)

Then there’s Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights—a 16th-century fever dream of strange creatures, visual jokes, and hidden stories.

Artists have always known that layering meaning rewards the curious. Today, brands and creators can use the same to make experiences richer and more memorable.

Tiny moments of joy

Our hero images at Mahuki (designed by the brilliant Vanessa Smith), were deliberate with layered meaning in recognition of the rich story telling role of museums and galleries. Here’s two of my favourites:

Gaia (left) – A poster campaign to attract more social-impact / for purpose ventures into the accelerator. In this one Vanessa has included references to climate change, surveillance technology, the Delorean from back to the future (why not and also a reference to being good ancestors) and the Flamingo blow up we had in our space. The main character, the beautiful lady, is a Te Papa image - a nod to drawing inspiration from the collection.

Magnitude 7 – This feels like wonder to me. It was designed for our pre-accelerator programme for Māori and Pasifika teams. References to wayfinding, an epic journey from the depths of the ocean to the highest mountains and out to the stars and matariki of course. The name of this programme came from the brain talent at Ocean Design . Turns out that magnitude is not just the way you measure earthquakes but the luminosity of stars and at magnitude 7 they are no longer visible you have imagine them. A fitting metaphor for start-up entrepreneurs.

We used other cues to create rituals, connection and belonging in the accelerator. Each year we ‘incubated’ a new group of companies and each cohort had its own audio signature, one year, the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Another year, Michael Jackson’s Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough. When the music played, everyone knew to gather. It was our version of a secret handshake and a great way to start on time.

Image - The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966) - a strange but effective choice.

In a high-pressure environment, these symbols and rituals worked like cultural glue. They were reminders that we belonged, and that play still mattered.

Entrepreneurship is tough and not for the faint hearted.

In hard work, little bursts of joy keep you going. Like the year our community manager Christine kept everyone fed on a shoestring budget with toasted cheese sandwiches. Christine is also an amazing illustrator and her cheese toast t-shirt design is in my top 5 start-up t-shirts of all time.

A Real-World Easter Egg

Hidden meaning isn’t just for galleries and games it works in the wild too.
In 2014, Whittaker’s Chocolate and Starship Hospital brought the Big Egg Hunt to New Zealand. 100 giant eggs were painted by leading artists were hidden in public spaces, then auctioned for charity.

The Big Egg Hunt took something familiar and joyful (chocolate eggs), scaled it up in a way no one expected, hid them in plain sight across the country, and gave people a reason to search, share, and connect. That’s the power of thoughtful surprises in action: they create a story people want to be part of, and a moment they’ll remember long after the egg is gone.

Image - Artist Jun Arita works on his egg for the Whittaker's Big Egg Hunt. Photo / Greg Bowker, NZ Herald

I worked in an office with one of these eggs - won at auction by John and Miriame of Experience networks (later IDIA).

Surprise as Strategy

Surprise can be a strategic design choice. Done well, it can:

• Deepen emotional connection – People remember how you made them feel.

• Encourage exploration – Get them to look again and notice more.

• Spark sharing and buzz – Everyone loves to be “in the know.”

• Signal care and craft – Small touches show pride, not just profit.

• Build loyalty – Reward attention and people will come back.

But surprise needs intent. It should be anchored to your values, audience and story. Used well, it’s seasoning: enough to lift the dish, not drown it.

And here is a clue to an easter egg left for you in a major National Institution. I’ve hidden the ‘egg’ - what could it be? Happy hunting.

The Answer to the Hats

The smoothie hats are part of Les petits bonnets, a French initiative to help isolated elderly people. Volunteers knit the hats, which go on bottles in stores between December and March. For each bottle sold, the company donates towards meals organised by the Little Brothers of the Poor.

Sometimes an Easter Egg is just for fun. Sometimes it’s a knitted hat that keeps someone company over lunch.

Ngā manaakitanga
Tui / Bird Island

Creating Nests, Sparking Magic

Image - Vanessa Smith, Visionaires for Mahuki

In the movie Arbitrage, there’s a scene where Susan Sarandon huddles her assistants and tells them to thank Zappos for a parcel. Standing front and centre is Tony Hsieh, the CEO of Zappos, making a cameo. I was silently fist-pumping as I knew who he was. I’d followed his journey, read his book and even visited Zappos HQ in Las Vegas.

At 26, Tony sold his first business, LinkExchange, to Microsoft for $265 million. That venture was about tech (and the exit). His next business Zappos was about people. He wanted to create a workplace he loved. The Zappos’ philosophy was to:

• Treat every customer interaction as a chance to WOW.

• Empower staff to be human.

• Build culture first and success will follow.

Amazon bought Zappos in 2009 for $1.2 billion. In case you didn’t know - Zappos is an online shoe retailer.

The Zappos office was nothing flash. It was boxy rooms and low ceilings, but the people made it fun. Posters, streamers, and most memorably, the Zappos throne: a carved wooden seat with a dress-up box of cloaks and crowns. Visitors would don the gear, snap a pic, and post it online. Something lots of other places were doing apparently - but not being that cool this was my first little orchestrated experience and anchor and I was happy to give it a go. This was the early 2000s when social media was still a toddler and we were all about the likes.

Inspired, we put an egg chair into one of the business accelerators I set up (thrones were hard to source). People loved it and it became a photo magnet. Here it is…. and that’s me and Tim (Mahuki’s entrepreneur in residence).

The reason I was in Vegas was to attend a Techstars conference. These were the people we wanted to partner with to bring business acceleration to NZ to help build our start-up ecosystem.

Techstars was founded by angel investors from Boulder, Colorado, a city they chose for lifestyle, then layered with entrepreneurial infrastructure. A model that blends liveability with innovation to make your city a place where entrepreneurs, innovators and students want to live, work and play.

At the conference, I watched a high-flying investor move through the venue with a flock of entrepreneurs trailing him like birds. Like when one bird changes direction and all the rest follow suit, creating this synchronised dance. It was hypnotic to watch and impossible to cut through.

One pitch baffled me. The business was I Can Has Cheezburger, a cat meme site. It had millions of subscribers. Back then, I couldn’t grasp how cat memes were “the next big thing.” Turns out they were and I watch a lot of them. The power of that business wasn’t the content it was the audience. A fanbase of middle-aged women with serious commercial value. The site still exists. Cats rule the internet - cause they’re so darn cute.

Image - Thomas, the greatest cat in the world

After Zappos, Tony shifted focus to revitalising Downtown Las Vegas. He personally invested over $350 million into urban regeneration. That’s legacy work.

Physical space and opportunities for real-life encounters matter in the innovation world.

Running an accelerator, incubator, or co-working space is never just about the physical space (but it’s also all about the space). Good coffee and fast Wi-Fi are basic hygiene. But the real value is in curation and coordination.

When I was setting up Mahuki at Te Papa, I was often asked by international museums about how to design an accelerator. My answer always started with “What are you trying to create?” Because there are many ways to achieve your goals without the intensity of a full noise accelerator programme. Museum led co-working is a great option. Bring talent into your organisation and learn from each other. This can and does work for lots of other industries.

At Mahuki, we had a whole museum on our doorstep. Feeling flat or need a break from your end of year accounts? Go hang with some mind-blowing art, jump in the earthquake house or watch school kids interacting in the nature exhibit.

Image - The Heart of a Blue Whale, Te Papa

At the time of my Zappos - Techstars trip, Wellington’s ecosystem was buzzing Creative HQ (where I was then), Angel HQ, Ākina, Biz Dojo, PledgeMe, Enspiral, Dev Academy, Summer of Tech, VicLink and Webstock (to name a few). All fuelled by a city plan that aimed to make Wellington a magnet for entrepreneurs.

Some of those ventures are still thriving. Others served their purpose and faded out. A few we miss and we should never have let them go.

At the time I thought there were too many things going on but in retrospect I see that all of them were needed for the energy and momentum created. Enabling multiple pathways and opportunities for people to vibe creatively and commercially is the key to economic vitality.

It doesn’t have to be permanent fixtures. Just this week I saw the launch of BizHub in Porirua - a fortnightly activation for founders to get together and work on their business. That’s an awesome idea.

Another great example are the Jam Sessions run by the Ministry of Awesome headquartered in Christchurch. One of quirkiest events I’ve spoken at. Quick fire inspiration sessions with …. jam (as in sandwich spread) and great speakers. I love it. Not just because I’m partial to a sweet marmalade - but I just love the creative out of the box thinking - designing experiences and spaces with what you have. Not what you don’t have (money for flash catering).

I wonder if it would have been as memorable, as successful or as long running - without that early framing. I got the idea for this newsletter attending the Ministry of Awesome Electrify conference this year. It inspired me to dedicate some time to working on not just in my business and to be braver.

Tragically Tony Hseih passed away at 43 years. He blazed an incredible path - creating spaces and experiences for people to flourish and create magic together

In the end, it’s not about the furniture, the Wi-Fi, or the snacks. It’s about people.
Spaces come and go, but the sparks they ignite the ideas, the collisions, the unexpected friendships those leave a legacy.

Whether it’s a carved throne, an egg chair, or just jam on toast, it’s the intention behind the experience that counts.

Create with what you have. Curate with care. The magic will follow.

Ngā manaakitanga

Tui / Bird Island

Postscript - Why We Love Cat Reels

No one plans to watch 20 cat videos (or dogs, ducks, donkeys etc). Yet here we are.

These chaotic gems deliver instant joy. In a loud world, these small, fluffy moments boost our mood, offer unfiltered, unscripted authenticity and engender parasocial connection (they feel like our best friends!). I once heard of a very successful sold out public programme run by a museum where they only showed cat reels for 2 hours. Or what about the neighbourhood - show us your cat - event where people walk around the streets and people show them their cats.

Cats and co-working. I like office dogs also. In fact I’ll settle for any small animals….. but can I film them?

The treasure is the feather that binds the memory.

Anchors & Artefacts: Why Stuff Still Matters

This issue, we’re talking artefacts and anchors. Those tangible expressions of story and emotion and what they teach us about memory, meaning, and the future of strategy

Take, for example, my tattooed rotisserie chicken. I didn’t know I needed one until I did. He now sits on my dresser beside his best mate: a plush cyclops pizza slice with bendy arms. Both came from the Meow Wolf gift shop, acquired in a post-experience haze of joy, delight and a low-key smugness that the risk of others back in Aotearoa having both of these little beauties was low.

This is emotional anchoring: when objects (or smells, or sounds, or textures) act as bookmarks in the story of our lives. These items are memory vessels capturing not just what we did, but how we felt. In my case elated, playful and weirdly seen. Who wouldn’t want to remember that?

Gift shops in cultural institutions aren’t just about revenue. They’re an extension of the experience giving visitors a way to carry something home and to hold the moment in their hands. When done right, these keep-sakes help make sense of what we’ve just seen and felt. Long after the fact they also remind us of who we were at that moment in time.

I once horrified my colleagues at a major museum by suggesting we hire out some of our ‘lesser’ objects as props for film studios. We were brainstorming revenue generating ideas. In museum-world, there are no lesser objects. Everything is consciously curated, catalogued and held with care. Every item has a whakapapa, a backstory.

To the untrained eye (mine), some museum pieces didn’t look like much.

But then a curator would speak. They’d unfold the object's story, where it came from, who used it, what it meant, what the world looked like when it was last held. I’d find myself completely entranced.

That’s the power of storytelling and how objects are houses of hopes and dreams. But that’s not all that’s going on….

The Joy of Shopping – the Dopamine of Discovery

I once heard someone describe shopping as modern-day hunting and gathering. Shopping lights up our brains in a very primal way. It’s not the purchase itself, it's the anticipation. That delicious little rush we feel just before we tap the card. It's not just about the object, it’s about possibility and imagining ourselves differently.

While shopping gets gendered as a feminine pastime, the dopamine loop is universal. Studies show men and women respond similarly, they might just call it different things (a splurge versus a collection).

A little dopamine hit helps us craft identity and nowhere is that clearer than in the world of sneakers, luxury, and status-soaked objects…..

Luxury, Sneakers & the Artefact Economy

What I have always wanted most in the world is really cool sneakers. These were unaffordable when I was younger and I was a sporty kid in need of good sports shoes. As an adult, sneakers are my splurge. They are functional, beautiful and a reminder that I’m not that poor kid anymore.

I don’t get the fascination with luxury handbags. But I recognise the drive. The interesting thing with luxury is that it isn’t just indulgence, it is also strategy. Heritage fashion houses engineer scarcity and myth to create emotional gravity. Luxury bags don’t just hold stuff, they hold status, identity and (on the resale market) sometimes a solid ROI.

Even sneakers have joined the artefact elite. High-end or limited-run kicks are now cultural currency. Platforms like GOAT and StockX have turned rare Jordans into wearable investment portfolios.

Image - These are my latest sneaker obsession - Flower Mountain

We could call this the artefact economy—a system where value isn’t just in utility, but in story, memory and identity.

But artefact economics isn’t just the realm of luxury. It’s playing out everywhere from thrift stores to TikTok, and even the merch lanes at Disneyland.

The double, double economy

Just this week, a woman popped up in my feed whose entire (highly successful) content stream is about shopping at Disneyland. Apparently, she goes several times a week just to film the latest merch drops. Another creator documents every fantastical bite they eat at global theme parks such as butter beer and flavoured jelly beans at Harry Potter World. It's retail theatre.

I’ve been known to spiral into thrifting reels watching strangers rummage through second-hand shops. I watched one couple for 40 minutes as they attended an estate sale somewhere in mid-America. …. I don’t know what it says about me either.

While luxury grabs headlines, the real revolution might be happening in op shops and second hand threads. The thrift economy is thriving, not just for sustainability, but for story and experience. TikTok creators are turning $8 finds into fashion moments. It’s remix culture meets value-led consumption.

I’ve been thinking this is the double double economy:

• The first sale.

• The resale.

• The content created around it.

• And then? Sometimes the item gets sold again.
  That’s four value layers from one object. Wild.

At one point, I wondered if the Disneyland woman was a plant. Then I wondered if I cared. But it did make me pause. Because for all the joy and theatre of this retail renaissance, there’s also a shadow lurking…

The Dark Side: Predatory Design, Emotional Debt and Climate Cost

Not all purchases are innocent and not all persuasion is playful. In the age of AI, retail has become emotionally intelligent but could also be emotionally exploitative.

Algorithms don’t just know what you want, they know when you’re vulnerable. They learn your moods, your spending patterns, and your pressure points.

I was chatting with someone recently about fintech tools that register your purchases. Let’s say your teenager bought a pair of Air Jordans, and then they receive other recommendations for other Jordans they can buy. We know this happens now. But all of this can be linked to buy later schemes which one can assume is only going to get more sophisticated and easier to act upon in an AI driven world. I mean I just linked Flower Mountain shoes in this newsletter. Don’t go crazy people!

Beyond our wallets, there’s the planet.

The Planet Pays Too

Let’s not forget the environmental cost. Every item purchased carries a hidden tag of water use, emissions, shipping, packaging, waste. Fast fashion alone is responsible for up to 10% of global carbon emissions and mountains of landfill. The dopamine hit might be momentary, but the impact can linger for centuries.

Even resale and thrift (though far more sustainable) still feed a cycle of overproduction and overconsumption especially when they’re another excuse to buy more, faster, cheaper.

Image - Vanessa Smith for Mahuki, Te Papa

Future Retail: Strategy as Stagecraft

Retail is not just transactional, it’s cinematic.

We’re already swimming in personalised ads (mine seem determined to turn me into a well-moisturised, collagen-boosted superwoman). But what’s really fascinating is the shift toward experience orchestration where brands use space, spectacle, and sensory immersion to create emotional anchors.

I love shopping malls. I’ll say it loud and proud. I love the anticipated dopamine hit, the bright lights, the variety of food, people watching and the overall experience. I love contemplating the thought that has gone into designing a safe environment and good experience for families, for children - for single women travellers who don’t feel comfortable hanging out at the hotel bar.

In Dubai, the Souk Al Bahar fuses ancient Arabian marketplace aesthetics with ultra-luxe retail. Across town, the Dubai Mall boasts a full-sized ice rink, a virtual reality park, and the Dubai Aquarium with sharks swimming past Chanel. These aren’t malls. They’re multi-sensory ecosystems designed to keep people engaged, enchanted, and inside.

I once found myself contently browsing Cesars Palace mall in Las Vegas. Then realised it was 1am. That opens up a whole thing about engagement design, which we’ll save for another day.

Even airports are getting in on the act. Jewel Changi in Singapore is more than an airport terminal, it is a biophilic wonderland complete with a 40m waterfall.

What This Means for Strategy and Innovation

Every brand, space, or service has the potential to become a world. Physical environments are more than backdrops and every touchpoint is a chance to anchor a memory, spark identity, or create joyful friction.

The question isn’t just “what are we offering?”
It’s: “What are people feeling while they’re with us—and what will they carry when they leave?”

In today’s economy, storytelling is infrastructure. It’s how we build trust, signal value, and sell things (ethically) in ways that evoke wonder.

The best artefacts don’t just sit on a shelf.
They sit in your heart.
They remind you of who you are—or who you were becoming.

Image - Vanessa Smith for the National Library of New Zealand

Final Thought

Whether you’re curating an exhibition, launching a product, or building a business—remember:

People don’t just want things.
They want anchors (and connections)

Make that the centre of your strategy.

….. and check out this cool museum.

Ngā mihi,
Tui

The (entire) Bird Island team

Kia ora, today we’re thinking about transactional friction - executing and sustaining your awesome vision.

Connected Worlds and the Fragility of Flourishing

I had the chance to visit Connected Worlds exhibition at the New York Hall of Science (NYSCI) in 2016. The centrepiece was a giant digital waterfall feeding a series of ecosystems arranged around the room.

By accident, we discovered that waving our arms near a world caused plants to grow. The more you waved, the more flora appeared. Then, as life reached a threshold, birds and animals emerged.

We then realised you could move “logs” (the silver shapes on the floor) to redirect water to specific worlds, helping them flourish. But if you sent too much to one world, the others would dry up.

For a short time, Emily Loughnan (the brilliant co-founder of Curio Publisher) and I had the space to ourselves, and every world was in harmony. Then a busload of high school students arrived and within minutes all worlds were back to ground zero. But so began their learning experience.

Later, the staff told us it cost around $50,000 USD a year just to replace the lightbulbs.

That’s transactional friction the hidden effort (and cost) required to sustain something complex. It’s why many beautiful ideas never get off the ground: the friction overwhelms the value.

When Steven Spielberg was preparing for the movie - Minority Report, he brought together a team of futurists and technologists to imagine what the world might look like in 2054, the year the film was set. You can read more about that here, but what’s remarkable is how many of those imagined technologies now exist: gesture-based interfaces, predictive policing, personalised advertising, ambient surveillance.

Was it foresight? Or did imagining it make it inevitable?

In a real-world example, I’ve been reading Apple in China by Patrick McGee (2025), which could be read as a masterclass in transactional friction at scale. From the outset, Steve Jobs demanded designs that were often impossible to manufacture. Early prototypes were sleek and pushed engineers to the brink. The only way to realise these ambitions was to reshape entire design - production systems.

That led to a cascade of complex decisions: outsourcing manufacturing from Japan, then to Taiwan, and eventually to China (for cost and capacity). Those regions invested heavily in skills, infrastructure, and sunk costs to meet Apple’s super high standards. The friction was constant (logistical, cultural, operational) but so was the will to overcome it. And it transformed and saved the company.

Imagining something as amazing as Connected Worlds or the i-Mac, or Minority Report is one thing. Building and sustaining it (and changing out the lightbulbs) is a whole other thing.

That’s where transactional friction shows up.

It seems logical that as museums are at the cutting edge of art, science and experience they would also be leaders in technology-based experiences such as Virtual Reality (VR). But VR comes with friction: hygiene protocols, charging, tech support, onboarding and debriefing. It’s generally out of reach for a cash-strapped, resource constrained institution.

Which brings me to wonder itself…

The Many Faces of Wonder

Not all wonder needs full noise.

I love hi-tech, fully immersive experiences such as the delightful work by TeamLab from Japan. I visited two TeamLab experiences in Singapore and it is amazing that people in the world are 1) creative geniuses and 2) get to do that as a job.

Team Lab, Fukuoka Forest, Japan

But some of the most profound moments of wonder I’ve experienced have come from low-tech or no-tech exhibitions.

One of the greatest? Te Papa’s Gallipoli exhibition, where Wētā Workshop built enormous, exquisitely detailed human figures. You don’t just see war you feel its weight written on their faces.

What is it about scale that moves us?

Turns out, there is a whole psychology to scale (from some online sleuthing):

1. It disrupts our cognitive expectations.
   Our brains are wired to recognise and interpret things within a certain expected range of size and proportion. When we encounter something vastly oversized or miniature, it breaks that mental model. This moment of cognitive dissonance or surprise often evokes awe, curiosity, or delight.

2. Scale evokes the sublime.
   When something is immense like a mountain, a cathedral, or a giant soldier frozen in time it taps into what philosophers call the sublime: a kind of overwhelming beauty or terror that reminds us of our smallness. It can create a feeling of reverence or humility, which is closely linked to awe and wonder.

3. Miniatures make us feel powerful.
   On the flip side, when we see intricate miniatures, we’re temporarily placed in the role of a giant. It can give a sense of control or omniscience and we see everything at once. It can also awaken childhood play instincts, which are rich in imagination and emotion.

4. Scale speaks to care.
   Whether large or small, things that are exquisitely made at extreme scale often signal deep attention to detail and craftsmanship. We intuitively understand that these things took time, intention, and love to create and we respond to that with emotional engagement.

5. It changes our physical relationship to the work.
   A giant figure makes us crane our neck. A tiny diorama draws us in close. Scale doesn’t just affect the eye it moves the body, which in turn heightens engagement and memory.

6. It activates storytelling.
   Scale often invites questions: Who is this giant? Why are they this size? What world would this miniature object come from? Wonder, at its heart, is about opening the door to new stories.

Aside from being moved by scale, I also look for contemplation….

The Quiet Exhibition

I was at the Exploratorium in San Francisco, the brainchild of Frank Oppenheimer who collected a “library of experiments”. It is full of wild energy with hundreds of screaming excited kids banging, pulling levers and pushing buttons. I was jet-lagged and tired and looking for a place to rest.

There I came across this plinth and bowl. I have always loved the underdog and with no bells and whistles - it stood quietly on its own:

I love this bit …”If the bowl contains trash (or nothing at all) think about why … Consider adding something so that the next visitor’s experience is different than yours”

I left the postcard pictured and wonder who took it. Did they think it was beautiful? Did it spark anything? Or did it get thrown away?

Mostly - Did they have a better experience because of me?

I also want to be moved …..

The Thoughtful Experience

At the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, D.C., the journey is deliberate. You begin in the basement physically and emotionally in the dark history of slavery.

As you move upward, you pass through eras: but any relief you feel about emancipation is quickly tempered by the realities of segregation, racial terror, and systemic injustice.

What makes the experience so powerful is not just the content, but the intentionality of the design. The museum integrates contemplative spaces, chapel-like areas that offer a place to sit with the weight of it all.

When the museum first opened, it featured “reflection booths” where visitors could record their thoughts and responses. They were meant to be temporary. But people flocked to them. The need to speak, to process, to make meaning from what they had just witnessed (and share their own stories) was overwhelming.

At the very end, the final exhibits are Michael Jordan and Barack Obama. Symbols of excellence and power. So far removed from the heaviness felt below and wonderful because of everything that had to be walked through to get to them.

You will have your own versions of experiences that have moved you.

What Wonder Teaches Us About Strategy

Be it business, innovation, systems change or storytelling, a brilliant idea means nothing if it can’t be delivered, sustained, and loved into life.

Imagination is essential. It’s the spark. But imagining the future is only one part of the work. Bringing it to life and keeping it alive is where the real craft begins.

That’s where transactional friction comes in. It’s not just about execution, it is about reducing the drag. Even the most magical experiences (or the most disruptive ideas) won’t last long if their upkeep is unsustainable.

Everything has a rhythm — including business.
Like a powerful piece of music. Even in hardcore metal or thrash punk, it’s not just about playing loud. It’s about timing. If all the instruments and voices are playing full throttle at the same time, all of the time, the message gets lost (and it doesn’t sound so great)

Leave space for reflection and for the pauses.

To end here’s an exhibition at the National Library of New Zealand. I discovered a cupboard full of old computers and knew visitors would love to see these. Spot the original Apple logo at the front. We partnered with Yoobee School of Design students to produce posters for the display around zeros and ones (from Flight of the Conchords). This is an example of engaging your stack from our first newsletter. It was awesome but what you can’t see is the security person hovering about to make sure no harm came to the irreplaceable tech …. and that’s transactional friction.

Ngā manaakitanga,
Tui
Bird Island