I bought a Nest, a “cloud-based” programmable and semi-intelligent thermostat, a few years ago after Don Norman raved about it. And Don was spot on (as he had been with other items like the iRobot vacuum and the Starck Juicy Salif). It was an exciting courtship—from taking it out of the box, to the first time I adjusted the heat in my home when I was in another country—and I really did love it.

nest on the wall, black face and brushed chrome dial

But things went sour. Over the last few months, love morphed to agitation. Agitation turned to dislike. And dislike swelled to antipathy. How has this inanimate device gone from astounding to abominable? In the spirit of self-psychoanalysis, I have deconstructed and determined that most of the reasons can be attributed to broken UX principles and ignored UX heuristics. And most important, this is a palpable case of emotional design gone awry.

In his book, “Emotional Design: Why We Love (Or Hate) Everyday Things” Don Norman describes the 3 building blocks of emotional design. These are:

  • The visceral level “is what nature does”, it “dominates physical features, has the same rules all over the world.”
  • The reflective level “is all about the message, culture, the meaning of the product or its use; evoking personal remembrance; self-image.”
  • The behavioral level “is all about use...function comes first.”

I can attribute each of my loves or distastes for the Nest under these 3 levels.

Took Away My Control (Behavioral)

When I first got my Nest I felt like I had super powers because it connected to Wi-Fi and enabled me to adjust my home’s temperature using the Nest website or tablet app. This was unheard of for a thermostat at that time. But this positive feature has been eclipsed by negative elements that commandeered control. (And control is what you really want when it comes to using a device.)

A learning device implies that it will not only pick up on what you usually do, but it will also: 1) allow you to change, and 2) absorb those changes. My Nest learned quite well, but then stopped learning. It remembered but it didn’t look for variations or adapt. It was the equivalent of a printed textbook: Facts, correct or not, become law if written in there and thus will be taught that way until the school chooses a different textbook.

When I turned the dial to increase the heat to 66 degrees, rather than responding by making the house warmer, or by informing me that it is now working toward this, it read, "in 1 hour and 20 minutes 66 degrees until 10:00PM.” The next day the house temperature plummeted to a punishing 50 degrees (I realize I may be spoiled) for no reason I was privy to. Here, by the way, is another usability heuristic not heeded: visibility of system status.

Try as I might, it won’t listen. So I pull on another sweater (a la Jimmy Carter) and mittens and a hat. Indoors. In my home. I am serious. And I wait until my thermostat decides that I am worthy of radiant warmth.

Is Not Transparent (Reflective)

Why doesn’t Nest let me turn up the heat by turning the dial? Could this stubborn UI be Nest’s way of forcing customers to save energy? Is this part of a master plan so advertisements can tout that Nest has helped save zillions of watts? Probably not, but I am a user like any other user, and I sometimes go to dark places when I am confused (and cold). People form mental models about devices and when none fits, then an explanation like the one I deduced becomes plausible.

Makes Me Look Bad (Reflective)

When the Nest was a new thing, my guests asked about it, touched it, and were fascinated by it. By association it made me look more interesting. But now, because I can’t control the climate in my own home it makes me look bad, as though I am too cheap to turn the heat on. It’s embarrassing. I have had people over, freezing, who keep their coats making some polite excuse like, “I got a chill at the office I just can’t shake.”

Makes Me Feel Stupid (Reflective & Visceral)

At first, the Nest made me feel great. It was helping me save energy. It made it easy to do that, calculated how much energy I had saved, and reminded me about this via regular status emails. I could also look for the information myself using their apps. I was proud to be an early adopter of such a unique, cool, and expensive item. Yes, I was shallow and nerdy all at the same time.

But now that I can’t get the device to do what I want it to do, I feel incompetent. I wonder if this is my fault and what I am doing wrong.

But then I get some perspective and think about the main tasks people do with this device: make the house warmer or cooler. Even the biggest technophobe in the world should be able to master turning a dial to a particular number.

Beauty Is Only Chrome Deep (Visceral)

The Nest looks pretty on my wall, especially as opposed to its old, utilitarian-looking predecessor. The physical appearance may win every beauty contest, but if I can’t do what I want with it, then it’s art not design.

Makes It Difficult to Recover (Behavioral)

Reprogramming the thermostat means dealing with several tiny little circles that represent the temperature at different times. Whether using the app on a tablet, or using the Nest itself, it is incredibly tedious and slow to make these changes. Yes it’s programmable, but it feels like Linux.

Small orange dots for dragging and changing the temperature

Using the app on my tablet, it’s not easy to touch, tap, and drag to adjust the dots in the schedule.

And it doesn’t seem possible to change the temperature at all using the iPhone app. It’s irritating that I can't do this important task, yet I can easily see how to spend more money with the company: add another Nest to the app; and buy a new service, Nest Protect. 

Simple looking but no way to change the temperature   commands for adding a thermostat and adding nest protect are visible buttons    

It’s not easy to find a way to adjust the temperature using the phone app.

Not Moving With the Times (Reflective)

When I bought the Nest, $250 seemed reasonable for such a unique, helpful, and pleasurable device. But today there are several well-rated, programmable thermostats that cost about 1/3 of the price. (Though they may not all connect to Wi-Fi, or attempt to learn my habits.) The shortcomings related to long-term use may have cut into its competitive edge.

Did Not Consider My State of Mind or Situation: Agitated and Cold (Visceral)

I live in the Boston area. Winter 2015. We have had record-breaking snowfall and many of us fear it will never stop. The groundhog just saw his shadow. There is snow everywhere and more is predicted, and soon. So even on days when the thermometer says it’s not that cold, it looks and feels cold. My mental state is as raw as my shovel-worn hands are. And being perpetually cold is not just a little nuisance; it’s one of the basic, physiological needs in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Without these met humans can’t function.

Inconsistent: It Made Me Love it Then Let Me Down, and Didn’t Meet Expectations (Reflective)

Not any product can solicit this kind of animosity. The fact that I loved it first is the real fuel here. It’s sort of like a bad breakup: If you really adored the person before the relationship’s end, the finale can be so much more bitter or vicious than if you were apathetic toward the person and things just fizzled. So when my Nest let me down, it didn’t just drop me; it kicked me to the curb.

Summarizing Emotional Design Elements (Visceral, Behavioral, and Reflective)

To be fair, Nest got so much right: The website has delightful elements, the apps make adjusting the climate from anywhere possible, the organization paired with energy companies to market it and give rebates, the design was pioneering, and the dial itself is beautiful. From an emotional-design perspective, the visceral, reflective, and behavioral elements were all very strong in the beginning. Over the years the behavioral level started lacking: the device became hard to use, as it stopped working to meet my needs. Interestingly, in turn, the behavioral downfalls greatly affected the reflective level. Once the device became unpredictable, the emotions toward the Nest turned negative. Visceral levels remained strong the longest, with classically good-looking elements, and a soothing style for the apps and email newsletter. But now even those have been damaged, and the device taunts me on my wall. I never stand in front of it and adore it anymore, as I had. (I am a dork.)

Moving On

Ironically, just after St. Valentine’s Day, I have decided to divorce my Nest. I’ll remove it from my wall, unceremoniously and with no fanfare. In its stead my fiancé will install a not-so-pretty, 35-dollar programmable thermostat we’ll pick up somewhere, probably using a discount coupon. With my new thermostat I doubt that there will be a whirlwind courtship, or showing it off to friends and family as it had been with the Nest. But I hope for a comfortable, long-term relationship, which is just what I need now from my thermostat.