nico://log

Today I went in to buy a burger and ended up in a kind of digital obstacle course, one that seemed designed to measure how much effort I'd put in before giving up and eating somewhere else.

First I went to the cashier, like always, but they told me I could only pay in cash or with MODO. I never use MODO, though I had the app installed, so I opened it to see if I could sort it out there. Before showing me anything useful, it asked me to update it.

I didn't feel like updating an app at the register just to buy a burger, so I tried one of the self-service kiosks. In theory those machines are there to speed things up, avoid lines, and let you order at your own pace. In practice, the first thing it did was ask me to log in.

I just wanted a burger, not to create an account or start a long-term relationship with the company. It took me a while to find the option to skip that step, and it was far less visible than the buttons inviting me to register or sign in.

Once inside, the menu didn't help much either. The screen was full of giant photos, promotions, combos, and featured products, and the descriptive text was minimal. A lot to look at, not much to actually read: it was hard to tell what each product included or what really set one option apart from another.

Choosing the burger wasn't the hard part. Ordering the plain version was, because the whole interface, spread across a vertical 32-inch screen less than half a meter from my face, a format already at odds with how we actually see, seemed built to push me toward the bigger, more expensive option. The larger sizes, add-ons, and upgrades got huge photos and flashy buttons. The normal version was there, but you had to find it among all the chances to spend a little more.

After turning down a pile of extras, I finished the order and got to payment. The kiosk showed two options and I chose Mercado Pago, assuming it would give me a QR code to scan with my phone, like almost anywhere else.

I stood there in front of the screen, not really sure what to do. After a few seconds an employee came over and explained that it worked the other way around: I wasn't meant to scan a code from the kiosk. I had to open Mercado Pago, generate my own payment QR, and point it at the machine's reader.

That option wasn't especially obvious inside the app either. I ended up in a section I mostly recognized from paying for public transit, not for buying food. I found the code, pointed it at the reader, and waited.

It didn't read it.

We tried again, moving the phone, changing the distance, bringing it closer to the sensor. The reader still wouldn't react, until all at once the kiosk canceled the whole thing and went back to the start screen. The entire order was gone.

The employee ended up walking me to the next kiosk and typing the burger in from scratch himself. The self-service system had needed a human to finish a purchase that same employee could have rung up at a register in under a minute.

The thing is, each individual decision probably makes sense on its own. The app wants to build loyalty, the kiosk cuts down on cashiers, the big photos help sell products, the featured options push up the average order. The problem shows up when all those decisions stack on top of each other and nobody seems to be looking at the whole experience from the point of view of the person who just wants to eat something.

In a few minutes I had to open an app I never use, find out it needed an update, work around the login, navigate an interface built to promote the most expensive options, decode an unusual payment method, and redo the entire order because a reader couldn't recognize a code.

Self-service is supposed to remove steps and make an everyday task faster. Done badly, it just shifts the company's work onto the customer and turns a simple operation into a test of patience.

I had gone in to buy a burger. Badly designed technology did everything it could to stop me.