Why I Don’t Read the Instructions.

Whenever we purchase a piece of flat-packed furniture, I don’t follow the instructions—much to my wife’s despair.

Instead, I instinctively take everything out of the box. I spread the pieces across the floor, turn them over and look at how they might connect. I separate the fixings, compare the holes and try to picture the finished piece of furniture.

This isn’t because I enjoy making the job more difficult, and it certainly isn’t driven by an intrinsic desire for chaos.

I want to understand how it works.

Instructions usually teach you how to reproduce a result. Put this piece here. Insert dowel A into panel B. Tighten screw C. Follow the sequence correctly and, with any luck, you will arrive at the intended outcome.

But you may finish knowing very little more about the thing than when you started.

You have completed the procedure, but have you actually learned how it works?

Following is not the same as understanding

Following instructions can turn us into temporary robots.

We perform the prescribed action, observe the result and move on to the next step. We don’t necessarily know why the sequence matters, what each component does or what would happen if we changed something.

Sometimes that is perfectly adequate. There are also situations where instructions must be followed precisely for reasons of safety or accuracy. I’m not suggesting that we should improvise when wiring a plug or assembling something that might collapse beneath us.

But completing something and understanding it are different achievements.

If I follow a set of instructions perfectly, I might produce exactly what the designer intended. If something goes wrong later, however, I may have no idea how to diagnose it. I know the sequence I followed, but I don’t understand the system.

The knowledge still belongs to the person who wrote the instructions.

I have only borrowed it.

I want to see the construction

When I spread those pieces of furniture across the floor, I am building a mental picture.

What does this panel connect to? Why is it finished on one side but not the other? What does this bracket support? Which part needs to be fitted before another part blocks access to it?

Once I understand the construction, the sequence begins to make sense.

I’m not trying to discover a more exciting way to insert screw B into panel C. I want to understand why screw B belongs there and what panel C contributes to the finished structure.

The same instinct applies beyond physical objects.

When I encounter a new piece of software, website or business system, I don’t just want to know which button to press. I want to understand what the button changes, where the information goes and what depends on it afterwards.

That understanding changes what I can do. I can diagnose a fault, adapt the process or apply the same principle somewhere else. I am no longer limited to reproducing one predetermined result.

Following instructions teaches you the procedure.

Understanding the construction teaches you the thing.

Good design should make sense

Looking at how something is constructed also gives me an opinion about how well it has been designed.

Good design communicates.

With well-designed flat-packed furniture, the pieces begin to explain themselves. The holes align, the fixings have a clear purpose and the structure suggests a logical order of assembly.

A well-designed digital experience should work in much the same way. The next action feels obvious. You know where to look, what to press and what is likely to happen when you do.

The design itself guides you.

That doesn’t make instructions unnecessary. Complex products and unfamiliar systems will always require some explanation. But there is a difference between instructions that support good design and instructions that compensate for a confusing one.

If people repeatedly need detailed guidance to complete a routine action, the problem may not be their failure to read. It may be that the design isn’t communicating clearly enough.

A website shouldn’t need a paragraph explaining how to reach the checkout. A form shouldn’t require separate guidance to explain what belongs in each box. A product shouldn’t present several equally plausible ways of assembling it when only one is correct.

When something requires pages of explanation, I begin to wonder whether the instructions are teaching me how it works or apologising for how it was designed.

The writer already knows the answer

Instructions are usually written by somebody who understands the finished product. They know what each part is called, where it belongs and why the sequence matters.

That knowledge changes how they see the task.

To them, the instructions appear perfectly logical because they already possess the understanding that makes them logical. They are describing a journey while standing at the destination.

The person sitting on the floor, surrounded by wooden panels and several bags of nearly identical screws, doesn’t have that advantage.

“Attach the support bracket” makes perfect sense when you know which piece is the support bracket and what it is supporting. “Select the appropriate option” is straightforward when you already know which option is appropriate.

Technically correct instructions can still be difficult to follow because they describe what to do without explaining why you are doing it.

Good instructions don’t just issue commands. They help the reader build the same mental picture as the person who designed the process.

They impart knowledge rather than simply controlling behaviour.

Understanding creates independence

Once I understand how something works, I begin asking better questions.

Does it have to be done in this order? Why has this additional step been introduced? What happens if something goes wrong? Could the same result be achieved more clearly?

These questions aren’t an attempt to undermine the original design. They are how I begin to engage with it properly.

Without understanding, my only measure of success is whether I reached the intended result. With understanding, I can consider whether the result—and the route used to reach it—makes sense.

That is where improvement begins. It is also where creativity begins: not creativity as random experimentation, but as the ability to imagine a considered alternative.

You can only make a meaningful change when you understand what you are changing. Otherwise, you are just pressing different buttons to see what happens.

The best instructions don’t simply get you through the immediate task. They leave you better prepared for the next one.

That is the difference between teaching and directing.

Direction says: do this, then do that.

Teaching says: this is what we are trying to achieve, this is how the parts work together, and this is why the next action matters.

One produces compliance. The other creates independence.

So, no, I don’t always read the instructions—not immediately, anyway.

First, I look at the pieces. I examine how they connect. I try to understand what the designer intended and whether the design makes that intention clear.

Then I read the instructions.

Sometimes they confirm what I have already worked out. Sometimes they reveal something about the construction that I hadn’t yet seen. And occasionally, they confirm that my wife was right and I should have read them before taking everything out of the box.

I don’t want to be told only what to do next.

I want to know why it comes next.

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