Designing for More Than One Moment

I’ve been thinking a lot about objects that try to be more than one thing.

A jacket that turns into a bag. A table that folds into the wall.A lamp that’s modular, customizable, endlessly adjustable. Furniture designed to collapse, expand, stack, nest, or disappear.

Multifunctional products are often positioned as the pinnacle of good design. They promise efficiency, flexibility, and cleverness. They feel modern. They photograph well. They make sense in a pitch deck.

But I keep coming back to a quieter question: what happens in the moments between uses?

Take the jacket that becomes a bag. It’s a great idea until it gets cold again. Now the thing you want to wear is holding everything you own. Where do those items go? On the ground? In your hands? The design solved one scenario while quietly introducing another.

Or consider modular lighting. The idea that a lamp can be rearranged to fit different moods or aesthetics sounds empowering. But in reality, lamps tend to be static objects. Once they’re placed, they stay. How often does someone actually reconfigure a lamp after the novelty wears off? Is the flexibility addressing a real behavior or an imagined one?

This isn’t an argument against multifunctionality. It’s an argument for intentionality.

As designers, we’re drawn to versatility. We like systems that adapt, objects that transform, products that do more with less. But adaptability always comes with trade-offs. When we add a second function, something else is often compromised—clarity, comfort, durability, or ease of use.

Accessibility is a good example. Designing something to be accessible should expand who can use it, not create friction elsewhere. A product shouldn’t become harder to understand, heavier to carry, or more fragile just to satisfy an additional use case. One purpose shouldn’t quietly sabotage the other.

This way of thinking mirrors how we approach UX.

In digital design, we don’t design a single screen in isolation. We think in flows, states, edge cases, and consequences. One action leads to another. One decision unlocks something while closing off something else. Good UX accounts for transitions, interruptions, mistakes, and returns.

Physical products deserve the same level of thought.

Objects live in real environments, with real constraints. They’re used while distracted, tired, rushed, or improvising. They’re shared, misused, repurposed, and forgotten. Designing for more than one moment means acknowledging that reality, not designing around an idealized user.

It also means asking harder questions upfront:

• What problem are we actually solving?

• Who is this for, and how often will they use each function?

• Are we creating a solution, or are we creating a new problem to justify the solution?

• Would this product be stronger if it did less, but did it better?

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Sometimes the most thoughtful design choice is restraint. Sometimes it’s committing fully to one function and executing it exceptionally well. Other times, it’s designing flexibility that feels invisible rather than performative.

The objects around us shape behavior, not just aesthetics. They influence how we move, organize, carry, rest, and interact. When we design them, we’re designing small futures—everyday futures that people live inside of.

If we want those futures to be better, we need to think beyond clever transformations and ask whether our designs truly support the way people live, change, and adapt.

Good design isn’t just about doing more. It’s about understanding when more actually matters.