My thumb is hovering over the ‘Next’ button, but it’s disabled, a mocking shade of grey that demands I first decide if I want my notifications to be ‘Gentle,’ ‘Proactive,’ or ‘Minimalist.’ I haven’t even seen the interface yet. I don’t know what the app actually does in practice, but here I am, being forced to decorate a digital room I haven’t even walked into. This is the modern user experience: a series of interrogations disguised as invitations to ‘make it your own.’ It’s a chore. It’s an administrative tax on existence. And frankly, as someone who spends 45 minutes a day helping students with dyslexia navigate the cluttered minefields of modern software, I’m reaching my breaking point with the word ‘personalization.’

I’m a dyslexia intervention specialist. My job is to make the world legible for people whose brains process symbols differently. When a developer forces a user through a 25-step onboarding process filled with ‘Which of these 235 interests describe you?’ prompts, they aren’t creating a better experience. They are building a wall. For my students, every extra screen is a point of failure. Every unnecessary toggle is a cognitive hurdle that drains their limited battery of focus. Why do I need to choose a color theme before I can write a single note? Why must I ‘verify my preferences’ for a service I haven’t even tested? The arrogance of it is staggering. It assumes that my time is an infinite resource and that my greatest desire is to spend it in a settings menu.

I’ll admit, I’ve made mistakes in this arena too. Last year, I tried to build a custom tracking sheet for my students’ progress. I spent hours-maybe 15 or 25-fiddling with the dropdown menus and conditional formatting so that it would be ‘perfectly tailored’ to each kid. I thought I was being a hero. But when I actually sat down to use it, the complexity I had built became a barrier. I was so focused on the ‘personalization’ of the data that I forgot the point was to actually talk to the human being in front of me. I fell for the same lie the tech industry is selling. I prioritized the ‘setup’ over the ‘service.’ I think about that every time I see a ‘Let’s get to know you’ screen. I don’t want you to know me. I want you to work.

There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from being asked to make choices that don’t matter. Psychologists call it decision fatigue, but in the digital world, it’s more like a death by a thousand radio buttons. If I want to buy a simple digital asset or a tool to help a student, I want the path from ‘need’ to ‘have’ to be a straight line. This is why streamlined platforms like

Push Store

are so vital; they understand that the value isn’t in the configuration, it’s in the delivery. When you provide the essential fuel for an experience without demanding a 5-page biography in return, you’re actually respecting the user’s autonomy. You’re acknowledging that my life happens outside the screen, not within the confines of your ‘preferences’ pane.

We’ve reached a point where ‘customization’ is used as a shield against poor defaults. If the software was well-designed, the defaults would work for 85 percent of people. But instead of doing the hard work of research and empathy to find those defaults, companies just outsource the decision-making to us. ‘You choose!’ they chirp, while we stare at a screen wondering why we have to decide between ‘Dark Mode,’ ‘Midnight Mode,’ and ‘Obsidian.’ It’s a false sense of agency. It’s the digital equivalent of a restaurant giving you the raw ingredients and a stove and charging you $45 for the privilege of cooking your own dinner while calling it a ‘bespoke culinary journey.’

I remember a student of mine, let’s call him Leo. Leo is brilliant, but he sees the world in fragments. He wanted to use a voice-to-text app to help him write his essays. We opened the app, and it immediately asked him to ‘calibrate his voice profile,’ choose his ‘avatar,’ select his ‘writing style,’ and opt-in to 5 different newsletters. By the time we got to the actual microphone icon, Leo was done. He had spent all his mental energy navigating the gates. The ‘personalization’ had effectively locked him out. It didn’t matter how ‘tailored’ the experience was going to be because he never got to experience it. This isn’t an edge case; it’s the reality for millions of people with cognitive differences. We are optimizing for the ‘power user’ who loves to fiddle, and in the process, we are alienating anyone who just wants to get things done.

And let’s be honest about what this ‘data’ is actually for. It’s rarely about making the app better for me. It’s about making me more legible to the machine. When I tell an app I’m a ‘Professional,’ that’s just a tag they can use to sell me a $125 enterprise subscription later. When I select my ‘interests,’ I’m just training their ad algorithm for free. It’s a brilliant con: get the user to do the work of segmenting themselves so you can more effectively monetize them, and make them feel like they’re getting a ‘premium, personalized experience’ while they do it. It’s the ultimate expression of the ‘if you’re not paying, you’re the product’ mantra, except now we’re the product and the unpaid data-entry clerk.

I want to go back to a world of lean experiences. I want tools that are opinionated. Give me a tool that says, ‘This is how we work, because we’ve tested it and it’s the most efficient way.’ I will take a slightly imperfect, pre-configured tool over a ‘perfectly customizable’ one that requires a 30-minute orientation any day of the week. We need to stop equating ‘options’ with ‘value.’ Often, the most valuable thing a developer can give me is one less choice to make. They can give me back my 5 minutes. They can let me finish my task and go back to my life, rather than inviting me to linger in their ecosystem like a guest who can’t find the exit.

Last week, I deleted an app because it asked me to ‘check in’ with my mood before I could use the search bar. My mood was ‘annoyed,’ but that wasn’t one of the 5 illustrated faces I could choose from. I realized then that my relationship with my devices has become a series of small, forced performances. I am performing the role of the ‘engaged user’ every time I click through a setup wizard. I am performing ‘personalization’ when I know, deep down, that the default settings were probably fine. We are all becoming 15 percent more exhausted every year just from the sheer weight of these digital micro-decisions.

What would happen if we just stopped? What if we demanded that software be ready for us, rather than demanding we be ready for the software? The next time an app asks you to ‘tell us a little bit about yourself’ before it lets you save a file, consider the possibility that it doesn’t actually care about you. It just wants you to do its job. We don’t need more ‘personal’ apps. We need more professional ones-the kind that do what they say on the tin, without the interrogation. I’m tired of being the architect. I just want to live in the house.