As a UX consultant and designer, I’ve spent years advocating for seamless, intuitive, low-friction experiences. The kind that guide users without them even realising. The kind that make a process feel like second nature. The kind that get praised in boardrooms. But over time, I’ve come to question whether "frictionless" should always be the goal.

And that question crystallised while writing my debut novel—a speculative thriller set in a near-future world where the brain can be programmed and even love isn't quite safe from interference. I'm not a published author (yet), but the process of writing fiction—especially speculative fiction—gave me space to think more critically about what we’re building, and who we’re building it for.

Because here's the uncomfortable truth: frictionless design is not neutral. In some contexts, it's liberating, in others, it's disorienting. And when abused, it's manipulative.

What Do We Lose When We Remove All the Edges?

In design, friction is usually framed as something to eliminate. Reduce clicks. Streamline navigation. Pre-fill the form. Don’t make me think.

But not thinking has a cost.

Friction can slow us down. That’s often a good thing. Especially when:

We’re making an irreversible choice.
We’re handing over data.
We’re being nudged toward something that benefits the company more than us.

A “Buy Now” button that skips all friction might boost conversions, but at what cost? When do we cross the line from user-friendly to user-exploitative? If the interface is doing all the thinking, what kind of agency is left for the person?

In my novel, one small moment of friction—a character rubbing a pendant—triggers an EMP that disables someone else’s neural enhancements. It’s a quiet gesture that causes major disruption. The pendant was never meant to be powerful. But that friction becomes the turning point, that narrative beat reminded me that in both storytelling and design, friction is not just a nuisance. It's an opportunity.

Friction as Signal, Not Obstacle

The real ethical question isn’t: "How do we remove all friction?" It’s: "Which friction is meaningful? And who decides?"

Some friction tells a story.

A double-confirmation before deleting a profile says: this matters.
A delay before submitting a medical form says: take a breath, read it again.
A modal that asks, "Are you sure you want to share your child’s photo publicly?" invites reflection.

These are not bugs. They are signals. Emotional cues. Checkpoints. They slow the user down—not to frustrate them, but to serve them.

We need to stop treating friction like a virus. Some friction is a boundary. A guardrail. A way of saying: "You’re still in control."

From Manipulation to Momentum

We’ve all seen the dark side of seamlessness. Infinite scrolls. Gamified spend tracking. Confirmshaming. Interfaces designed to keep you clicking, spending, watching, agreeing, without real intent.

These aren’t flaws. They’re features. Purposefully low-friction design used to manipulate rather than empower.

And that’s where narrative thinking has helped me. As a writer, you constantly ask: what is this character choosing, and why? Are they being propelled by their own desire, or manipulated by someone else’s agenda?

It’s the same in UX

When we design an experience, we’re writing a role for the user. Are they the protagonist, with agency and purpose? Or are they the side character nudged along by invisible forces?

Friction, when used wisely, gives users a moment to pause. To act instead of react. To steer instead of being steered.

Ethical UX Is Narrative UX

We’re past the point where good UX just means usability. Now it means responsibility.

What are we making easy? What are we making invisible? And who benefits when users move fast and don’t ask questions?

In my novel, the central tension lies in a world where choices are subtly engineered; through neural code, ambient surveillance, emotional scoring. People can act, but are they really choosing?

It’s a speculative leap, but not by much. Think about how design nudges work today; subtle default settings, persuasive microcopy, strategic visual hierarchy. These tools aren’t inherently bad, but they are powerful, and like all powerful tools, they need ethical handling.

That means:

Designing for clarity, not just efficiency.
Using moments of friction to reinforce user intent.
Letting people feel the weight of their choices, especially when it matters.

Designing Like a Writer

One thing I brought from fiction into UX is ‘tension is good’. Tension is the feeling that something matters, that there’s something at stake.

In design, we often avoid tension, we smooth it out. But in writing, tension drives engagement. It’s what makes people turn the page. So why not design experiences that acknowledge tension, rather than erasing it?

A checkout flow for climate-conscious products might include a brief carbon impact summary, not to slow the user down arbitrarily, but to make the decision feel real.

A subscription cancellation could ask a meaningful question, not just a perfunctory "Are you sure?" but "What would have made this better?" That’s not just friction, it’s closure.

These moments don’t interrupt the story. They are the story. They’re where the emotional arc happens.

Friction Is Where Ethics Live

If you strip every edge from an experience, you also strip out the user’s ability to reflect, resist, and recalibrate. You remove the opportunity for self-awareness.

Frictionless design makes everything smooth. But ethical design makes some things just rough enough to notice.

And that’s what we need now: not just beautiful flows, but responsible ones. Experiences that treat users not just as actors, but as authors of their own paths.

That means:

Building tension into moments that matter.
Designing beats of reflection.
Using narrative thinking to frame design questions not just around action, but around meaning.

Final Thoughts

Frictionless UX is a seductive goal. It’s measurable, it’s praised and it’s rewarded. But it’s not always ethical. Sometimes, the most respectful thing you can do for a user is let them feel the edge of a decision.

Writing fiction gave me the space to think about this in a different way, to see users not just as endpoints in a funnel, but as protagonists in a world increasingly shaped by hidden design. It made me ask: what story are we writing with our work? And who gets to turn the page?

Let’s stop aiming for seamlessness., let’s design for tension and make space for choice, because friction, when used with care, isn’t a flaw in the journey.

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I’m Abi Fawcus, a user experience consultant, branding, graphic and web designer, programmer, and long-time observer of the tech industry. My work blends design strategy with future-focused thinking, helping clients create better products. Contact me for more information.