Artificial intelligence is making it easier than ever to produce work that looks professional. But as the world fills with instantly generated images, ideas and experiences, I suspect genuine expertise, craftsmanship and personal relationships are about to become more valuable than ever.
There's something rather extraordinary about being able to describe an idea to a computer and watch it produce a reasonably convincing result within seconds. A beautifully furnished apartment that doesn't exist, a brand identity for a business that hasn't opened, an advertising campaign for a product nobody has manufactured. Things that would once have required specialist knowledge, considerable planning and a meaningful financial investment can now be approximated with a few instructions and a little patience. It's impressive technology, and I'm certainly not going to pretend otherwise. I've spent much of my career working with digital products and creative technology, so I'm naturally interested in the possibilities it presents. But as artificial intelligence becomes increasingly capable, I find myself thinking less about what it can produce and more about what that means for the things we genuinely value. If almost anyone can create something that looks reasonably professional, what distinguishes the exceptional from the ordinary? What happens when attractive images, persuasive language and apparently sophisticated creative work become so abundant that their appearance alone tells us very little about the expertise behind them? And perhaps most interestingly, what happens to the value of the people who understand how to create something that is genuinely individual?
I think we're already beginning to see the answer in the growing frustration people express towards what has rather unceremoniously become known as AI slop. It's not a particularly elegant phrase, but it describes something instantly recognisable. Those endless images of impossibly beautiful interiors, suspiciously flawless people and products that appear to have been photographed somewhere between a luxury advertisement and a science-fiction film. The articles filled with familiar expressions, the websites following almost identical design patterns and the promotional content that manages to look professionally produced without communicating anything particularly interesting. Much of it is superficially impressive, especially when viewed quickly, but the longer you spend looking, the more interchangeable it becomes. I've started thinking of this phenomenon as the same but different problem. Everything appears to have its own variation, yet much of it seems to be drawing from the same collection of familiar references. Change the colours, rearrange the composition, introduce a different headline and there's another perfectly acceptable piece of material ready to publish. The difficulty is that being acceptable isn't quite the same as being memorable, and producing an enormous volume of acceptable work doesn't automatically make a business more distinctive.
I don't believe the problem is the technology itself. Artificial intelligence is capable of supporting genuinely useful work, and its capabilities will undoubtedly continue to develop. The problem arises when we begin treating the ability to produce something as evidence that it was worth producing in the first place. In my experience, some of the most valuable creative decisions are made long before the finished design starts to take shape. They're made during conversations with clients, through research, by questioning assumptions and sometimes by recognising that the original idea wasn't particularly good. A business owner may approach a designer believing they need a new identity, only to discover through discussion that their existing branding is perfectly suitable and that the real problem lies in how the business communicates its expertise. A company might commission a new website expecting something visually impressive, when what it really needs is a clearer understanding of its customers and a more useful way of presenting its services. There is considerable value in being able to recognise those differences, particularly when doing so means advising someone against spending money on work they don't actually need. That kind of judgement isn't always obvious in the finished result, but it's often the difference between something that looks good and something that genuinely works.
The value of knowing what matters
One of the things I've always enjoyed about creative direction is the opportunity to understand the people behind a project. There are the practical questions, of course, about objectives, audiences, budgets and timescales, but the most revealing conversations often move beyond those immediate requirements. You begin to understand what somebody is proud of, what frustrates them about their business, how they want customers to feel and what they're hoping to achieve over the next few years. Occasionally, something mentioned almost in passing turns out to be far more interesting than the original brief. A specialist manufacturer might talk enthusiastically about an unusual production technique that barely appears in its marketing. A property developer might reveal that the relationships they've built with architects and craftspeople are fundamental to the quality of their homes, despite their website concentrating almost entirely on floor plans and specifications. These discoveries can change the direction of a project because they reveal something distinctive that already exists within the business. The challenge is recognising its value and finding the right way to communicate it, and that requires curiosity, experience and an understanding of the people involved.
Artificial intelligence can certainly contribute to parts of this process. It can help organise research, identify subjects worth exploring, structure information and reduce the amount of time spent on repetitive work. It may even suggest an approach that hadn't occurred to anyone in the room, which can be useful when you're trying to explore a problem from different perspectives. I have no objection to using technology where it contributes something worthwhile. In fact, I think refusing to engage with it would be an odd position for someone whose career has involved designing digital products and experiences. But I would draw a distinction between using a tool to support creative thinking and allowing it to become a substitute for the thinking itself. Generating possibilities is relatively straightforward. Knowing which possibilities are appropriate, which ones deserve further development and which should be abandoned requires a different sort of judgement. Sometimes the best advice a client can receive is that the idea they're particularly excited about won't achieve what they want, or that the more expensive option won't improve the result. Those conversations are easier when there's an established relationship, mutual respect and a shared understanding of what the work is intended to accomplish.
I find this particularly relevant to the kinds of businesses and individuals who commission work at the higher end of their respective markets. Imagine planning the design of a substantial family home, commissioning a beautifully made piece of furniture or developing the identity for a specialist hospitality business. In each case, artificial intelligence could produce an extraordinary collection of visual possibilities. Some might be genuinely useful as an early means of exploring ideas, while others might be attractive enough to convince someone they've already found the answer. But there's a great deal that happens between being shown an appealing image and creating something appropriate for a particular person, place or purpose. An experienced architect understands the relationship between the building, its surroundings and the way a family actually lives. An interior designer can introduce a client to materials, makers and approaches they might never have discovered independently, while recognising the practical consequences of different decisions. A skilled cabinetmaker knows how timber behaves, how a particular joint should be constructed and what will allow a piece of furniture to remain useful and beautiful after decades of ownership. Their contribution extends beyond presenting options. They can interpret preferences, challenge assumptions, explain consequences and take responsibility for helping someone arrive at the right result.
Just as importantly, they can make the experience enjoyable. I think this is something we sometimes overlook when discussing the future of technology, particularly in industries where personal service has always been an important part of the offering. A client with the resources to commission an exceptional home, an individual piece of jewellery or a highly personal travel experience isn't necessarily looking for the quickest possible route from an initial request to a finished product. They may want to understand the possibilities, meet the people involved, learn about the materials and enjoy being guided by someone who genuinely knows their subject. There is pleasure in discovering things through another person's expertise. A specialist might introduce you to a workshop you've never heard of, explain why a particular material has been selected or recognise an opportunity that you hadn't thought to ask about. The relationship develops as the project progresses, and the experience of making decisions together can become part of what makes the finished result meaningful. This is something technology can support through better information and organisation, but replacing the human relationship entirely would change the character of the experience itself.
Luxury has always interested me for precisely this reason. It involves questions of value that can't be answered simply by looking at how efficiently something performs its basic function. An inexpensive quartz watch may keep excellent time, yet people continue to admire and collect mechanical watches that require intricate engineering and considerable expertise to produce. A digitally distributed document can communicate information perfectly well, yet there's still something satisfying about a beautifully printed and bound publication. Furniture can be manufactured efficiently at scale, but there remains a market for pieces made individually by skilled craftspeople who understand the materials and methods involved. These choices aren't always economically rational if we judge them purely against practical utility, but people rarely make meaningful purchasing decisions on utility alone. Provenance, craftsmanship, individuality, personal association and the pleasure of ownership can all contribute to how something is valued. That doesn't mean everything handmade is automatically superior, or that modern manufacturing and technology cannot produce exceptional results. It means that the story of how something came into existence, and the people responsible for it, can become part of the attraction.
For businesses serving affluent and high-net-worth individuals, I suspect this human dimension will become an increasingly important distinction as automation develops. These customers are not a single, predictable group, and it would be a mistake to assume that everyone with substantial resources shares the same preferences. Some will enthusiastically adopt whatever technology makes their lives easier, while others may feel strongly about traditional craftsmanship or personal service. Many will appreciate both. But when someone has access to a wide range of products and experiences, the nature of the relationship can become especially important. Being able to speak directly with an experienced specialist, knowing that person understands your preferences and trusting them to make sensible recommendations can provide a level of reassurance that goes beyond the technical quality of the final product. A longstanding relationship with an adviser or craftsperson may also create opportunities for more individual work, because the specialist develops a deeper understanding of the client over time. That's difficult to capture in an attractive advertisement, but anyone who has experienced an excellent personal service will recognise the difference it makes.
A more interesting future for craftsmanship
One consequence of increasingly capable generative technology may be a renewed appreciation for the evidence of human work. I'm particularly interested in the sketches, prototypes, material samples and unfinished stages that usually remain behind the scenes. As a designer, I've always enjoyed seeing how something develops, whether that's the early drawings for a building, the working models of an industrial designer or the first proofs of a printed publication. These things reveal decisions being made and problems being worked through. They also show that a finished object didn't simply arrive in its final form, but developed through a process involving expertise, experimentation and individual judgement. I've recently spent time designing and drawing our family's coat of arms, a personal project that has reminded me how satisfying it is to work through an idea and see it become something tangible. The finished artwork matters to me enormously, but so do the sketches and the record of how it developed. They're part of the story, and I can imagine our children finding them just as interesting as the finished illustration in years to come.
I think there may be a growing appetite for that sort of authenticity in commercial work too. When a company can generate a photographically convincing image of almost anything, a genuine photograph of a real object, a real workshop or a real place begins to communicate something beyond its immediate subject. It establishes that the thing being shown actually exists, and that the people responsible for it have something substantive to demonstrate. For a manufacturer, this might mean revealing the precision of its processes or the finishing techniques that distinguish its products. For an architectural practice, it could involve showing physical material samples, working drawings and the building as it genuinely appears in its surroundings. For a specialist design consultancy, it might mean sharing the thinking and development that lead to the final work rather than presenting only immaculate finished images. None of this needs to become a performance in which every creative decision is documented for marketing purposes. In fact, excessive attempts to demonstrate authenticity can begin to feel rather artificial themselves. But there is something compelling about allowing people to see the knowledge, effort and character that contribute to exceptional work.
It also raises questions about the responsibility we have when presenting products, places and services. Generated imagery can be remarkably convincing, and there are legitimate reasons to use it during concept development or to explore something that hasn't yet been created. The difficulty begins when an image that represents a possibility is presented as though it documents a reality. If somebody is considering purchasing a substantial property, they need to understand what exists, what is proposed and what remains illustrative. If a business is commissioning a specialist manufacturer, it should be able to distinguish genuine production capabilities from an attractive fictional representation. And if a creative consultancy presents examples of previous work, prospective clients deserve an accurate understanding of what was actually produced and the role the consultancy played. Trust is particularly important when significant amounts of money, personal expectations or long-term relationships are involved. A convincing image may attract attention, but if the finished experience fails to match the impression created, the initial advantage can disappear rather quickly.
This is one reason I don't believe businesses should assume that more generated content automatically represents better communication. There appears to be an increasing temptation to fill every available channel with articles, images, promotional messages and campaigns simply because producing them has become easier. I can understand the commercial reasoning, particularly when companies are under pressure to remain visible. But I wonder whether the result will be an audience that's increasingly selective about what deserves its attention. If every brand publishes an endless stream of polished material, the companies with something genuinely interesting to say may benefit from exercising greater editorial judgement. They might publish fewer articles but make them more substantial, commission photography that reveals the real character of their products or spend more time developing meaningful relationships with the people they want to reach. In that environment, the value of a distinctive point of view could become more apparent, because it offers something that can't be achieved merely by increasing the volume of production.
The same thinking applies to the way we approach the customer experience. Artificial intelligence is capable of supporting useful improvements in research, information retrieval, planning and administration, and I can see enormous potential in removing repetitive tasks that consume time without contributing much to the quality of a relationship. A specialist travel adviser who spends less time organising routine information may have more opportunity to understand a client's preferences and develop an individual itinerary. An architectural practice might use digital tools to explore technical constraints more efficiently, giving the team additional time to think about the experience of living in the building. A creative director may use AI to help organise research or prepare working information, while continuing to collaborate directly with photographers, designers, developers and craftspeople on the elements that require their particular expertise. These applications seem entirely sensible to me, provided the technology is reliable, the information is handled responsibly and the client understands how the work is being undertaken where that matters.
What interests me is the possibility of using technology to create more room for personal attention rather than using it simply to remove people from the process. There is a meaningful difference between making an organisation more efficient and making its customers feel as though they're dealing with an automated system at every opportunity. Some interactions are routine and benefit from being completed quickly. Others are complicated, emotional or financially significant, and those are often the moments when somebody appreciates speaking with an experienced person who can listen, interpret the situation and take responsibility for what happens next. A company that understands those differences can make better decisions about where technology belongs. It may automate routine administration while making access to a knowledgeable specialist easier, rather than treating every personal conversation as an expense to be eliminated. For businesses whose reputation depends on service, I think that distinction could become a substantial advantage.
Why I feel optimistic about what comes next
There's another aspect of the current debate that makes me surprisingly optimistic about the future of independent creative businesses. For a long time, the size of an organisation has been associated with the range of services it can provide and the complexity of the projects it can undertake. Large agencies and established consultancies can offer considerable resources, extensive teams and established systems, and those qualities remain valuable in many circumstances. But improvements in technology are changing some of the practical demands involved in running a smaller creative business. Experienced individuals can access tools that help with organisation, research and production, while collaborating with trusted specialists when a project requires additional expertise. This creates an opportunity to build a different kind of working relationship with clients, one in which they have direct access to someone who understands the overall creative direction and remains personally involved in the decisions that matter.
That model appeals to me enormously, not because technology will somehow make everyone capable of doing every specialist job, but because it can allow people to concentrate on the work in which their experience makes the greatest difference. I don't need to become a professional architectural photographer to direct the photography for a property business. I need to understand what the images should communicate, identify a photographer with the appropriate expertise and work closely with them to develop the result. Equally, creating a beautiful printed publication involves knowledge that extends beyond the design on screen. The choice of paper, the behaviour of inks, binding methods and production finishes all benefit from collaboration with people who know their particular discipline exceptionally well. Those relationships are part of what makes the work enjoyable, and I'd have very little interest in replacing them simply because software could produce a superficially similar appearance.
I also believe there may be a commercial opportunity for people who can demonstrate genuine expertise and an identifiable creative perspective. If competent-looking design becomes increasingly easy to obtain, clients commissioning substantial work may become more particular about who they choose to work with and why. They'll still expect excellent outcomes, but they may also place greater importance on the ability to receive experienced advice, access a trusted network of specialists and work with someone who understands the wider implications of creative decisions. I suspect that could support stronger premiums for genuinely individual, human-led work in certain markets, although it would be premature to assume that every creative service will become more valuable simply because a person provides it. A premium has to be earned through the quality of the thinking, the result and the experience of working together. There is little value in insisting something is special because it was made by a human if the work itself doesn't justify that claim.
In some ways, this is a useful challenge for the creative professions. If software can produce attractive layouts, plausible imagery and competent written material with increasing ease, designers and creative directors will need to become more articulate about the value they contribute beyond production. That value might lie in understanding a client's business, identifying an opportunity, bringing specialist knowledge to a complicated problem or making decisions that improve the experience of the people who will eventually use the work. It might also lie in having the confidence to disagree with a client when an idea isn't appropriate, or to recommend a simpler solution when a more elaborate one would achieve very little. I don't think these are skills that should have been taken for granted in the past, and the current changes may encourage us to take them more seriously. Personally, I'd much rather be valued for the quality of my judgement and the relationships I develop than for my ability to produce the greatest number of designs in the shortest possible time.
I find it interesting that many of the things people continue to cherish already demonstrate how easily practical convenience can coexist with an appreciation for human skill. We have extraordinarily accurate digital clocks, yet mechanical watches remain desirable. We can store entire libraries on small electronic devices, but beautifully produced books continue to attract readers and collectors. Furniture can be manufactured with remarkable efficiency, yet people still commission individual pieces from specialist workshops. Restaurants have access to increasingly sophisticated systems, but the presence of a talented chef and a knowledgeable front-of-house team remains central to the experience of dining somewhere exceptional. None of these examples means that traditional practices are immune to change, and some have faced considerable commercial challenges. They do, however, demonstrate that people are capable of valuing the experience, individuality and provenance of something even when a more efficient alternative exists.
I imagine the future of creative work will develop in a similar way, with different customers placing value on different aspects of the process. Some will want a fast, affordable result and will be perfectly happy to use increasingly sophisticated automated services. Others will prefer the involvement of experienced specialists, particularly when the commission is personal, complex or significant to them. Many will move between the two approaches depending on the circumstances. I don't see much benefit in suggesting that one group is making the wrong choice. The more useful question is what kind of experience a particular business wants to provide, and whether its use of technology supports that ambition. If a company prides itself on craftsmanship, personal attention and exceptional service, those qualities should remain apparent throughout the relationship, even if sophisticated technology is working behind the scenes to make parts of the process more efficient.
For my own work, I find the direction rather liberating. I'm happy to explore AI tools and use them where they make a genuine contribution. I can see their value in research, organisation and aspects of the creative process, and I expect my understanding of their capabilities will continue to develop. But I have no particular ambition to compete with a computer on how many images or articles it can generate in an afternoon. I'm much more interested in developing relationships with people who care about what they're creating, understanding the businesses they're building and helping them make decisions that produce work with substance and individuality. I enjoy the conversations, the development of ideas, the satisfaction of finding the right specialist for a particular challenge and the process of seeing something become real. Those are the parts of creative work that have kept me interested throughout my career, and I don't see why the arrival of more capable technology should make them any less rewarding.
If anything, I hope it creates the opportunity to do more of them. Less time spent on repetitive administration, more time understanding interesting businesses and the people behind them. Greater access to useful information, but also greater appreciation for genuine experience and judgement. Better tools for exploring possibilities, alongside the confidence to recognise when a personal conversation, a hand-drawn sketch or a visit to a specialist workshop is the more valuable way forward. There's no reason these things need to be in conflict. The challenge is to understand the contribution each can make and to resist the temptation to use technology simply because it's available.
I don't know exactly how artificial intelligence will change the creative professions over the coming years, and I'm generally suspicious of anyone who claims to have a definitive answer. Its capabilities are developing rapidly, and some of the distinctions that seem important today may look rather different in the future. What I do believe is that people will continue to seek out experiences that make them feel understood, work that reflects an individual perspective and relationships with specialists whose knowledge they respect. Those things have been valuable for a very long time, and the abundance of instantly generated alternatives may give us additional reasons to appreciate them.
Perhaps the most encouraging possibility is that artificial intelligence won't simply change what we can create. It may help us become more aware of what makes certain things worth creating, why we admire the people who make them and how much satisfaction there is in being part of the process. For businesses built around genuine expertise, craftsmanship and personal relationships, that feels like a future worth looking forward to.