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Welcome to the Blok Blok Studio blog — where we share ideas, insights, and strategies to help you grow, create, and innovate. Whether you’re looking for practical tips, industry trends, or fresh perspectives, you’ll find resources here to inspire your next move.
When I visited LA and even as I explored New York City, I started to notice the same thing happening in both cities. The corners that used to hold weird little shops were turning into oat milk dispensaries. The record stores were gone, replaced by matte-finished cafés where no one seemed to be talking. Every block still looked like a city, but it had stopped feeling like one. The noise was different. Everything was cleaner, shinier, more expensive, and somehow more forgettable.
The app world is going through the same thing.
Last week, I downloaded three new apps. I only kept one. The others got deleted before I even remembered what they were called. One was supposed to be a writing tool, but onboarding felt like doing my taxes. The other looked nice at first, until I tapped into a UI that felt like a half-finished group project. The one I kept? It just worked. It was calm, confident, and moved like it knew what it was. I opened it, and instantly knew what to do. I felt considered. That’s what stuck.
This is what the digital landscape has become. A grid full of clean lines and empty apartments. The App Store used to feel like a city with personality. Now it feels like a row of luxury condos built for no one in particular. You scroll through and everything looks good at a glance, but most of it falls apart under pressure. The apps that thrive today aren’t just useful. They feel lived-in. They feel like places.
Think about Spill. Or Are.na. Think about how Notion keeps evolving without bloating. Or how Headspace still hits the mood just right with one gradient and a single chime. These apps feel like destinations. You open them and your brain knows it’s allowed to breathe. They aren’t chasing flash. They’re built with tone and timing and rhythm. You can feel that someone who actually uses apps built them.
A good app doesn’t assume it has your attention. It earns it. And it earns it fast. If your onboarding takes five swipes and a how-to video, you're already on thin ice. People want apps that open quickly, guide clearly, and offer value before you’ve finished blinking. Users don’t have patience for friction. They expect instant fluency. They want to feel seen, not taught.
Motion and micro-interactions matter too. The transitions. The menus. The way it scrolls. If it feels clunky or slow, people assume it’s untrustworthy. That’s not about aesthetics. That’s about design as infrastructure. A beautiful interface means nothing if it doesn’t move with intention. The smallest details—how a tab opens, how fast a button responds—tell your user everything about whether or not you took them seriously.
And then there’s tone. A lot of apps launch with no real voice. They lean on minimalism to hide the fact that they have no point of view. But we’re past that now. Beige functionality with over-designed logos doesn’t cut it. People want charm. They want clarity. They want to know someone thought about the language as much as the layout.
A good app should feel like stepping into the right kind of room. Not the most expensive one. The one that’s lit well, that smells good, that understands the vibe without having to announce it. That’s what keeps people coming back. Not just features. Atmosphere. Architecture. Soft power.
The truth is, digital real estate has gentrified. Attention is expensive. There’s too much noise. Too many knockoffs. If your app doesn’t immediately feel like it belongs in 2025, people will assume it doesn’t belong at all. They’ll delete it before the loading screen finishes.
Yes, your app should solve a problem. But it should also have presence. People don’t just want function. They want rhythm, story, and a sense of someone behind the curtain who actually cares. Someone who understands pacing. Someone who knows how to get to the point without yelling.
Because no one wants to visit a condo where the lights are dim, there’s no music playing, and everyone’s sitting around in silence. You show up, the couch is stiff, the walls are bare, and your host keeps asking if you’ve seen the view, even though there’s nothing to look at. That’s what using a lifeless app feels like. You might stay for a minute, maybe out of politeness or habit, but you're already planning your exit. An app doesn’t need to throw a party, but it should at least know how to greet you. If the energy is off, it doesn’t matter how well the elevator works. You’re just not coming back.
