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Once upon a time in elementary school, there was a little section in our textbook on how to write instructions. For a spot of fun--and because she had to juggle three grades in one room at a time, poor woman--our teacher decided to have all of us fourth graders write out instructions on how to make a PB&J sandwich. She said we should be as detailed as possible, and that she would follow the instructions exactly, with all the classes watching. Then the resulting sandwiches would get cut up for all the kids into the room. Informative, entertaining, and involving a snack: everyone wins!
One kid's sandwich ended up without any jelly. (He didn't specify where to spread it.) One had a single slice of bread coated on each side. My instructions sort of unnerved the teacher; apparently she hadn't expected me to spend a paragraph on how to open the jars properly. But still, it was a learning experience: there are reasons for instructions, and the most common task that "everyone knows" may, in fact, need instructions aimed at someone who doesn't. Just in case.
I was thinking about that today when I found myself glowering at a package of sausages because it didn't tell me how to prepare them. I'm in the habit of getting food that tells me exactly how to convert it from its packaged form to something edible, if this process involves any step beyond "remove from package before consumption". (Many include that instruction anyway, to be on the safe side.) And I begin to wonder, at what point will bread packages start coming with helpful sandwich-making instructions written on the side?
...which I suppose I could bemoan as a sign of the Fall Of Civilization, or talk about Kids These Days (And How Dumb They Are), but really, I don't. Once upon a time, a single man (because, c'mon, it was always men who had the chance) could know everything there was to know about everything... But that was because there was only so much known. And frankly, they didn't know everything, anyway; they just knew everything they thought was important.
So as we go on with this whole civilization thing, in fits and starts (and with some things dropping out through the holes) we learn more things. More than any one person can practically know, especially if the person in question needs to actually engage in a social life, pay the rent, and possibly engage in some child care or dishwashing, because, again, it was pretty much just the rich men who could afford to sit around pursuing Nothing But Knowledge as a full-time job anyway. So we get specialists, and more specialized specialists, and you know what?
I'm pretty okay with that. I don't know how to butcher a hog, and Heinlein can bite my ass, because I don't care. It's pretty unlikely to come up. I don't know how to change the oil in my car, and again, not too worried, because I'm happy to pay someone else to do that, and use that portion of my brainmeats to learn how to get through Portal 2 (more fun!) or change the upstairs catbox efficiently (more immediately useful!).
And in a way, instructions printed on things are a sort of level of information beyond what they're instructions for: they're a way of marking out what's aimed at the amateur, as opposed to the pro (or dedicated hobbyist). If I buy a cheap pack of acrylic yarn from a giant hobby store, it'll explain how to make a basic scarf on the inside of a label; if I buy expensive silk, it expects I already have plans in mind and don't want a lot of excessive nattering about what I could be doing with that. The frozen food will tell me what to do; that pint of cream, well, it figures if I'm buying a pint of cream, I have cream-based plans, and it doesn't need to explain them to me.
So this is perhaps something of an anti-rant. There's a tendency for products these days to come with simple instructions, and clear warnings, and a lot of helpful detail that pros aren't going to need. But that's okay. Not all of us want (or have time to be) pros at everything we want-or-need to interact with briefly in passing, and I'm actually pretty happy about the sorts of expansion of knowledge that all these "Look, you haven't had time to learn about this thing, and it's okay" explanations imply.
Kinda wish I'd checked this package of sausages for helpful cooking instructions before I bought it, though. Still. Plenty of places online to find helpful step-by-step instructions aimed at amateurs like me.
One kid's sandwich ended up without any jelly. (He didn't specify where to spread it.) One had a single slice of bread coated on each side. My instructions sort of unnerved the teacher; apparently she hadn't expected me to spend a paragraph on how to open the jars properly. But still, it was a learning experience: there are reasons for instructions, and the most common task that "everyone knows" may, in fact, need instructions aimed at someone who doesn't. Just in case.
I was thinking about that today when I found myself glowering at a package of sausages because it didn't tell me how to prepare them. I'm in the habit of getting food that tells me exactly how to convert it from its packaged form to something edible, if this process involves any step beyond "remove from package before consumption". (Many include that instruction anyway, to be on the safe side.) And I begin to wonder, at what point will bread packages start coming with helpful sandwich-making instructions written on the side?
...which I suppose I could bemoan as a sign of the Fall Of Civilization, or talk about Kids These Days (And How Dumb They Are), but really, I don't. Once upon a time, a single man (because, c'mon, it was always men who had the chance) could know everything there was to know about everything... But that was because there was only so much known. And frankly, they didn't know everything, anyway; they just knew everything they thought was important.
So as we go on with this whole civilization thing, in fits and starts (and with some things dropping out through the holes) we learn more things. More than any one person can practically know, especially if the person in question needs to actually engage in a social life, pay the rent, and possibly engage in some child care or dishwashing, because, again, it was pretty much just the rich men who could afford to sit around pursuing Nothing But Knowledge as a full-time job anyway. So we get specialists, and more specialized specialists, and you know what?
I'm pretty okay with that. I don't know how to butcher a hog, and Heinlein can bite my ass, because I don't care. It's pretty unlikely to come up. I don't know how to change the oil in my car, and again, not too worried, because I'm happy to pay someone else to do that, and use that portion of my brainmeats to learn how to get through Portal 2 (more fun!) or change the upstairs catbox efficiently (more immediately useful!).
And in a way, instructions printed on things are a sort of level of information beyond what they're instructions for: they're a way of marking out what's aimed at the amateur, as opposed to the pro (or dedicated hobbyist). If I buy a cheap pack of acrylic yarn from a giant hobby store, it'll explain how to make a basic scarf on the inside of a label; if I buy expensive silk, it expects I already have plans in mind and don't want a lot of excessive nattering about what I could be doing with that. The frozen food will tell me what to do; that pint of cream, well, it figures if I'm buying a pint of cream, I have cream-based plans, and it doesn't need to explain them to me.
So this is perhaps something of an anti-rant. There's a tendency for products these days to come with simple instructions, and clear warnings, and a lot of helpful detail that pros aren't going to need. But that's okay. Not all of us want (or have time to be) pros at everything we want-or-need to interact with briefly in passing, and I'm actually pretty happy about the sorts of expansion of knowledge that all these "Look, you haven't had time to learn about this thing, and it's okay" explanations imply.
Kinda wish I'd checked this package of sausages for helpful cooking instructions before I bought it, though. Still. Plenty of places online to find helpful step-by-step instructions aimed at amateurs like me.