I propose we define spam as unsolicited automated email. This definition thus includes some email that many legal definitions of spam don't. Legal definitions of spam, influenced presumably by lobbyists, tend to exclude mail sent by companies that have an "existing relationship" with the recipient. But buying something from a company, for example, does not imply that you have solicited ongoing email from them. If I order something from an online store, and they then send me a stream of spam, it's still spam.

Companies sending spam often give you a way to "unsubscribe," or ask you to go to their site and change your "account preferences" if you want to stop getting spam. This is not enough to stop the mail from being spam. Not opting out is not the same as opting in. Unless the recipient explicitly checked a clearly labelled box (whose default was no) asking to receive the email, then it is spam.

In some business relationships, you do implicitly solicit certain kinds of mail. When you order online, I think you implicitly solicit a receipt, and notification when the order ships. I don't mind when Verisign sends me mail warning that a domain name is about to expire (at least, if they are the actual registrar for it). But when Verisign sends me email offering a FREE Guide to Building My E-Commerce Web Site, that's spam.

[1] The examples in this article are translated into Common Lisp for, believe it or not, greater accessibility. The application described here is one that we wrote in order to test a new Lisp dialect called Arc that is not yet released.

[2] Currently the lowest rate seems to be about $200 to send a million spams. That's very cheap, 1/50th of a cent per spam. But filtering out 95% of spam, for example, would increase the spammers' cost to reach a given audience by a factor of 20. Few can have margins big enough to absorb that.

[3] As a rule of thumb, the more qualifiers there are before the name of a country, the more corrupt the rulers. A country called The Socialist People's Democratic Republic of X is probably the last place in the world you'd want to live.

Thanks to Sarah Harlin for reading drafts of this; Daniel Giffin (who is also writing the production Arc interpreter) for several good ideas about filtering and for creating our mail infrastructure; Robert Morris, Trevor Blackwell and Erann Gat for many discussions about spam; Raph Levien for advice about trust metrics; and Chip Coldwell and Sam Steingold for advice about statistics.

Design and Research

(This article is derived from a keynote talk given at the fall 2002 meeting of NEPLS.)

Visitors to this country are often surprised to find that Americans like to begin a conversation by asking "what do you do?" I've never liked this question. I've rarely had a neat answer to it. But I think I have finally solved the problem. Now, when someone asks me what I do, I look them straight in the eye and say "I'm designing a new dialect of Lisp." I recommend this answer to anyone who doesn't like being asked what they do. The conversation will turn immediately to other topics.

I don't consider myself to be doing research on programming languages. I'm just designing one, in the same way that someone might design a building or a chair or a new typeface. I'm not trying to discover anything new. I just want to make a language that will be good to program in. In some ways, this assumption makes life a lot easier.

The difference between design and research seems to be a question of new versus good. Design doesn't have to be new, but it has to be good. Research doesn't have to be good, but it has to be new. I think these two paths converge at the top: the best design surpasses its predecessors by using new ideas, and the best research solves problems that are not only new, but actually worth solving. So ultimately we're aiming for the same destination, just approaching it from different directions.

What I'm going to talk about today is what your target looks like from the back. What do you do differently when you treat programming languages as a design problem instead of a research topic?

The biggest difference is that you focus more on the user. Design begins by asking, who is this for and what do they need from it? A good architect, for example, does not begin by creating a design that he then imposes on the users, but by studying the intended users and figuring out what they need.

Notice I said "what they need," not "what they want." I don't mean to give the impression that working as a designer means working as a sort of short-order cook, making whatever the client tells you to. This varies from field to field in the arts, but I don't think there is any field in which the best work is done by the people who just make exactly what the customers tell them to.

The customer is always right in the sense that the measure of good design is how well it works for the user. If you make a novel that bores everyone, or a chair that's horribly uncomfortable to sit in, then you've done a bad job, period. It's no defense to say that the novel or the chair is designed according to the most advanced theoretical principles.

And yet, making what works for the user doesn't mean simply making what the user tells you to. Users don't know what all the choices are, and are often mistaken about what they really want.

The answer to the paradox, I think, is that you have to design for the user, but you have to design what the user needs, not simply what he says he wants. It's much like being a doctor. You can't just treat a patient's symptoms. When a patient tells you his symptoms, you have to figure out what's actually wrong with him, and treat that.

This focus on the user is a kind of axiom from which most of the practice of good design can be derived, and around which most design issues center.

If good design must do what the user needs, who is the user? When I say that design must be for users, I don't mean to imply that good design aims at some kind of lowest common denominator. You can pick any group of users you want. If you're designing a tool, for example, you can design it for anyone from beginners to experts, and what's good design for one group might be bad for another. The point is, you have to pick some group of users. I don't think you can even talk about good or bad design except with reference to some intended user.

You're most likely to get good design if the intended users include the designer himself. When you design something for a group that doesn't include you, it tends to be for people you consider to be less sophisticated than you, not more sophisticated.

That's a problem, because looking down on the user, however benevolently, seems inevitably to corrupt the designer. I suspect that very few housing projects in the US were designed by architects who expected to live in them. You can see the same thing in programming languages. C, Lisp, and Smalltalk were created for their own designers to use. Cobol, Ada, and Java, were created for other people to use.

If you think you're designing something for idiots, the odds are that you're not designing something good, even for idiots.

Even if you're designing something for the most sophisticated users, though, you're still designing for humans. It's different in research. In math you don't choose abstractions because they're easy for humans to understand; you choose whichever make the proof shorter. I think this is true for the sciences generally. Scientific ideas are not meant to be ergonomic.

Over in the arts, things are very different. Design is all about people. The human body is a strange thing, but when you're designing a chair, that's what you're designing for, and there's no way around it. All the arts have to pander to the interests and limitations of humans. In painting, for example, all other things being equal a painting with people in it will be more interesting than one without. It is not merely an accident of history that the great paintings of the Renaissance are all full of people. If they hadn't been, painting as a medium wouldn't have the prestige that it does.