Seven surprising things I learned about quality

Before and after writing a book about it

Fortepan / Domokos József

„I care, but I’m restless (...) I’m free, but I’m focused.“

—Alanis Morissette

Can we speak about the quality of things surrounding us in a nuanced language that avoids the obvious traps of nerdy product tests, social distinction, and inappropriate fetishizing? I spent years thinking about the idea and intricacies of quality and eventually wrote a book about it. Three years have passed since its publication, but the topic still fascinates me. On the one hand, I learned a lot from discussing the book with my audience. On the other hand, I shifted my focus of interest from objects to processes (like the writing process) and a life well lived in general. Here’s what I learned.

I. Few people care

Late into my book-promoting tour, a young woman asked a question that started me off on the wrong foot: „Why care?“ I needed a moment to understand. She meant that not everybody cares about quality, at least not primarily. She was right. As a quality die-hard who spent much time thinking about the matter, I assumed striving for things well made is natural. Ask if someone appreciates things well made, and the answer will most certainly never be no. Sure, the best might not always be affordable or available; a lack of time or various distractions might prevent someone from caring, but eventually, who wouldn’t want quality?

The truth is that few people prioritize quality, even though many will tell you the opposite. Very often, convenience trumps the effort to find out what’s best, run the extra mile, or pay a higher price to get it. Even if folks buy better stuff, the motive may be a brand’s prestige or the good conscience supporting a craftsperson offers rather than genuinely appreciating an object’s quality. People may also be satisfied with lesser quality because they have never experienced what’s possible (which, by the way, is why a returning customer isn’t an indicator of superior quality).

Quality is hard to achieve and hard to filter out. It requires knowledge, skills, taste, determination, and patience. And sometimes, even if someone puts quality first, interfering factors make it hard to maintain the highest standards. Henrik Karlsson, a writer on Substack as obsessed over quality as few others, contemplates the difficulty of producing high-quality pieces every month to match the assumed expectations of his paid subscribers:

“If I switched to making even more ambitious pieces, many subscribers would presumably quit because it would seem to them that I was just not publishing all that much; and if I compensated by churning out the quantity stuff on the blog, that would just destroy the whole value of it: it would just become another avalance of mid-content, which is precisely what it shouldn’t be.“

II. Quality is hard to make but easy to buy

It’s hard to do things well. There are no shortcuts. It takes time. One needs to learn, train, get involved, cultivate discernment, and figure things out while staying open to whatever may require recalibrations.

On the other side of the equation, buying quality simply takes money and does neither imply knowledgeability nor appreciation. You may dine in a Michelin-starred restaurant, possess well-crafted objects, or listen to a world-class musician only because some influencer told you it’s the best, and you know it will send the proper status signals, and you can afford it. That’s why quality is often mixed up with luxury, even when a luxury brand doesn’t deliver the promised quality. Prices signal value, but they do not guarantee it.

It’s obscene that even the most primitive jerk can buy the most sophisticated stuff, provided he has the money. Being able to afford a piece without being competent enough to appreciate its quality may even mean that the purchased object isn’t treated with the respect and care it deserves.

However, it’s essential to realize that the way markets function and some folks treat excellence does not discredit the market for quality as such. After all, money allows for generosity, support, and patronizing of the arts. The legitimate disgust against a particular way of dealing with premium products shouldn’t lead to a backlash against the cultivation of quality in general.

III. Quality is less about money than you think

A journalist about to interview me for a TV documentary handed me over two different peelers: a fancy one with lots of plastic veneers and design follies and a straightforward one made entirely of metal. My task was explaining why I thought the latter was higher quality. The clue, of course, was that the metal one wasn’t just more durable, working better, and radiated a functional beauty the „designed“ one lacked; it also was less expensive.

While it’s true that some things cannot be cheap because they require rare and valuable materials and in-demand skills or take a very long time to make, quality products don’t necessarily need to have a higher price tag. In fact, it has been the dream of Modernity to make quality available to the masses (think Henry Ford’s Model T). This is even more true for the digital economy where quality (e.g., an article on Substack) can be distributed indefinitely for almost no marginal cost.

Individuals on a budget have many options for acquiring quality. For example, it makes sense to consider the longevity of an object (or even the memory of an experience) before buying something. A well-made shoe may cost less over time than a bunch of cheap ones thrown away briefly after the purchase. Another idea is to cultivate excellence in an exemplary field (e.g., food) while being economical elsewhere instead of distributing the money equally and thus never getting more than mediocre stuff anywhere. Learning more about quality can be an act of empowerment in a culture of seduction and over-promising. If you know more about the things around you, you may spend less while getting better quality.

IV. Quality doesn’t necessarily make the world a more sustainable place

I hate to say this because I occasionally claimed the opposite, but quality is not a guaranteed path to a more sustainable economy. True, an object’s durability may mean a lower ecological footprint over time. However, things are complicated, not just when calculating economic transactions’ environmental costs and other negative externalities. One aspect that complicates the matter is a psychological mechanism I call the reassurance paradox. I missed it when I wrote my book, but I now think it’s important to understand the inherent contradictions of a „green“ economy.

What do I mean by the reassurance paradox? The „purpose economy“ is driven by value statements such as: „I prefer something that is produced environmentally friendly; I like things that are durable and can be repaired.“ Buying is performing beliefs, communicating convictions, and experiencing yourself as living up to your values. Here’s the catch: Just like religious rituals are made to reassure a creed repeatedly, the expression of attitudes through buying requires regular reaffirmation. To practice what you preach, you need to buy more stuff.

Just like you do not „save“ money by buying that steal you never intended to purchase in the first place, just like a minimalist doesn’t have „less“ by getting that beautiful, simple vase, buying quality doesn’t undermine the logic of economic growth and infinite accumulation. Shopping for quality might as well mean craving more good stuff and larger quantities of quality.

V. Quality is about taste, not about style

In his latest book, „Slow Productivity,“ Cal Newport dedicates an entire chapter to the obsession over quality. He writes:

„The act of creation can be decomposed into a series of spontaneous eruptions of new possibilities, which must then be filtered against some ineffable understanding of what works and what doesn’t–the visceral intuition that we call taste.“

Writing a quality piece requires taste, that inexplicable skill acquired by exposing yourself to the best humans have made, mingling experience with openness and a sense of contextual appropriateness.

In design history, though, taste and judgment have often been tied to a particular style. In 20th-century Europe, for example, an organization named Der Werkbund launched influential campaigns to promote quality and elevate the taste of the masses by propagating a specific style, namely early and post-war 20th-century Modernism. Quality, however, can come in many flavors. It’s adequate to say: „I acknowledge the quality of this object but do not appreciate its style.“ or „This author is a master, but I don’t like the style she writes.“ It’s even meaningful to describe something as „trash of the highest quality.“

Decoupling taste from style is essential to remain curious about emerging styles that may convey previously unknown aspects of quality. A checklist model with a preconceived catalog of criteria (like it’s still standard in „quality management“) can guarantee a certain reliability, but it’s not helpful to explore new facets of quality. Consider, for example, culinary experiences that are different from conventional ones. It requires taste, not a style preference, to notice and reflect those shifts. While unusual today, they might change how we think about quality in the future.

VI. Quality is about what’s best in a given situation

Steve Jobs famously toyed with the idea of filling a room with objects he and several Apple designers loved, „then directing new hires to spend their first day at work in that room.“ Interestingly, Cal Newport suggests that immersion in high-quality artifacts may work better when they come from an adjacent or entirely different field. That’s because it can be daunting „to directly study great work in your profession, as you already know too much about it.“

The exposure to exemplary objects raises the bar by showing what’s possible. But there’s also a danger to this approach: looking at perfect results in isolation without considering the context in which they are supposed to work can paradoxically impede finding the best possible solution. Sometimes, for example, a decent wine is a better pairing for a simple dish than a more complex („better“) one. The best might as well be the simplest solution, depending on the circumstances.

Thus, a well-lived, quality-oriented life requires a particular art of moderation: sometimes, a charming makeshift solution offers the best quality in the given situation; at other times, exceptional experiences push further and open up the next level.

VII. Obsessing over quality doesn’t imply perfectionism

Saying that quality relates to context includes a final idea particularly relevant to those who create artifacts of all kinds. Henrik Karlsson:

„It is hard to calibrate where to set the bar. You need to set it low enough that you can just work and work and work and not get overwhelmed by pressure—but you also don’t want to set the bar any lower than that, because (...) you will not keep improving for that long unless you work near the edge of your ability.“

The point here, I think, is not just to avoid analysis paralysis and procrastination on the one hand and giving up too early on the other. It’s also to understand that a „perfect“ result may paradoxically not be the best one. Henrik adds that he „often pushed too far and lost the joy and playfulness.“ In my eyes, that’s where the rubber hits the road. Think of an improvised Jazz solo that would deteriorate by putting more effort and polish into it. Here, true mastery, or the highest quality, contains the raw and the rough.

As somebody with a knack for quality in all aspects of life, I learned the hard way that greatness is less about immaculate brilliance than about vividness and energy and effortlessly breaking the rules while still mastering them. Eventually, the right dose of less-than-perfect elements makes something sing.

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To save time, money, and disappointment, read my step-by-step guide to buying quality. There, I translate key takeaways from years of research into seven actionable steps for buying good stuff. It’s how I apply the findings in my own life.

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