I’ve been skirting the edges of the open data move­ment since I started this site. For those not in the know, open data is when govern­ments and big corpor­a­tions release their figures to the world — finan­cial figures, crime figures, bus figures — anything and everything, for people to do what they want with. Some great projects like fixmys­treet have come out of it.

I really believe this data trans­par­ency can help us achieve great things. So I was very happy when I first went to an open data confer­ence and started talking about plain language, as people were very receptive. It’s not just about the data, I tried to say — you have to make sure you’re giving people the right advice about how to inter­pret the data too, and for that you need plain language. Great, they said, then walked away to talk about XML or some other program­ming thing. Why? Well, most of them were program­mers, so that makes sense. And I came to the even­tual conclu­sion that because plain language can’t be programmed — it’s not an ‘easy’ win — people lost interest quickly.

Which is why Alice Bell’s post Making ‘Nullius’ Public really reson­ated with me. Open data is a fant­astic goal, and I whole­heartedly support what its trying to achieve and the lengths the move­ment has gone to, to success­fully court both this govern­ment and the last. But to be really access­ible, and truly usable, it needs sound inter­pret­a­tion and clear communication.

From a (semi-)professional plain language perspective, I believe open data really bene­fits from exposure to experts and inter­preters, and vice versa. Infographics can be a good example of this. However, they are usually built on a direct data-to-interpreter rela­tion­ship, which can lead to mistakes, and if they’re popular, those mistakes can be compounded. The ques­tion for me is does inter­preter alone neces­sarily have all the know­ledge to get to the bottom of an issue? For me, that answer is usually no, and I’m not afraid to admit it.

For example, I really wanted to take part in the latest finan­cial chal­lenge from Information is Beautiful. I looked at the data, examined GDP and debt rela­tion­ships — appar­ently external debt (what we owe other coun­tries) is more important than internal debt for meas­uring finan­cial stability — ranked coun­tries (according to my calcu­la­tions Ethiopia is one of the finan­cially health­iest coun­tries in the world… ahem), examined the data for patterns, but I knew, ulti­mately, that I was missing some­thing too big to make doing the infographic worth my while. My inter­pret­a­tion, whatever it might have turned out to be, would be essen­tially worth­less, because I didn’t have the know­ledge. I didn’t know what the vari­ables were.

In an ideal world, as a graphic and written inter­preter of data, trends and world events, I’d have access to some­thing resem­bling the journ­al­istic process, an inform­a­tion triangle of:

  1. The hard data to provide the bedrock for my argument.
  2. An unbiased expert (or two oppos­itely biased ones, as long as they could legit­im­ately be called experts) on call to fill in the know­ledge gaps that skew my calculations.
  3. My own expertise in commu­nic­ating stories (such as it is).

I feel we would all benefit immeas­ur­ably from a way to reach out to each other: open data special­ists and tech­no­lo­gists; plain language writers and commu­nic­a­tions people; scientific, economic, polit­ical and other experts for help with our issues.




A lot of organ­isa­tions are put off plain language because of the amount of effort it seems to require. The rounds of internal sign-off, the struggle against colleagues who aren’t aboard the plain language train need real persever­ance. I’ve written quite negat­ively before about the things you need to forget to write plain language but there are poten­tially massive bene­fits too.

To celeb­rate Plain English day, here are some reasons to keep your language plain and simple.

  1. Trustworthiness
    When people under­stand what you’re saying, they’re more inclined to trust you. Or rather, I should say that when people cannot under­stand what you’re saying without consid­er­able effort, they’re less inclined to trust you. Long-winded language can look like a delib­erate attempt to keep the facts from the people who need them.
  2. Saving money
    If you want your customers to do some­thing, it’s prob­ably in your interest that the people you want to follow them make fewer mistakes. The more mistakes they make, the more costly it is for you — your admin­is­tra­tion costs rise, your call centre has to take more calls. One knock-on affect might be that the people with genu­inely complic­ated issues suffer from longer response times as your busi­ness or service spends more time dealing with basic enquiries. Consistently using plain language helps reduce confusion.
  3. Greater effi­ciency
    When you apply plain language to your processes and proced­ures you can see positive bene­fits too — it’s not just about leaf­lets and letters. Do people persist­ently fall at one partic­ular hurdle in a form you need them to fill in? Do your customers get so far in a trans­ac­tion with you, then go else­where before you get a chance to make a sale? The way you use language could be a signi­ficant barrier to keeping that customer. Maybe you’ve used some jargon that’s part of your internal way of working — does your customer need to see that? Or would they be better off seeing things in terms that are relevant to them? Smooth the way for them with plain language.

Keeping your audi­ence in mind is the most important thing. Plain language at a science confer­ence is different from plain language for a local council, but it’s always worth­while making sure your message is tailored to the people who will want to hear it.




I confess, I have a problem. I’m typo­phobic. No, I’m not scared of typos (pedantry is the lowest form of internet argu­ment). However, the idea of having to make decisions about typo­graphy in virtu­ally any situ­ation does bring me out in a cold sweat. Not to mention my not-so-secret belief that typo­graphy doesn’t really mean nearly as much as some people say for read­ab­ility, and espe­cially mood. Can a font be happy? I… certainly didn’t think so.

Now, I knew enough to avoid the major pitfalls. Comic sans brings me out in a rash. Papyrus sends me into toxic shock. But I’m doing a Masters degree in a Department of Typography and Communication, and I need to over­come my phobia and cautiously embrace this tricky subject if I’m going to pass.

So one of my fellow students recom­mended I read this book, Thinking with type, by Ellen Lupton.

And I have to say, it’s (nearly) done the trick.

I already knew that there are families of fonts that go together, but this book taught me what I need to do to match them up prop­erly and have them look good.

I already knew I was supposed to kern and lead things, and not use these straight apostrophes and speech­marks to mean anything other than feet and inches, but I didn’t know that if you indent your (proper, curly) speech­marks they look 100 per cent more awesome, or that most running text needs tracking at least a little bit to make it more read­able. I now know that italics aren’t all bad — as long as they’re not a slant, and that ALL CAPITALS is gener­ally a bad thing, but small caps are very useful.

This book has hundreds of tips like that. Things exper­i­enced designers might know instinct­ively, but I sure as hell don’t. It’s really access­ible, damn sarcastic, and not afraid to send up typo­graphy too.

And now I do believe a font can be light and airy, or dark and heavy.

But I’m defin­itely still sitting on the fence about happy. Shudder.