Why the typo changed from a public embarrassment to an endearing sign of being human

A personal story from PW co-creator, Shamalee

The other week, when we were wrapping up an intense period leading up to travel overseas, I couldn't proofread a story that my partner published for our studio newsletter, and it went out with a grammatical error. Now, this was not the first time our studio has made a little mistake, but seeing it on my screen still brought up a bad taste at the back of my throat. Unlike all the previous times, when I would torture myself and question my credibility as a writer, the bad taste subsided almost immediately, because the calm voice in my head said, “Well, it leaves no doubt that this newsletter is written by humans and not AI.”

This got me thinking about how creators will most likely start seeing errors or other slips in perfection more as a hallmark of the humanness in their work, and less as embarrassing things to camouflage. It’s not just when it comes to mistakes; it’s interesting to consider how AI—or the perception of it—will influence creativity around the idea of ‘perfection.’

Just a few weeks ago, I read how the em dash—probably my favourite punctuation mark, because I like to introduce offshoots of ideas into sentences—is starting to get the reputation as a sign of AI writing. And it’s not entirely unfounded; ChatGPT seems to have a habitual devotion to the em dash, giving unnecessary significance to pauses and breaks in common sentences. Because of this, I found myself consciously holding back on the em dash, forcing myself not to bring my layered thoughts into sentences. Soon enough, I realized that I was compromising my mind’s mechanism just to distance my work from what’s perceived as a sign of AI-generated creativity. As much as we are used to prototyping and shaping AI, it will also undoubtedly shape us—the way we create, and our distinction of what makes our creativity ‘human.’

I recently visited my old university at the invitation to critique an undergraduate project on designing stories for Sri Lankan cities in predominantly visual aspects, with some written language components. Here, I became highly aware of how I judge the value of creative work against what I consider to be genuine human creative output versus AI-generated. In 70% of the work presented, the written components of the story, such as slogans and promotional texts, reeked of ChatGPT. And I’m not talking about sentence structure or an overuse of the em dash. Although I couldn’t put a finger on what was so distinctly ChatGPT about those works at the time, now I can. It’s best explained as “saying a lot without saying anything”: words that are strung together to create a sense of (subjective) beauty, but utterly hollow of lived experience and a viewpoint. They are not directional. Words that have logical and even aesthetic coherence, but don’t communicate a point of view in an idea; that have the micro-connections, and the many emotional and sensory associations that we humans make with things in our mind and things we perceive in the outer world. They lacked the many dimensions that seep into the writing of a human who has genuinely experienced the subject. For those students, I didn’t think mediocre writing posed a great threat, particularly because their course was more focused on the visual elements of storytelling. However, I was concerned that they were missing out on the accidental wonder of creativity by using ChatGPT for creative writing.

An idea is not limited to one form of expression; the same idea has many forms, such as visual, linguistic, sonic, etc. When you approach an idea from many directions, your view of it becomes richer and more distinct. As a design student many years ago, I discovered the joy of writing simply through attempts to describe ideas as best as possible. Although my projects were not being marked for writing per se, my attempt to use language to articulate an idea gave me a different hold on it—something more concrete and definitive that visuals didn’t deliver. Ultimately, it led me to a career focusing more on writing designed for commercial outcomes. But I wondered if the students who used ChatGPT for their project writing were missing out on the chance to get a different grip on their idea—or even a breakthrough into an entirely different career path in creativity. I don’t know; too soon to tell. Who am I to judge? Each to their own life and times, isn’t it?

I’m not against AI; in fact, I think it has the potential to rid us of meaningless or tedious tasks. I use a trained version of ChatGPT to draft emails, formal letters to the city council, project proposals, notes to the lawyer, follow-ups, lists… things that I don’t care to excel at. But when it comes to creative writing, AI is more of a technical assistant than a substitute: to cross-check whether a new story contradicts an old one in a series; to proofread and grammar-check drafts. I look forward to the day when AI can do everything I don’t want to do: filing taxes, laundry, groceries, bookkeeping, managing employees—even if it’s at the cost of another machine having an enormous influence on my life. Anything to escape doing chores so I can read and write more, really.

Until then, I just have to watch how the world evolves, understand our parts in shaping it, and hold on to what I like about being human a little closer.

Stories, not content; because the world doesn’t need more obscene digital landfill

Why we refuse to degrade our stories to ‘content’ and how good stories are the antidote to this epidemic of meaninglessness

Every time we get a commission inquiry for ‘content creation,’ I have to swallow the nauseating feeling before patiently explaining why we don’t do that. Because what they probably mean by ‘content’ is, in fact, much more than that.

Let’s be clear: content wasn’t always this despicable. The term emerged innocently enough during the early days of the internet, used to describe anything published online: text, images, videos. But as digital spaces evolved, and businesses began hiring marketers to fill endless feeds, the word ‘content’ became a catchall. Its meaning flattened. And with that flattening, came a normalisation of meaninglessness.

‘Content’ now refers to the endless digital detritus churned out to satisfy algorithms, not audiences. It’s a word that makes no distinction between a lazy meme, a heartfelt documentary, a research-based article, or an empty carousel of brand clichés. ‘Content’ strips intention from information. It assumes that everything we put online is just there to fill space.

And that is obscene.

Because silence is not a gap to be filled. It’s a necessary part of life. Infants find solace in it. Animals retreat into it. The idea that businesses must constantly post for the sake of filling the silence; adding to the noise of the world is a symptom of our deeper discomfort with stillness.

And it’s not harmless. Everything we post has an ecological cost. Yes, your post about the cupcake you ate does cost the planet. This is the reality of our digital excess. It’s not just overwhelming. It’s wasteful.

The antidote to this is not more content; it’s meaningful stories.

A story is not something made to fill a calendar. A story has reason to be. Stories deliver new insight, a sensory experience, transformation, discovery, amusement, inspiration, leadership, compassion, caring, understanding, empathy, or to liberate the audience or solve a problem for them. A story engages your intellect and emotions, and we don’t mean this through the terminology of engaging equalling commenting, liking, or sharing on social media. To engage is to think about and allow space in your mind, regardless of whether you hit that like button. A story considers its audience, their state of mind, their mental space, their world and its current situation.

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The term ‘content’ became more mainstream as businesses cut budgets and turned to marketers to produce creative work. But that’s also when the trouble started. As social media platforms pushed more advertising space into our lives, the volume of content exploded. The result was what some called “content shock”, a tipping point when there was simply too much stuff and too little attention.

Many who weren’t truly equipped for the creative work of story-making still stepped into these hybrid creator-marketer roles, underestimating just how much it takes. It seemed easy; just post something, anything. And so, meaningless filler became the norm. But authentic story-making isn’t easy. It demands craft, insight, originality, and emotional intelligence.

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Marketing and story-making are never the same thing; too often, they require two very different kinds of thinking and creativity. That’s why we don’t substitute our work for a marketer’s, or vice versa. We always partner with exceptional marketers and don’t pretend to be them. And when clients come to us without in-house marketing, we collaborate with experts from our carefully chosen circle of affiliates. Because meaningful connection doesn’t come from either side pretending to be both.

And now, as audiences begin to retreat from the noisy public squares of social media, into private, quiet, curated digital spaces like DMs and group chats, there’s, hopefully, less room for meaningless noise. People are becoming extremely intentional about what they give their attention to. We think that’s a good thing because it’s an obvious preference for stories over ‘content’. 

So, no. We don’t do content. We do better than that. We do stories; good stories that exist for a reason other than the inability to sit with silence.

Politics of language and why it matters in commercial stories

When Anura Kumara Dissanayake was elected President of Sri Lanka in 2024, an uproar arose among the English-speaking people—particularly the Colombo elite—over his speaking only in Sinhala, supported by translators for Tamil and English. Many in the English-speaking urban upper class perceived this as a lack of sophistication and an inability to navigate global diplomacy. Social media buzzed with ridicule, labelling it a sign of provinciality. I found this critique exposing deep-seated identity insecurities in our postcolonial society and oversimplifying the interplay between language, identity, and influence. The choice of language, whether by a head of state or a business, influences the ‘brand’ of the country or the company. In the new Sri Lankan President’s case, his language choice creates room for a reassertion of identity and even suggests a recalibration of social classes. Similarly, in the case of a business, language choices create room to reach specific audiences and assert origins, backgrounds, and even values. Let’s look at how the politics of language reflects power dynamics, fosters identity, and shapes business narratives, especially in multilingual societies and markets.

Language is not just a medium of communication; it’s a vessel of identity and a tool of influence

Among Sinhala speakers, the English language is informally referred to as ‘kaduwa’, meaning sword. It reflects how English is seen as a language that can easily lend an advantage, or even a weapon that can silence an opponent.

Postcolonial societies like Sri Lanka have inherited the hierarchy of colonial language systems with some becoming synonymous with opportunity, and sadly, ‘class’. English, in particular, often serves as a marker of education and privilege, creating a rift between urban elites and rural populations.

Similar dynamics can be seen in many multilingual societies around the world. In such cases, considering what a language signals beyond its words becomes especially important for businesses. When we start working with a business, our process captures the nuances of a business’ language through an initial questionnaire where the level of formality and placement in terms of local and international, insider, and outsider perspectives are explored.

The use of a native language can project authenticity and signal a strong identity. The use of a lingua franca like English can enhance global accessibility, and cross-cultural communication, and signal a readiness to engage internationally.

Using local languages with a lingua franca

Incorporating vernacular idioms or cultural references in stories enhances connection and loyalty. Tourism businesses notably rely on English to appeal to international audiences. However, to position themselves as ‘insiders,’ they can incorporate local languages quite effectively. This approach works specifically well for appealing to travellers looking for authentic, non-touristy experiences.

We connected with Sri Lankan comic art legend Bandula Harischandra to recreate some of his frames containing interesting Sinhala phrases and words as screen-printed stories. These visual stories became instantly popular with hotels and resorts that wanted to emphasize their ‘insider nature’ to travellers. While these businesses exclusively communicated in English considering their international audience, peppering in these visual stories within rooms, bathrooms, bars and restaurants allowed them to signify how they’re connected to local culture. Several years later, these stories remain among the most popular purchases by hospitality businesses. Their strength is the ability to portray glimpses into local languages and culture only through the colloquial phrases and everyday sound expressions contained in these stories.

The use of local languages with a bridge language like English can also create a strong case for representation and respect. In 2024, when a party was promoted in a popular tourist town saying ‘Face control: whites only’ it caused a major uproar. The party was cancelled due to the severe backlash and the organizers hopefully learnt an important lesson in inclusivity and respect. The most positive outcome, in my view, was that the incident triggered wider conversations on what it means for travellers to respect local communities. Against this backdrop, the Spice Trail boutique hotel commissioned us to create a story that stresses the significance of respecting local surfers. We fine-tuned their idea into a story that came to life as a T-shirt distributed to local surfers. The story took this message of respecting locals to crowded surf breaks, where visitors often overlooked the role of resident surfers in regulating and maintaining Sri Lanka’s popular surf destinations. The story was designed predominantly in English while we relied on Sinhala and Tamil to signify how this message stems from local culture.

When monolingual narratives can do the job

Sometimes, the nature of the business restricts the language. For one of our clients developing a crypto token, English was the only choice given the market, and because standardized terminology for this relatively new sector was only available in that language.

Export-driven businesses often prioritize global languages like English or the languages of their target markets for obvious reasons. Even in these cases, consider if the company’s choice of language reflects its values. A business emphasizing authenticity to origins or local heritage can integrate the languages of origin places to reinforce such ethos.

For businesses with global ambitions like startups operating with international investors and consultants with clients from multiple countries, English is a natural choice. For a client who serves as a consultant with audiences as diverse as designers in the Netherlands and Sri Lanka, we recommended using only English despite her strong local roots in terms of origin and education.

When multilingual narratives are essential

For businesses catering to broad markets—like fast-moving consumer goods (FMCG) companies, for example—embracing all major languages is non-negotiable.

Even when targeting niche markets, multilingual communication is essential when equality is a key organizational value. For instance, when a typographic collective promoting local type commissioned us to help tell their story with a manifesto, we first created the story in the bridge language English, knowing that it would be translated to Sinhala and Tamil. The tri-lingual story reinforced the brand’s values and helped to build credibility among local and international audiences.

Businesses that are community-focused, such as cooperative markets, local NGOs, or rural banking services, must engage in the languages of the region. Here, communicating in local languages isn’t just a positioning choice; it’s a necessity for trust and relatability.

Businesses catering to aspirational consumers can bank on the cultural cachet of a language. However, using languages that have little to no connection with the business will come across as inauthentic and gimmicky, to say the least. This means that if your bakery has nothing to do with France beyond making croissants, using French phrases is just a missed opportunity to share the real stories and origins of your business.

The politics of language is a play between identity, power, and connection. Whether in governance or commerce, language is a tool that can unite, divide, include or alienate. When businesses ‘read the room’ and respond to the linguistic and cultural realities of their audiences while staying true to their own, their stories will resonate better.

At the end of the day, words are not just shapes that construct meaning, but also identity, a sense of place, and even beliefs; use them well.