Systemising Chaos: De-optimising Life and Productivity Culture
It feels like a common experience. You wake up with a plan. Maybe today is going to be different. You are going to go for a run, read a book, work on a project, practise an instrument, or finally make progress on something that matters to you. Then you pick up your phone. A few minutes turns into an hour. An hour turns into several. Eventually, the thing you planned to do is no longer possible. The window has closed. You have to get ready for work, start your day, or move on to the next obligation.
The obvious explanation is simple: The phone is the problem. And there is some truth to that. Phones are incredibly good at filling empty moments. They remove the small amount of friction between boredom and stimulation. Whenever there is a gap, there is something waiting to fill it. So the obvious solution is to remove the phone. Delete the apps. Turn off notifications. Put the device away. And for many people, this genuinely helps.
But I think there is a more interesting problem underneath. Because what happens when the phone is no longer the thing consuming your time? What happens when you remove the obvious distraction, but the feeling remains? I have found that my time does not disappear only through things I do not care about. Sometimes it disappears through things I probably should be doing. Emails. Planning. Researching. Organising. Cooking. Cleaning. Preparing. Maintaining the systems that keep life running.
These things are not bad. They are necessary. They are often valuable. But sometimes I finish an evening having been “productive” all day and still feel like I have not actually done anything that mattered to me. The frustrating thing is that these activities are harder to question. Scrolling for three hours feels obviously wasteful. Spending three hours creating the perfect meal plan feels responsible. Spending an hour researching the best way to structure a workout feels like progress. Spending an evening organising your life feels like you are getting ahead.
But sometimes these things become a strange substitute for the actual thing. Planning replaces doing. Research replaces learning. Organising replaces creating. Preparing replaces experiencing.
I think this is the trap I have found myself in. I am not necessarily losing my time because I am doing nothing. I am losing my time because I am spending too much of it preparing for the things I actually want to do. The goal of preparation is to make living easier. But if preparation consumes all the time available for living, then something has gone wrong.
The question is not: “How do I remove every distraction?” The question is: “How do I create enough structure that my life runs, without spending my whole life maintaining it?”
The Setup Trap
The problem is not preparation. Preparation is essential. Almost everything meaningful requires some kind of setup. A marathon requires training. A creative project requires planning. A good meal requires ingredients. Learning something new requires time spent understanding the basics.
The mistake is not spending time preparing. The mistake is forgetting what the preparation is for. Because setup can either support the thing we care about, or replace it. The difference is not the activity itself. It is whether the activity is the destination or the pathway.
For some people, cooking is the thing they care about. The recipe research, the technique, the ingredients, the process of creating something from nothing — this is the experience. For me, cooking most of the time is simply the thing that enables me to keep existing. I do not want to spend an hour designing the perfect meal on a Tuesday night. I want dinner so I can read, write, practise music, spend time with friends, or simply relax. Neither is more correct than the other. The problem begins when we spend time optimising the pathway instead of enjoying the destination.
This is where setup becomes a trap. There is always another improvement available. The meal plan can be healthier and have a better micronutrient distribution. The training plan can be more scientifically precise. The calendar can be more efficient. The routine can be more refined. The system can be more elegant. And because these things are useful, it becomes difficult to notice when they have crossed the line.
There is a difference between: “I am making it easier to do the thing.” and: “I am avoiding doing the thing by improving the system around it.” The first creates freedom. The second creates another obligation.
The goal is not to eliminate preparation. Without preparation, many of the things we love would never happen. The goal is to recognise when preparation has done its job. When the meal is planned enough. When the workout is organised enough. When the routine is established enough. When the system can step aside and let life happen.
The Optimisation Trap: The Clean Girlification of Everything
If setup can quietly become the thing we spend our time on, why is it so difficult to notice? I think part of the answer is that optimisation has become culturally rewarded. We do not just optimise because it helps us. We also optimise because being an optimised person has become something desirable in itself.
One of the clearest examples of this is what I think of as the clean girlification of everything. The term originally described an aesthetic: clear skin, simple outfits, tidy spaces, healthy habits, a carefully curated version of everyday life. And there is nothing inherently wrong with any of those things. Wanting to take care of your appearance is not shallow. Wanting a clean home is not a problem. Wanting to eat well, exercise, and build routines can genuinely improve your life.
The interesting thing is what happens when the aesthetic becomes a philosophy. When the appearance of being organised, healthy, and disciplined becomes just as important as the benefits themselves. The routine stops being a tool. It becomes the achievement.
The skincare routine is no longer just about caring for your skin. The morning routine is no longer just about starting your day well. The meal plan is no longer just about making food easier. They become symbols of a certain kind of person. Someone disciplined. Someone successful. Someone who has everything under control. And this is where optimisation becomes complicated.
Because the things we optimise are often genuinely good things. That is what makes the trap so effective.
Nobody is telling you to do something obviously harmful. Nobody is saying, “Spend more time maintaining your life for no reason.” Instead, each individual improvement seems reasonable. A slightly better diet. A slightly better routine. A slightly better workout plan. A slightly better sleep schedule. A slightly better productivity system.
But when every part of life becomes something to optimise, there is always another project waiting. There is always another improvement. There is always another way to become a better version of yourself. Eventually, the question changes. Instead of asking: “Does this make my life better?” We start asking: “Can this be improved?” And those are not the same question.
A person can have the perfect routine and still not have time for the things they actually care about. A person can have the healthiest lifestyle and still feel like they are constantly maintaining themselves. A person can optimise every part of their day and still have no room left for spontaneity. The danger is not caring about improvement. The danger is when improvement becomes the default response to every part of life.
When everything becomes a project, nothing is allowed to simply be experienced. The clean girlification of everything is not a problem because people want nice things. It becomes a problem when it encourages us to treat life itself as something that is never finished.
Optimising the Fun Out of Life
There is a quote from game design that has always stuck with me:
“Given the chance, players will optimise the fun out of a game.”
If you give people a system with rules, goals, and measurable outcomes, many people will naturally try to find the most efficient way to succeed. And in a game, this can create a strange problem. The player stops doing what is enjoyable and starts doing what is optimal.
I think we do the same thing with life. The problem is not that we want to get better. Getting better is part of what makes life interesting. The problem is that optimisation is very good at improving things we can measure, but life is often valuable because of things we cannot.
Take travel. Planning a trip is useful. Researching a destination can make the experience better. But there is a point where planning stops supporting the trip and starts replacing it. You can find the highest-rated restaurants. The most beautiful viewpoints. The most efficient route between attractions. The hidden gems that nobody else knows about. You can create the perfect itinerary.
But in doing so, you might remove the possibility of wandering down the wrong street and finding somewhere unexpected. You might remove the random conversation with a stranger. You might remove the small café you entered because it looked interesting, not because an algorithm ranked it highly. The experience becomes better on paper, but sometimes less alive.
The same thing happens with hobbies. You can optimise learning an instrument. Find the perfect practice schedule. Track your progress. Measure improvement. Build the ideal system. But sometimes the reason you picked up the instrument was not because you wanted to become the most efficient learner. Sometimes you just wanted to make noise. Sometimes you wanted to play a song because it felt good. Sometimes you wanted to explore.
Optimisation has a tendency to remove uncertainty. But uncertainty is where a lot of enjoyment comes from. The unexpected discovery. The happy accident. The thing you did not plan for.
This is why I think randomness has such an important role. Not complete chaos. Complete chaos is exhausting. But controlled chaos. Enough structure that you do not become paralysed by choices. Enough randomness that life can still surprise you. Because a perfectly optimised life might be efficient. But efficiency is not the same thing as enjoyment.
A life with no wasted movement might also be a life with no wandering. And wandering is often where we find the things we did not know we were looking for.
Good Enough
If optimisation is part of the problem, the obvious question is: Do we need fewer systems? I do not think so. I think we need systems.
Because without some structure, the things we want often never happen. This is something I have realised about myself. It is easy to say: “I want to read more.” “I want to play guitar more.” “I want to write more.” “I want to run more.”
But wanting to do something and actually doing it are not the same thing. The things we want often require some kind of setup. The guitar needs to be working. The book needs to be somewhere I will pick it up. Running needs boundaries so I do not injure myself. The project needs some kind of structure. Without any system, the things we care about compete against whatever is easiest in the moment. And the easiest option usually wins. The problem is not that we need no structure. The problem is that we often confuse more structure with better structure.
A small amount of planning can make something happen. Too much planning can become the thing we spend our time doing instead. The purpose of a system is to create the conditions for something meaningful to happen. It is not the meaningful thing itself. A training plan exists so you can train. A meal plan exists so you can eat. A calendar exists so you can make time for things you value. A creative routine exists so you can create. The system is the doorway. It is not the room.
The challenge is finding the point where the setup is enough. The meal does not need the perfect recipe. It needs a plan that gets dinner on the table. The workout does not need the perfect programme. It needs enough direction that you start moving. The writing system does not need the perfect workflow. It needs to get words onto the page. Good enough is not about lowering standards. It is about understanding what the standard is for. The goal is not to create the best possible system. The goal is to create a system that is good enough to get you to the things you actually want to do. Then it should disappear.
Controlled Chaos
If the problem is not a lack of systems, but systems becoming too consuming, then the answer cannot be having no structure.
The answer is creating systems with a different purpose. Systems that do not try to control life, but instead create enough structure for life to happen.
This idea of “controlled chaos” actually draws on an unexpected design framework: playing Dungeons & Dragons.
In D&D, the possibilities are literally infinite. Your character can go anywhere, fight anything, or talk to anyone. But infinite choice breeds total paralysis. To keep the game moving, D&D relies on random tables and polyhedral dice. If the players enter a forest, the Dungeon Master does not halt the game to craft the most “optimal” narrative encounter; they roll a twenty-sided die, look at a table, and deal with whatever creature or event is written there. The dice do not ruin the story — they create it by forcing players to react to the unexpected.
I realised I could use the same mechanic to run parts of my life.
The implementation is deliberately simple: a few index cards, a pen, and a single ten-sided die (a d10).
But the philosophy of these cards is specific. They are not productivity tools designed to make me more efficient. Their actual job is to deny me the opportunity to optimise.
By outsourcing the choice to a piece of rolling plastic, I bypass my brain’s need to research, plan, and perfect. The system does not choose the best option — it simply chooses an option, leaving me with no choice but to start doing.
The purpose is not to guarantee profound insight. It is to begin. Because starting is often the point where friction wins. The beauty of these systems is that they are intentionally small. They do not need an app. They do not need a dashboard. They do not need to be optimised. They are a few cards in my wallet and a die. Enough structure to remind me what matters. Enough randomness to keep life interesting. Enough simplicity that the system itself does not become another thing to manage.
The Boredom Card
The first system is for those small gaps in the day — the moments where I have nothing planned, and the phone becomes the obvious choice.
If I have an empty hour, my brain immediately tries to optimise it. What is the most productive use of my time right now? What book will give me the most utility? And often this leads to me wasting the hour planning rather than doing. The Boredom Card shuts down this internal negotiation.
What makes this system work is that the ten items on this card represent an active, conscious decision about what actually matters to me.
| Roll | Activity |
|---|---|
| 1 | Pick up a book |
| 2 | Play guitar |
| 3 | Turn a journal entry into a blog post |
| 4 | Go for a walk |
| 5 | Read about something on my backlog |
| 6 | Play the Switch / watch a movie |
| 7 | Call a friend |
| 8 | Work on a personal project |
| 9 | Build something from the backlog |
| 10 | Go get a sweet treat |
The Cooking Card
Cooking is a prime target for over-optimisation. I can easily spend an hour looking up the “perfect” recipe, checking reviews, and verifying ingredients, only to end up exhausted and ordering takeout.
The Cooking Card removes the ability to plan entirely. It does not eliminate choice; instead, it drastically reduces the space of possibilities.
Instead of staring at the infinite, overwhelming expanse of the internet — where any recipe from any culture is technically possible — the card collapses the universe of dinner down to a tiny, manageable sandbox. By restricting the variables to three fast rolls, it forces a quick decision. You are no longer trying to solve the problem of “what is the best meal I could make tonight?” You are solving a highly specific puzzle with only three pieces.
| Meal | Protein | Carbohydrate | Style |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | Chicken | Rice | Asian-inspired |
| 2 | Eggs | Pasta | Mediterranean |
| 3 | Fish | Potato | Mexican-inspired |
| 4 | Beans | Bread | Curry |
| 5 | Beef | Noodles | Soup or stew |
| 6 | Tofu | Couscous | Stir-fry |
| 7 | Lentils | Wrap | Sandwich or wrap |
| 8 | Pork | Grain bowl | Bowl |
| 9 | Leftovers | Salad | Comfort food |
| 10 | Something new | Something new | Experiment |
The Journaling Card
Journaling is where this idea becomes almost literal.
The blank page creates friction.
So instead of asking:
“What should I write about?”
I roll.
Three dice create a prompt.
The first determines the category.
The second determines the time frame.
The third adds an area or perspective.
For example:
| Roll | Prompt | Time | Area |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | Something surprising | Today | Body |
| 2 | Something I learned | This week | Work |
| 3 | Something challenging | This month | Creativity |
| 4 | Something enjoyable | This year | Relationships |
| 5 | Something I avoided | Recently | Learning |
| 6 | Something I noticed | A long time ago | Adventure |
| 7 | Something I changed my mind about | Future me | Habits |
| 8 | Something I am curious about | Past me | Identity |
| 9 | Something I want to remember | Right now | Values |
| 10 | Something unexpected | A recurring memory | Wildcard |
The Backlog Card
This card is designed for when I am stuck trying to choose between different TV shows and movies on my watchlist.
We all keep a running backlog of things we want to watch. But when Friday night arrives and we actually sit on the couch, we freeze. We spend forty-five minutes scrolling through Netflix menus, reading IMDb trivia, and watching trailers, trying to pick the “perfect” match for our current mood. By the time we decide, we are too tired to actually watch anything.
The Backlog Card keeps things incredibly simple. It is just a physical, numbered list of shows and movies I want to get to, written out in a column.
To use it, I do not browse. I simply look at the very top of my active list, roll my d10, and use the result as an offset. If I roll a 3, I count three items down from the top item and watch whatever is there. Once I finish a show or a movie, I cross it off. The remaining list naturally shifts up, making the next top item the new starting point for the next roll.
The Art of Letting Go
I think many of us have absorbed the idea that an unexamined, unoptimised life is somehow a wasted one. A lot of productivity culture quietly sells the same promise: that if you can just design the perfect system, you can finally start living. But there is something sad in waiting for the perfect conditions to arrive. If we spend all our energy building the scaffolding, we never actually move into the house. A life spent preparing to live can become a life spent maintaining preparation. Controlled chaos is not about giving up on growth or letting things fall apart. It is about drawing a line and deciding where “good enough” ends and living begins. It is an admission that we cannot — and probably should not — try to control every variable. The next time you find yourself caught in the loop of endlessly researching a minor decision, optimising a routine that already works, or preparing for a hobby you never actually start, it may be worth trying something simpler. Build a small system. Make it basic. Make it a little rough around the edges. And then hand the reins over to a bit of plastic. Roll the die. Accept the result. Because the real magic of life does not happen in the flawless execution of a plan. It happens in the spaces we leave open for the unexpected.