Lately I’ve been thinking about how I use my phone, and more specifically, how I’ve tried to simplify it. I had built a white noise tool for myself, something very straightforward. Just one sound. You press play, it plays. It was carefully crafted using Logic Pro—a specific noise formula, with a subtle high-pass filter that moves every ten seconds or so, never perfectly repeating, a slight boost in the low end, and a cut in the high end. It’s not music. It’s more like a reset button for the brain.

I built it because I needed something like that—something that would help me focus without overwhelming me with options. I have ADHD, and when I’m anxious or trying to concentrate, the last thing I want is a carousel of choices or the pressure of configuring a bunch of sliders and menus.

So I made something simple.

Eventually I submitted it to the App Store. It was rejected, which didn’t surprise me that much—it’s an amateur app, and I expected some pushback. But the reasoning was strange: they said it didn’t offer enough functionality or usefulness to justify being there. They suggested I expand it, add more features.

But that completely misses the point.

The whole reason I made it was because I didn’t want more features. I didn’t want an ambient sound studio or a customizable focus tool. I just wanted something that worked immediately and didn’t require attention. That’s the value of it—it does exactly one thing, and that’s it.

And it got me thinking more broadly: Why is every app expected to be complex? Why are developers nudged toward building platforms instead of tools? Why does every app need to hold your attention?

Our phones are actually designed beautifully for simplicity. The home screen is this organized grid of icons, each representing a tool. Your camera. Your compass. Your music player. You configure your phone around your needs. But once you’re inside the App Store, the values seem inverted. There’s this constant push for features, engagement, add-ons, subscriptions.

And it feels like the more complicated apps get, the less useful they become.

Not just less useful—but less human.

Because when you multiply every app by ten features and every feature by ten notifications, you’re not building a toolbox. You’re building an attention trap. And that doesn’t help anyone—not the developers, not the platforms, and definitely not the users.

This isn’t really about one app. It’s about the kind of tools I want to make, and the kind of relationship I want to have with my phone. I want to use it like I’d use a flashlight, or a notepad, or a field recorder. Something that serves a purpose and then gets out of the way.

There’s something off about the subscription model, too. If it’s not something you actively chose, if it’s just renewing in the background, then you’re not subscribing to a service—you’re being slowly taken advantage of. It’s like renting a tool and forgetting you’re still being charged for it.

I think of it as a kind of lease market—not just financial, but emotional. You only have so much attention in a day, and your phone is renting out slices of it. And if you’re not careful, you end up spending that time not doing the things you love, but just staying busy inside the machine.

I use my AirPods more than anything. I listen to music constantly. That part of the phone works beautifully. But I also find myself scrolling, losing time, getting stuck in loops. I know I’m not alone in that.

So lately, I’ve been trying something. If I find myself spending more than ten minutes on a distracting app—something that feels like it’s just feeding off my attention—I delete it. No big decision, no judgment. Just delete it. If it turns out I want to use it again, I can always get it back.

And it’s been helpful.

I don’t think the goal is to eliminate smartphones from our lives. But I do think we need to pause and ask: What do I actually use this for? What part of this makes my life better? If even one percent of it is meaningful—like being able to take pictures of your family and store them safely—then that’s worth protecting. But it’s also worth asking: Why does that one percent have to be bundled with so much else?

Maybe we don’t need a hundred all-in-one apps. Maybe we just need a hundred small, good tools.

That’s what I’d like to see. That’s the kind of relationship I want with my technology. One of clarity. One of utility. One where I’m in charge of my attention, not renting it out to the highest bidder.