Reading at eight metres

Wayfinding is the only design discipline where being wrong is a safety issue. Everything else is a matter of degree — a label that reads poorly loses a sale; a sign that reads poorly puts someone in a stairwell they should not be in, at speed, in an emergency.

So the test is physical. We print at full size, we tape it to the wall at the height it will actually hang, and we walk backwards until it fails. Eight metres is the usual target for a floor sign; two for a room plate. The number that matters is not the point size, it is the distance at which the second word stops resolving.

The number that matters is not the point size, it is the distance at which the second word stops resolving.

Nomenclature does more work than typography here. Half the sign problems we are asked to fix are naming problems: three names for the same room, a numbering scheme that restarts on the mezzanine, a building called by its old owner by everyone who works in it. No amount of good type fixes a floor called both Level 0 and Ground.

The other thing that fails is material. Brushed steel under a downlight is a mirror. Matte vinyl on a curved column is a wrinkle. We specify against the room, not against the render, and we go and stand in the room with a sample before anyone signs anything.