Instructional Design Test
The following "news story" was created in response to the
second part of a writing test required by a highly regarded software design
studio prior to formally applying for a design position. The idea behind
the test is to measure creative problem solving ability, instructional design
ability, and written communication skills. See the instructions for the
test and my response below.
YOUR INSTRUCTIONS: You have been sent
back in time by AT&T to establish a touch-tone phone monopoly in the
United States in 1850. You need to explain to the masses how to use this
revolutionary technology. Using any means you believe are appropriate, show
your customers how to use a direct-dial touch-tone phone.
You can assume that the customer receives
a phone number along with the phone, that a phone jack has already been
installed by the phone company, and that dialing 0 will connect the customer
to an operator. Remember that your customers have never seen or heard of
a phone before (telegraphs have been in common use for about 5 years, however).
Spend as long as you want on Part Two.
MY RESPONSE
It is not known exactly how (or why) the
following news story -- by an unknown young writer about an unheard of magical
talking machine -- found its way into the New York Herald almost a century
and a half ago. But the relatively large circulation of this newspaper in
1850 ensured that a reasonable portion of "the masses" of the
time were able to read it and ponder . . .
THE FUTURE REVEALED!
"Astounding new 'Talking Machine' surprises uncle
Cyrus"
By S.C., Hannibal, Mo.
November 30, 1850
Late in the summer of this year, I had
occasion to travel to St. Louis to visit my dear old uncle, Cyrus Woodhead.
I was greeted, as usual on such visits, by a hearty hand-shake, several
slaps on the back, and inumerable inquiries after my mother's health, all
amidst profuse clouds of sweet-smelling cigar smoke. I spent several days
with uncle Cyrus in St. Louis, but one in particular, I shall not easily
forget.
Being generally attracted to new inventions,
I had a powerful hankering to see the telegraph office in town and watch
the nimble-fingered operators send and receive their messages from as far
away as Chicago and New York. When I expressed this wish to uncle Cyrus,
he cursed the telegraph, calling it "an infernal device and a plumb
unnatural development that will poison the natural order of things."
Fortunately, right then, an unexpected tirade from my aunt (Mrs. Woodhead)
about excess cigar smoke in the house led uncle Cyrus (and myself) to seek
relief outside. Having no other immediate plan, we set out, to my great
satisfaction, for the telegraph office.
Upon our arrival at noon, we found that
the telegraph operators were nowhere to be seen (they were out taking their
lunch, I expect). Only one person was there -- a young energetic man dressed
in a tolerably strange looking suit and wearing a bowler hat. Apparently
mistaking us for certain prospective customers who were to meet him at this
appointed hour, he introduced himself as a salesman from the American Telegraph
Company, thanked us for being on time, and announced that he would demonstrate
the new "telephone" to us at once. As uncle Cyrus was about to
disabuse this singular fellow of the notion that we were his potential customers,
I interjected, saying "we would be most pleased to view a demonstration
of your new telephone."
Though slightly taken aback by my eagerness,
uncle Cyrus could not hide a certain curiosity. Perceiving this, the salesman
quickly took charge of the situation:
"Gentlemen, please sit down,"
he said, motioning us to a table upon which lay a shiny, black leather case.
As we sat down at the table, the salesman
unstrapped the top of the case and removed a smaller black box with ten
numbered buttons and a cord attached to a kind of handle. As he placed the
box and handle in front of uncle Cyrus, he rapidly affixed one end of a
wire to the box and then, stringing the wire out as he walked, he proceeded
to the nearby telegraph table where he attached the other end to the telegraph
line.
With a gleam in his eye, the salesman
returned to the table where uncle Cyrus and I were sitting. He picked up
the handle and placed one end at his ear.
"Oh yes, yes, indeed!" The salesman
exclaimed, smiling widely. He then placed the handle on a kind of holder
on the top of the box and turned toward us. He pointed at the box and his
demeanor became, suddenly, quite serious.
"My dear fellows, the telegraph is
one thing, but the telephone is quite another! You will soon see that through
the skillful use of electromagnetism and sensitized diaphragms, one can
directly contact, actually speak to, and hear, another person as far away
as the city of Chicago."
"Preposterous!" Uncle Cyrus
exclaimed, clearing his throat loudly. "How could such a thing as this
talking machine of yours be possible?" (For my part, I could see some
promise in what the salesman was saying, because he had, after all, connected
his so called "telephone" to the telegraph line).
"Sir," the salesman said to
uncle Cyrus, "you have asked how it is possible to do the things I've
claimed with this device. Well, now, I am about to show you! Watch closely."
"Oh, I shall, young man. I shall,"
uncle Cyrus answered with a decidedly skeptical air.
The salesman lifted the handle up from
its resting place on the box and pointed to the end he had earlier placed
to his ear. A faint noise could be heard. He gave the handle to uncle Cyrus.
"Place it to your ear sir, and tell
me what you hear."
Putting the handle to his ear, uncle Cyrus
listened intently for a moment, then looked at the Salesman.
"I hear nothing but a buzzing sound
. . . like a bee flying round a jar of honey."
"This, sir, means we are connected
to the line," the salesman explained," All is in readiness."
"Hummmphhh, readiness for what?"
uncle Cyrus retorted.
"You shall soon see," the salesman
replied. He now pointed at the other end of the handle, barely visible behind
uncle Cyrus's large white mustaches.
"You will talk through this mouthpiece
end of what we call the 'receiver.'"
"Well If not to this here crazy buzzing
sound or to myself, then, just who will I be talking to?"
"Ahhh . . . a very precise questioner
you are, sir. And that is what comes next, of course." The salesman
became very animated, directing our attention to the buttons on the box.
"You see, gentlemen, to talk to someone
using the telephone, one must first contact them at their telephone, and
that telephone has a certain number assigned to it."
I think I understood what was meant by
this, but Uncle Cyrus appeared mighty confused. The salesman began to sweat
some, pulled his string tie loose, and, again pointed at the box.
"You will notice that there are ten
keys here -- one through nine and a key labeled zero -- allowing you to
choose any combination of numbers you like. By simply depressing each key
in a particular sequence, one can enter a particular number associated with
a particular tone, and send these tones through the line to another telephone."
"Now hold on there . . . hold on,"
uncle Cyrus interrupted, holding up the receiver. "I don't hear no
tones at all. I just hear this infernal buzzing noise!"
The salesman rolled his eyes and exhaled
slowly. He reached over with his finger and pushed one of the buttons, then
looked intently at uncle Cyrus.
"And what do you hear now, sir?"
"A different noise, to be sure,"
uncle Cyrus said.
"That was a number seven tone! I
will now depress the number nine key." The salesman pushed the nine
button and smiled (in a sarcastic like way) at uncle Cyrus.
"And now?"
"Well, it is different again. I'll
have to say that"
"Of course, it is! So, as I have
pointed out, sir, each of these tones is a number, and you simply push a
key to send a tone over the line where another telephone waits to recognize
it . . ."
The salesman paused for a moment, then
started pacing back and forth in front of the table. Suddenly, he turned
toward uncle Cyrus and an inspired like expression came over his face.
"Let us say, for sake of argument,
that you wish to contact your banker who has a telephone. His telephone
is set to hear a seven tone, a five tone, and a two tone -- or, put another
way, you can say your banker's telephone number is 752. Therefore, if you
push a seven key, a five key, and a two key, sending these tones over the
line, why your banker's telephone will recognize them and then it will ring!"
"Ring? Tarnation, young man, what
on earth do you mean by ring?" uncle Cyrus thundered.
"I mean, that when the other telephone
is reached, a warning bell inside the device sounds, whereupon the person
at the other end of the line simply picks up the receiver and . . . voila!
Two people who are perhaps hundreds of miles away from one another can now
actually converse as if they were in the same room."
Uncle Cyrus squinted at the salesman (who
seemed extra pleased with himself right then) and cleared his throat.
"Young fellow, what you've just said
sounds like a good deal of puffery to me and I plumb don't understand one
word of it. Why with these 'electrodiagrams,' 'tones,' 'keys,' 'receivers,'
and the like, it's a damn wonder to me you can talk civilized at all, much
less through one of these here devices!"
"Sir," the salesman said, "I
can see you are the sort of man for whom the proof of a thing can only be
seen in the pudding."
"I am, sir, I certainly am!"
"Well then, I suggest, since you
are holding the receiver and our line is open, that you, yourself, contact
my worthy assistant in the Chicago telegraph office -- a Mr. Melvin Jamison
-- who stands ready at this very moment with a device similar to the one
you now have in your hand!"
Fortunately, once challenged, uncle Cyrus
was not the sort of man who easily backed down. He looked up at the salesman
with considerable consternation, and took a deep breath.
"All right, young fellow, what do
I do?"
The salesman raised his forefinger slowly.
"Simply use your finger to push the following keys."
Uncle Cyrus positioned his forefinger
over the buttons on the box, and the salesman began to call out the numbers.
"Number four . . . number seven .
. . number three . . . and, finally, number one."
I could dimly hear a tone every time uncle
Cyrus pushed a button and wondered what would happen next.
"What do you hear?" the salesman
asked uncle Cyrus.
"A different kind of noise than before."
"It's ringing the bell at the other
end, sir. Be patient, and you will soon hear something astounding."
Suddenly, uncle Cyrus's mouth dropped
open and his eyes grew as wide as silver dollars. I cocked my head and ear
as close to the receiver as possible and distinctly heard a voice.
"Hello, . . . hello . . ."
The salesman glared at uncle Cyrus. "You
must announce yourself, sir. Quickly now!" Uncle Cyrus remained dumbfounded
for a moment, then spoke.
"I am Cyrus T. Woodhead, sir,"
he said solemnly. The salesman could now barely contain himself (concerned
as he was that uncle Cyrus did not seem to understand how to proceed).
"Please, sir," he urged. "If
you will. Ask the person you are speaking with to give his name and location."
Uncle Cyrus removed a handkerchief from
his pocket, wiped the beads of sweat from his brow, and swallowed hard.
"My dear sir, may I know your name
and your whereabouts at this moment?"
I heard nothing this time, because uncle
Cyrus had the receiver very close to his ear. After a moment uncle Cyrus
looked up, revealing an expression of utter astonishment. He turned to the
salesman and said.
"A Mr. Melvin Jamison from the Chicago
telegraph office . . . wishes to speak with you."
The salesman took the receiver at once
and began talking to Mr. Jamison in as comfortable a manner as one might
expect in an after dinner conversation. After a few minutes, he thanked
his assistant, said 'goodbye,' and placed the receiver in its resting place
on top of the telephone box. He turned toward uncle Cyrus and smiled.
"Well . . . what is your reaction,
sir?"
"I am astounded and flabberghasted,
young man. Further, I have not heard of, or seen in all my born days, the
like of your talking machine. It, and your demonstration, has been fantastic!"
"Thank you, sir. That is a compliment
indeed."
Owing to the exceeding warmth of the summer
afternoon and the general stuffiness of the enclosed room, uncle Cyrus indicated
that he would benefit by a breath of fresh air. Leaving the salesman to
pack up his equipment, my uncle and I walked outside to the porch of the
telegraph office where we stood for a time, ruminating over what had just
transpired.
Naturally, we agreed that what we had
witnessed was phenomenal (I even stated to my uncle that it seemed very
likely to me that in the near future thousands of these talking machines,
or 'telephones,' would be made available to the public by the American Telegraph
Company).
As we spoke about the salesman, it occurred
to me that we had been with this extraordinary man for nearly an hour, and
had not learned his name. Resolving to rectify this oversight, I re-entered
the telegraph office and found, to my dismay, that the man, and his shiny,
black leather case which contained the 'telephone,' was gone.