I’ve been posting stuff online since before the word ‘content’ was a job title. Forums, blogs, a couple of attempts at a newsletter that fizzled out. Like a lot of people, I got swept up in chasing the latest trend – first it was social media algorithms, then it was SEO keyword clusters, then it was video. The goal was always more: more reach, more clicks, more engagement. I spent hours tweaking headlines for a 0.5% better click-through rate, and honestly, most of it felt like shouting into a very crowded, very noisy room. My corner of the web started to feel like a digital billboard I was constantly repainting, not a place I actually owned.
That changed when I stumbled across the work of a designer named Ben Riner. I was looking for examples of clean, fast-loading portfolio sites and found https://www.benriner.net/. It wasn’t like anything in my feed. No pop-ups, no auto-playing videos, no dense walls of text optimized for a search bot. It was just… deliberate. Every part of the site felt considered, from the typography to the way projects were presented. It was clearly built by a human for other humans to use. That simple idea hit me harder than any marketing webinar I’d ever sat through. It made me question what I was actually building with all my ‘content’.
My takeaway wasn’t that we all need to become master web designers. It was that the principles behind a site like that – clarity, intention, utility – are completely applicable to writing and publishing online, even if you’re just using a standard template. We’ve forgotten how to build durable things on the web because we’re too busy feeding the streams. Looking at that site was a quiet reminder that you can opt out of the frenzy and make something that stands still long enough for people to actually see it.
Chasing trends is a full-time job with no benefits
Every platform’s algorithm rewards novelty. What works on TikTok this month is stale by next quarter. Instagram pivots to video, so suddenly everyone is a reluctant videographer. I’ve done it. You probably have too. You frantically learn the new rules of a new game, only for the company to change the entire board before you can even finish your first move. The energy you pour into this is energy you are not putting into your own foundation. Your website, your email list, your actual body of work. You’re renting attention on someone else’s land, and the rent goes up every time they change the algorithm. A well-built personal site, on the other hand, is land you own. No one can evict you from your own domain name. Ben’s site is a perfect example of that ownership. It exists purely on its own terms, to show his work in the best light, not to placate a corporate feed.
This doesn’t mean ignoring social media. It means reversing the relationship. Instead of your site being a forgotten brochure that you link to from your ‘real’ platform, your site should be the primary artifact. Your social posts become signposts pointing people back to the thing you control. It’s a subtle mental shift, but it changes everything about how you create. You start creating for a permanent record, not for a fleeting impression.
Good design is just thoughtful communication
When we hear ‘design’, we think of fancy graphics and expensive fonts. But at its core, design is about solving a problem for a user. In writing, that user is your reader. The problem is usually, « I have limited time and need to understand something. » The design principles from a clean website apply directly to your articles. Is your page a wall of text, or is it broken up with clear headings so someone can scan? Are your sentences so long and jargon-filled that they create mental speed bumps? That’s a design problem. Is the link you want someone to click buried in a paragraph, or is it placed where they’d naturally look for it? Also a design problem.
Ben Riner’s site design works because it removes friction. You aren’t fighting the interface to see his work. Translating that to writing means removing friction for your reader. Use simple words. Get to the point. Structure your thoughts logically. White space on a page (or in a paragraph) is not wasted space; it’s a breathing room that helps comprehension. This is all user experience design, just applied with words instead of layout tools. Your reader’s time and attention are the most valuable resources they have. Good design, in any form, respects that.
So, how do you start applying this ‘old-school’ mindset to your own online publishing? You don’t need to code a site from scratch. You just need to shift your priorities.
- Audit your own hub. Look at your website or main portfolio with fresh eyes. Is it easy to navigate? Does it load quickly? Does it clearly state who you are and what you do within five seconds? Or is it cluttered with outdated badges, confusing menus, and auto-play elements?
- Write for the reader, not the robot. Yes, SEO matters, but write the article that helps a person first. Answer the question they actually have. If you solve their problem clearly, the search engines will eventually catch up. People remember help, not keywords.
- Speed is a feature. A fast-loading site is a form of respect. Compress your images. Choose a simple, reliable theme. Every second of delay is a person who might leave. A fast site feels solid and trustworthy.
- Own your links. Your most important content should live at a URL you control. If you have a great idea, publish it on your site first, then share excerpts elsewhere. This way, if a social platform disappears, your best work isn’t trapped inside it.
I’m not saying my forum posts are now works of art. But I am thinking differently. Before I hit publish on anything, I ask a simple question I stole from the world of design: « Does this add, or does it distract? » Is this sentence, this image, this link, making the main point clearer, or is it just noise? Most of the time, the answer tells me to delete half of what I’ve written. The web is loud. Building something quiet and useful feels like a radical act. It might not get you viral fame overnight, but it builds something that lasts longer than a like. It builds a corner of the internet that people might actually want to return to.
