What we call “good design” may just be cultural conformity in disguise.Image source: Adobe StockMinimalism is often celebrated for its elegance, restraint, and efficiency. In the design industry, it’s treated like gospel — remove the unnecessary, emphasize hierarchy, and let form follow function. But beneath this aesthetic lies a deeper inquiry — one rarely discussed in design circles. Whose values are we actually glorifying when we praise minimalism?And more provocatively, is minimalist design, in all its refined simplicity, a quiet form of oppression — a systematic vehicle for cultural exclusion? An exclusion that determines whose aesthetics are elevated, whose are silently dismissed, and who is left to navigate the system as an outsider.The Aesthetic of ControlMinimalism thrives on clarity, structure, and hierarchy — traits that align neatly with Enlightenment thinking and Western ideals of logic, order, and reductionism. These values, while seemingly universal, are not. They stem from a particular historical and cultural context, one rooted in dominance, colonization, and control.Philosopher Michel Foucault might say that design — like architecture or language — is a “technology of power.” The grid systems we use, the margins we enforce, the insistence on whitespace and alignment — they’re all part of a system that reflects not just taste, but a worldview. Minimal design doesn’t just organize information — it disciplines it.The Grid Bible | Image source: AmazonAnd perhaps, as the Philosopher Frederich Nietzsche would argue, it does something even deeper — it reflects a will to power. Not through brute force, but through aesthetic order. Through reduction and restraint, minimalism asserts control. It tells you what matters by erasing what doesn’t. And in doing so, it enacts a subtle hierarchy — not just of elements, but of culture.The Myth of NeutralityMinimalism often presents itself as neutral. But neutrality, in design, is a myth. Neutral to whom? A layout built on sparse text, generous white space, and rigid hierarchy may feel “clean” to some — but sterile, even alienating, to others. Especially for cultures that value ornamentation, symbolism, or layered narrative over reduction and restraint.And then there are the symbols. The hamburger menu. The magnifying glass. The three dots that mean “more.” These icons aren’t self-evident — they’re shorthand for those who already know. Minimalism often depends on this kind of silent agreement. It strips away labels and context, assuming users will intuit meaning from minimal cues. But what we call intuitive is often just familiar — familiar to a specific group.In this way, simplicity becomes a private language. It doesn’t invite everyone in — it filters them out. What’s praised as “uncluttered” might simply be inaccessible, making it not just about taste — but about power and privilege.Brutalist web design | Source: https://blog.hubspot.com/website/brutalist-website-designBrutalist design — both online and in architecture — challenges the minimalist ideal by embracing what minimalism rejects — asymmetry, texture, and visual noise. These elements disrupt uniformity and invite interpretation. They reflect the messiness of real life — imperfect, layered, unresolved.Similarly, many Indigenous design traditions resist reduction through symbolic patterns, storytelling, and vibrant color. These aren’t just stylistic flourishes — they’re carriers of memory, identity, and worldview. When minimalism erases the canvas, it risks erasing the meaning too.Even typography isn’t exempt. The dominance of sans-serif fonts in digital design — often framed as modern and professional — isn’t a neutral choice. It’s a cultural one. Helvetica doesn’t feel clean by accident. It feels clean because we’ve been trained to believe it does.Nietzsche, the Grid, and the Will to OrderNietzsche argued that our obsession with order stems from a fear of chaos — a need to impose structure on a world that resists it. The minimalist grid may be less about elegance and more about control. We reduce the world to systems so we can dominate it. Design, in this sense, becomes an act of taming — not understanding.When minimalism flattens all complexity in the name of user-friendliness, it risks becoming what Nietzsche might call Apollonian tyranny — a world ruled by order, logic, and restraint.Nietzsche, borrowing from Greek mythology, frames Apollo as the god of order and rationality, and Dionysus as the god of chaos and passion. Minimalism tends to side with Apollo — favoring clarity and control — but in doing so, it often silences the raw, emotional power of the Dionysian.“Apollo and Dionysus” by Leonid IlyukhinMinimalism as Symbolic ActionAnd it’s not just minimal aesthetics that carry this bias — it’s the language of minimalist design itself. Sparse microcopy and the omission of language in favor of sleek labels — these aren’t just usability decisions. They’re rhetorical choices that reflect cultural values.Rhetorician Kenneth Burke reminds us that language is never neutral — it’s symbolic action, a way of acting in the world, not just describing it. While Western rhetorical traditions often elevate clarity, reduction, and efficiency, Burke forces us to challenge that ideal. He argues that every language system is a terministic screen — a filter that directs our attention toward some ideas while pushing others into the background.Take microcopy, for instance. A feedback form might feature a single minimalist button labeled “Submit.” It’s sterile, authoritative — a final command issued to the user.But change it to “Send Your Feedback” or “Post Your Response,” and something shifts. The system no longer demands compliance — it invites participation. The interface becomes less like a machine, more like a conversation. Language doesn’t just label the action — it defines the relationship. That’s something minimalism often strips away.Inclusive Design Requires Philosophical CourageIf design is to be inclusive, we must first admit that our definition of “good” design is not universal. We have to dig deeper — past aesthetic preference, usability heuristics, and even language — and ask ourselves who we’re really designing for. Are we simplifying, or are we erasing? Are we guiding users, or are we training them to comply?Design theorist Anne-Marie Willis talks about “ontological designing” — the idea that design not only shapes products, but shapes us. If we keep reinforcing the same aesthetic systems, such as minimalism, we’re not just shaping interfaces — we’re shaping minds. We are, consciously or not, encoding dominant cultural values into every decision we make.Toward a Pluralistic Design EthicThe solution isn’t to abandon minimalism — but to reframe it.Minimalism should be seen not as a universal truth, but as one design dialect among many — shaped by specific histories, values, and assumptions. Just as language expands to include more voices, so should design.This begins with intentional plurality. Rather than defaulting to one aesthetic framework, we should make space for multiple design traditions — each with its own logic of clarity, rhythm, symbolism, and structure. These aren’t embellishments — they’re entire systems of meaning.Practice contextual minimalism. Use restraint when it serves the message, not just because it’s trendy. In some contexts, simplicity communicates trust. In others, richness communicates truth.Design for the unfamiliar. Don’t assume fluency in minimalist language. Use labels, provide orientation, layer meaning. Accessibility isn’t just about ability — it’s about meeting people where they are, culturally and cognitively.Allow aesthetic code-switching. Great design systems can flex. A product’s interface can be calm and clear in one moment, and expressive in another — depending on context, purpose, and audience.Inclusive design isn’t about flattening everything into neutral sameness. It’s about designing with humility, curiosity, and a willingness to let go of sacred cows.Final ThoughtMinimalism isn’t oppressive by default. But when it becomes the default, it can quietly reinforce power by erasing culturally diverse perspectives.If we want a truly inclusive design practice, we have to be willing to question even the most celebrated rules of our craft.Because sometimes, complexity is the truer path to clarity.Don’t miss out! Join my email list and receive the latest content.The oppressive foundation of minimalist design was originally published in UX Collective on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.