The idea came unexpectedly. I was sitting in the driver seat, staring at the dashboard, and thinking about how rarely it tells me what I actually want to know. It shows numbers, but not always meaning. I began wondering what it would feel like to drive with an interface that responds more like software and less like a set of dials.

What I wanted to explore was clarity. Not just visual clarity, but cognitive. Could I reduce the amount of friction between what the driver sees and what they need to understand? I also questioned what role aesthetics could play when speed, fuel, and navigation are already functional. Could those elements do more than just report?

I didn’t run formal research, but I spent days collecting photos and videos of dashboards from different vehicles. Trucks, sports cars, hybrids. I paid attention to what was consistent, what was missing, and how information was prioritized. One insight stood out: most clusters treat data in isolation, instead of telling a story. That felt like a missed opportunity.

I set out to design a system that combines three perspectives—mechanical, environmental, and emotional. That meant blending speed and RPM with music, temperature, and direction. I created boundaries early on: it had to be readable at a glance, supportive of multiple driving contexts, and avoid anything decorative that didn’t serve feedback.

I leaned on circular interfaces. They mirror analog instruments but open up more expressive options. The left side shows RPM and transmission mode. The right side focuses on speed and range. The center binds them—music, navigation, weather. I wanted this middle zone to feel alive, not distracting. More like a co-pilot than a screen.

The visuals followed a principle of neutrality. Soft whites and shadows suggest depth without noise. I chose a restrained typeface and avoided icons that required learning. Every element has one job. Even the green arrow for signaling is subtle. The hardest part was spacing—how to keep things apart without losing their relationship.

One detail that changed everything was showing the time and odometer as a persistent base. Originally, I hid them in favor of minimalism, but without them, the system felt vague. Adding them grounded the whole experience. It reminded me that utility isn't always obvious in Figma—it’s something you only feel after looking away and coming back.

If I were to do this again, I’d spend more time prototyping for motion. This kind of interface is never still, and static screens don’t do it justice. I’d also explore user modes—how this might shift for long drives, night-time, or city traffic. But even as it stands, this project made me more patient with visual systems. It taught me that detail isn’t in how much you put in, but how much you know to leave out.