The computer peripheral market has always been more experimental at its edges than in the mainstream. Ergonomic trackballs, in particular, have attracted a devoted following among power users, but the options tend to cluster at two extremes: consumer-facing products with locked-down firmware, and niche open-source hardware that trades polished finish for deep customizability. Finding something that genuinely does both has rarely been straightforward.

Ploopy’s Adept trackball made a compelling case for the latter category, earning a loyal following with its open-source, 3D-printed design and QMK compatibility. But it always felt like it had more to say. Its circuit board had always reserved space for two more switches that never made it to production, and the base had slots for a wrist rest that never materialized. The A+ is that unfinished story, now finished.

Designer: Ploopy

The most visible addition is the button count. The Adept had six; the A+ has eight, two of which also function as knobs. Out of the box, the knobs handle high-resolution vertical and horizontal scrolling, but both are fully reprogrammable for other functions. That dual-purpose approach keeps navigation and control within a single hand without needing a separate scroll wheel or accessory sitting alongside it.

The gesture system is arguably the more interesting addition. Hold a button and flick the ball in any of eight directions, and the device fires a command. By default, the left knob activates cut, copy, paste, desktop switching, and media controls. For someone who lives inside a browser and a text editor all day, that’s a significant amount of functionality without ever lifting a hand off the device.

Layers add another dimension. The A+ has two: a navigation layer for everyday use and a control layer accessed via the right knob. The control layer handles on-device configuration, covering left-hand mode switching, toggling between high-resolution and stepped scrolling, and other adjustments. It’s the first trackball to bring this kind of layered behavior, working entirely without any software running on the host computer. There are also two bright LEDs that can be used to visually tell you what layer you’re on without having to rely on some embedded screen.

The detachable wrist rest is another long-promised feature that finally arrives with the A+. It slots in or out during use and can be screwed on permanently if preferred. The device stays ambidextrous throughout, and its 3D-printed shell means the community can print modified bodies, alter the layout, or swap in custom colors. That kind of adaptability isn’t an afterthought; it’s part of how the whole thing is designed.

The Pixart PMW-3360 sensor carries over from the Adept, running at a 1,000Hz polling rate with the tracking accuracy that has made it a standard for performance-oriented pointing devices. Omron D2LS-21 switches handle the physical buttons. The firmware remains QMK, configurable through VIA, with all design files, firmware, and assembly instructions freely available on GitHub. Kits start at $99 CAD.

The post This $99 Trackball Has Gesture Controls That Work Without Any Software first appeared on Yanko Design.

Every fabrication lab in the country is quietly accumulating a problem. Failed prints, test runs, leftover filament, the ghost of every prototype that didn’t make the cut. Most of it ends up in the bin. Architect Hyojin Kwon noticed this and, instead of moving on, asked a different question: what if all that discarded plastic could hold a note?

The result is Ninefold: A Distributed Resonant Field, a collaboration between Kwon’s design studio Pre- and Post-, percussionist and composer Jeremy Muller, and architect and material researcher Misri Patel. It’s currently on view at the Reeves House Visual Arts Center in Woodstock, Georgia, through September, and it is one of the more quietly radical things happening in design right now.

Designers: Hyojin Kwon × Jeremy Muller x Misri Patel

The installation is made up of nine large-scale forms, each one 3D-printed from discarded PLA collected from campus makerspaces and fabrication labs. The team shredded that waste into pellets, blended it with virgin material, and ran it through a pellet-based additive manufacturing process. The resulting objects are not identical. Some grow into tall, slender columns. Others widen into chambers or narrow toward their centers. Each carries its own texture, its own layered color variation from the mixed-batch sourcing, and its own distinct harmonic frequency. Together, they form a distributed sound field, meaning the sound is never coming from one place. It moves with you.

That last part is what makes this more than a sculpture show with a good concept. As you walk through the space, your position changes the acoustic picture entirely. Tones overlap, separate, recede. You’re not passively observing nine objects; you’re completing the field. The project draws on the thinking of composer Edgard Varèse, who called for “organized sound” as architecture, and on the spatial music systems of Iannis Xenakis and Le Corbusier. Those are not small reference points. They’re pointing at a lineage that treats space itself as a musical instrument, and Kwon, Muller, and Patel are building within that tradition using material that would have otherwise ended up as landfill.

The aspect of Ninefold that deserves real attention is how seriously it takes the material. The layered plastic isn’t hidden or smoothed over into something that looks deliberately “designed.” The texture is part of the expression. You can see the deposition, the color shifts, the history of what it was made from. The project doesn’t pretend the recycling didn’t happen; it foregrounds it. That honesty feels important at a moment when sustainability has become more of a marketing category than an actual practice.

The nine forms were also fabricated in modular sections, which means they can be transported, reconfigured, and reinstalled elsewhere. That might seem like a logistical footnote, but it matters: an installation about material longevity should probably have a long life. These objects weren’t made to be shown once and archived.

Ninefold is part of a dual exhibition that also includes Plastic Reimagined: Material Agency & Circular Design, developed with students from Georgia Tech’s graduate architecture program and curated by Carolina Cuevas. The full show runs through September at the Reeves House, and admission is free. If you’re near Woodstock, Georgia, it’s worth the trip. If you’re not, the images alone carry something worth sitting with. A lot of projects right now wear sustainability as a label. Ninefold actually earns it, and then manages to also be beautiful, which is rarer than it should be.

The post The Georgia Art Show Turning 9 Broken 3D Prints Into Music first appeared on Yanko Design.

ZHA has collaborated with Spanish design brand Nagami to create the Echo Chair, a 3D-printed seat made from recycled plastic waste. Formerly known as Zaha Hadid Architects, the studio developed the chair through parametric design and large-scale additive manufacturing. Its form is fluid and sculptural, with an arched backrest that extends towards the floor and a seat that curves upwards at the sides.

The two parts look separate at first, but they are printed as one continuous piece. Both surfaces grow from the same structural edge and share the same underlying geometry. One becomes the seat, while the other rises to form the backrest and support.

Designer: ZHA and Nagami

This continuous construction gives the chair a clear sense of logic. The shape is doing several jobs at once: supporting the body, holding the structure together, and defining the overall visual character.

The Echo Chair was developed through an iterative research process at ZHA Lab and manufactured by Nagami, a brand known for its work in large-format 3D printing. The studios used recycled PETG sourced from industrial waste, including single-use medical plastics.

As the chair is printed layer by layer, the process leaves a ribbed texture across its surface. Those lines have been kept visible rather than hidden or polished away. That decision gives the chair much of its character. The texture follows the curves closely and makes the manufacturing process easy to read. It also gives the recycled plastic a more tactile, less generic appearance.

There is something useful in that honesty. The material is not being forced to look like timber, stone or metal. It keeps the visual qualities created by the printing process and uses them as part of the design. The surface does still reference natural materials in a subtle way. Its layered finish recalls mineral formations and carved stone, which helps the chair feel less industrial when placed in an interior.

ZHA and Nagami developed four colourways for the chair: white, black, a white-to-translucent gradient and a caramel tone made using a bio-based cork composite. The colour choices help shift the mood of the design. White makes the form feel lighter and more architectural, while black gives it a stronger, more graphic presence. The translucent version draws attention to the printing layers, and the caramel finish adds warmth to what could otherwise feel like a very technical object.

The caramel version is especially successful because it softens the synthetic quality of the plastic. It feels easier to imagine in a home, hotel lobby or lounge space, rather than only in a gallery or design exhibition. According to ZHA project design director Sebastian Andia, the goal was to turn an abundant and overlooked material into something people would genuinely want to live with. That idea matters because recycled material alone is rarely enough to make a product successful. People still need to like the object, find it comfortable and see a place for it in their environment.

The Echo Chair handles this well. Its sustainable story supports the design, rather than becoming the whole design. The seat’s raised sides create a more enclosed sitting position, while the curved backrest gives the chair a supportive and almost cocooned feel. The shape is expressive, but it still looks usable. Its scale and neutral colour options also make it easier to place than the form might suggest. It has enough presence to work as a statement piece, yet it does not depend on bright colour or decoration to stand out.

The 3D-printing process allows the chair to be produced without visible joints or separate components. This gives it a seamless appearance and keeps the connection between the digital model and final object very direct.

That connection is one of the strongest parts of the project. The manufacturing process does not sit behind the design. It shapes the design. The ribs, curves and continuous structure all come from the same production method. Each part of the chair feels related because it has been developed through the same system.

The Echo Chair continues ZHA and Nagami’s existing collaboration. Nagami launched its first collection of 3D-printed chairs in 2018, which included two designs by the architecture studio. Their latest project shows how much more refined large-scale 3D printing has become. The chair feels less like a technical experiment and more like a finished product with a clear place in contemporary interiors.

The Echo Chair is currently on display as part of London Creates at The Truman Brewery. What makes the chair interesting is the way it brings together material, form and manufacturing without overcomplicating the idea. Recycled plastic is treated as a starting point for the design, rather than something that needs to be disguised.

The post The Echo Chair Makes 3D Printing Feel Refined first appeared on Yanko Design.

Waiting in line at a theme park is one of those unavoidable experiences that nobody designs for enthusiastically. The physical infrastructure exists, the rope lines are laid out, and in the best-case scenario, there’s some signage or ambient music to occupy the time. But the queue is fundamentally dead space, a stretch of minutes that happens before the experience begins rather than as part of it. That’s a design problem, and most parks accept it as one that can’t really be solved.

Samsung’s Spatial Signage installation at Everland in South Korea offers a different answer. At the newly renovated Safari World: The Wild attraction in Yongin, the company installed its glasses-free 3D display directly in the queue area, where life-scale tigers and lions appear to surge toward visitors without so much as a pair of 3D glasses required. The wait effectively becomes the opening act.

Designer: Samsung

The technology making that possible is Samsung’s patented 3D Plate system, which uses binocular parallax to deliver separate images to each eye, tricking the brain into perceiving depth the same way it does when looking at real objects at real distances. Unlike the boxy, space-hungry installations that most 3D signage has historically required, the Spatial Signage display slots into the queue corridor in an 85-inch, portrait-oriented panel with a 52 mm profile. There’s nothing protruding into the space, and no hardware for visitors to interact with.

The content for the Everland installation was developed by Klleon, whose team prioritized capturing the natural movement rhythms of the animals rather than exaggerated cinematic effects. The result is a quality of realism that works specifically because of the environment: a queue is typically a narrow, enclosed space where visitors are already looking forward and standing relatively still, which happens to be exactly the viewing geometry where the 3D depth effect lands best.

What that means practically is that the queue line stops being something guests endure and starts being something they talk about. Anticipation for an attraction is one of the least exploited moments in the theme park visit. Visitors heading toward Safari World already have the right frame of mind for a wildlife encounter, and the display capitalizes on that readiness by delivering a preview of that encounter before anyone boards a vehicle or rounds a corner.

The broader implication is about how display technology fits into destination entertainment design. For years, attractions have used projection mapping, animatronics, and theatrical sets to build immersion during rides and shows, but the queue almost always remains a visual afterthought. A display that can occupy a narrow corridor at wall depth, require no headgear, and show content at true-to-life scale without any spatial awkwardness changes what’s possible in that format.

Everland isn’t a retail shelf or a shopping center atrium. The animals aren’t selling anything. They’re there because a flat screen in that corridor would register as background noise, and a three-dimensional tiger at eye level does not. That distinction, between content that is present and content that actually commands attention, is the problem Spatial Signage was built to solve, and the queue turned out to be a rather fitting test.

The post Samsung Just Turned a Theme Park Queue Into a 3D Safari, No Glasses first appeared on Yanko Design.

The 3D printing community has spent years trying to prove that a printer can produce more than desk trinkets and cable organizers. Lighting has always been the harder sell, where aesthetics and function have to work together in ways that cheap plastic usually undermines. The better designers in that space have been quietly closing that gap, and the results are starting to look like things you’d want to live with.

OHR Design, a Canadian 3D printing studio, is a good example of what that progress looks like. Its Armadillo series takes inspiration from one of nature’s most recognizable shapes, the segmented, overlapping bands of the armadillo shell, and turns it into a lamp shade that adjusts depending on how much, or how little, light you want in a room. And it all started from a tea light holder.

Designer: OHR Design

The original Armadillo grew from an earlier OHR Design called the OHRB, and it’s since inspired a whole family of spin-offs. True to its origins, the Armadillo wraps a tea light in a series of concentric rings that tilt forward to close the shade down or pull back to widen it. At 240mm tall, it’s compact enough for a bedside table or a bookshelf without demanding much real estate.

For those who want the same aesthetic energy at a bigger scale, the Armadillo XL scales the concept up into a proper desk lamp. At 373.8mm tall and 283.9mm wide, it makes a statement on a desk without being overwhelming. It accepts a real light bulb rather than a tea light, making it far more practical for anyone who actually needs their lamp to pull its weight.

What gives both versions their character is the adjustable ring system. The segmented shade isn’t just decorative; opening and closing the rings changes how the light spreads through the room, softening the glow when the rings are fully open or concentrating it when they’re pulled shut. It’s the kind of thing that turns a simple on/off appliance into something you keep reaching over to tweak.

What’s equally interesting is how OHR Design sells these. You aren’t buying a finished lamp; you’re buying the STL files to print one yourself. The original Armadillo fits on a 180mm × 180mm print bed, making it accessible on smaller machines like the Prusa Mini or Bambu Lab A1 Mini. The Armadillo XL, being larger, requires a 256mm × 256mm build volume.

The filament choice is entirely yours, which means the lamp can be as neutral or as bold as you want. OHR Design has been spotted using Overture’s Super PLA+ in various colors, from muted naturals to vivid hues, all of which change how the diffused light reads. Not many lamps invite you to physically shape the light they cast, and fewer still can be reimagined entirely based on the color spool you have on hand. The Armadillo family puts creative control squarely in the hands of whoever prints it, and that’s a genuinely refreshing place to land.

The post This 3D-Printed Lamp Has a Shell That Opens and Closes to Shape Light first appeared on Yanko Design.

Every time you type a prompt into ChatGPT, something happens somewhere far away. Servers spin up. Electricity moves. Carbon gets generated. The whole transaction is so clean and invisible on your end that it might as well not be happening. That’s by design, and it’s worth thinking about. Although with the way we use technology these days, we seldom think about the consequences on our environment.

London-based creative studio Oio wants to change that, starting with a small 3D-printed box and a bright yellow pinwheel. Their project, the Hot Air Factory, is a domestic AI device that processes your questions and requests locally, without connecting to the cloud, and every time it thinks, it physically exhales. Hot air pushes out of the top of the device and spins that cheerful little pinwheel. The harder it thinks, the faster it spins. You’re watching computation happen in real time, which turns out to be a surprisingly powerful thing.

Designer: Oio

The concept is simple: make the invisible visible. We know AI uses energy. We’ve read the headlines. But knowing abstractly that data centers are energy-hungry is different from watching a pinwheel turn every time you ask your AI assistant to summarize something. One is a statistic. The other is a moment of honest accountability.

What makes the Hot Air Factory smart, beyond its obvious design appeal, is how it translates cost into human-readable terms. It doesn’t give you kilowatt-hours because most people have no idea what that means. Instead, it tells you something like “that prompt cost the equivalent of brewing a cup of tea” or “watching Netflix for five minutes.” Suddenly the math becomes personal. Suddenly you start wondering whether you really needed a 500-word AI response to a question you could have Googled.

Oio co-founder Matteo Loglio describes it as “a small, domestic AI that reveals the hidden energy cost behind every prompt.” The factory also lets you dial up or down the level of intelligence it uses. Want a quick answer? Use a lighter model, spend less energy. Need something more complex? Crank it up, and watch that pinwheel work for it. You can even schedule your heavier prompts for the night shift, when energy is cleaner and the grid is quieter. These are design decisions that carry real ethical weight, and they’re baked in with zero condescension.

The playfulness and the seriousness aren’t in conflict here. They’re exactly the point. The Hot Air Factory is built in a Frutiger Aero visual language, all soft curves and clean optimism, the kind of aesthetic that makes you want to put it on a shelf next to your plants. But underneath that approachable exterior is a genuinely complicated machine running open-source large language models on a local GPU. It looks like something a friendly robot would carry. It functions like a small act of protest.

AI companies have very little incentive to make their energy costs legible to users. Invisibility is convenient. It keeps things frictionless. It keeps you prompting without thinking about the bill. A report from the US Department of Energy projected that by 2028, data centers could account for 12% of total electricity consumed in the US. That’s not a small number, and it keeps growing every time we treat AI like it runs on good intentions and cloud magic.

The Hot Air Factory isn’t saying AI is bad. It isn’t demanding you stop using it. What it’s doing is quieter and more persuasive than that. It’s asking you to look. To see. To feel, just a little, what your digital habits cost in the physical world. That’s the argument made not through a lecture or a campaign, but through a yellow pinwheel spinning in your living room.

Design can do that. Sometimes a small, well-made object says more than a policy paper ever could. The Hot Air Factory is currently looking for collaborators to help bring it to a wider audience, still working its way from experiment to something anyone can own. If the goal is conscious computing, the first step might just be this: a tiny box, a spinning fan, and the quiet discomfort of watching a machine breathe.

The post A Tiny Pinwheel Is Doing What AI Giants Won’t first appeared on Yanko Design.