The trap of the empty wireframe
There is a familiar way to start a small-business website. You open Figma, you draw a header with a logo and four navigation links, you add a hero with Lorem ipsum and a 16:9 placeholder, you stack three feature cards beneath, you add a testimonials carousel, you finish with a CTA strip. You show it to the client. The client says looks great, can you make the logo bigger.
Nothing about this process surfaces the actual decisions of the site. The wireframe is a stage set. It tells you nothing about what the homepage should say, what tone of voice the business should use, which three things matter most, which form of social proof works for this trade. It hides those decisions inside Lorem ipsum, which is exactly the wrong place to hide them.
The wireframe is a stage set. It hides the actual decisions of the site inside Lorem ipsum, which is exactly the wrong place to hide them.
The plain-text first draft
Our first deliverable on every project is a plain text document. Not a Figma file, not a screenshot, not a moodboard, just a Google Doc with the entire homepage written out as readable English, in the order it will appear on the page. Headlines as headings, paragraphs as paragraphs, calls to action as one-line buttons. No design, no images, no fonts.
The document is roughly six pages long for a five-section homepage. It takes us about a day to write and about an hour for the client to read. By the end of that hour, we know what the site says. The remaining design work is then a matter of expressing that content, not discovering it.
Three things the doc forces
Writing forces specificity. A wireframe can hold a card called Feature 1. A text document cannot. Feature 1 has to be a real sentence the business is willing to say, signed and out loud. Many feature ideas die at this step. The ones that survive are the ones worth designing.
Writing forces hierarchy. On a wireframe, three feature cards look equally important because they're equally sized. In writing, the order matters: the first thing read is read more than the third. We argue about ordering on the document and arrive at design with that argument already settled.
Writing forces brevity. A 320-character paragraph that reads fine inside a 540px column reads as a wall on a phone. We learn this earlier by setting the doc in a narrow column and reading it out loud. Words that don't survive that reading don't make it to design.
What's left for design
When the writing is done, the design work is roughly halved, not because design is less valuable but because the questions design used to answer are now answered by writing. Type hierarchy follows content hierarchy. Image direction follows the words those images need to support. Layout follows the rhythm of the prose.
What's left for design is the part design is best at: atmosphere. Color, typography, motion, restraint, surprise. Those decisions are made over an established content armature, which means they make the writing better rather than fighting with it. Writing first is not less design. It's the prerequisite for the design we actually want to make.
Ryvoka Studio · March 28, 2026