Why You Should Release That Shitty Font

We are at one of those moments in design where the Bauhausian ideas of “quality” is quietly losing its authority as the main gatekeeper of legitimacy. This happens periodically. Design cultures harden around a set of rules, those rules become indistinguishable from virtue, and eventually someone pushes back hard enough that the spell breaks.

We have seen it before. The rigidity of Swiss modernism eventually gives way to rebellion, not once, but repeatedly, across generations. Designers like David Carson, Eike König, and Hassan Rahim may work in different decades and contexts, but across time their work has performed the same function: refusing inherited norms and articulating new conditions of design that resonate more deeply with the cultural moment than with legacy technical authority. What mattered in those moments was not that the work was technically better by Swiss standards, but that it felt truer to the cultural conditions it was responding to, often by introducing alternative historical perspectives.

We are there again.

This time, the shift is being driven by a different set of pressures. AI has flattened polish. Tech startups and their geometric sans-serif optimism have disappointed an entire generation. The future we were promised turned out to be extractive, boring, and fragile. As a result, the aesthetics that carried those promises have lost their credibility. Precision, cleanliness, typographic sterility, all the things that once signalled seriousness and progress, no longer feel like truth. They feel like branding.

As Elizabeth Goodspeed has pointed out in her writing on the renewed interest in analogue processes, this is not nostalgia for its own sake; it’s frustration. A response to systems that feel too smooth, too automated, too indifferent. The turn toward texture, materiality, and visible process is less about going backwards than about trying to reintroduce friction where it has been systematically removed. In that context, imperfection is not an aesthetic preference. It is a demand for agency.

And when aesthetic trust collapses, something interesting happens. Designers and clients become more open to imperfection. Not sloppiness, but specificity. Not chaos, but agency.

Here, type designers have a new opportunity.

Graphic designers and their clients are no longer choosing fonts solely because of balance, rhythm, or correctness. They are looking at where a typeface comes from. Who made it; why it exists. For some foundries, the “why” has become their whole business case. For others, the “who”. That would have been difficult to imagine in the 1980s. Variable fonts have taught us to think about weight, width, and contrast as fluid systems rather than fixed ladders. Google Fonts has democratised not just access to type, but access to type technology and production norms. A graphic designer can buy Glyphs once, learn in public, and charge clients for work that would have been unthinkable twenty years ago.

And thank fuck for that. Markets always have room for the strange thing that started as a “what if.” The slightly wrong Baskerville. The project that broke every pedagogical rule you were taught, or never quite resolved into something polite enough to submit to a foundry review. Fonts that challenged models of typographic perfection have always existed, but we are at a new confluence: publishing has never been easier. Releasing work to the world an industry standard has never been easier. And about every decade or so, designers and their clients become willing to experiment, again.

What has changed most is not type design itself, but distribution.

Most of the industry’s distribution power now sits with a small number of platforms, many of them subscription-based and deeply saturated. These platforms are very good at serving mainstream needs. They already contain thousands of high-quality, broadly useful typefaces. For designers looking to differentiate themselves, or for clients trying to avoid the visual language everyone else is using, discovery inside those systems is increasingly difficult. Not because new, interesting work does not exist there, but because finding it requires time, patience, and a tolerance for noise that most projects do not allow.

At the same time, designers and clients are becoming more sensitive to licensing models. Perpetual licences matter, in a sea of subscription-based lock-ins, as does protection from future price changes. There is a growing gap between what large distributors are optimised to offer, and what a portion of the market is actively seeking. That gap is not being filled by perfect fonts. It is being filled by finished ones.

This is where I think many early-career type designers get stuck. They are sitting on work that is functional, expressive, and ready enough, but withheld in pursuit of an imagined standard of readiness. Usually that standard is inherited from art school, from legacy foundry culture, or from a belief that legitimacy is granted externally rather than accumulated through use. The designers without these ostensible privileges have been able to think out of the box and capitalise on these shifts sooner, but like marginalised people have always done, they have showed the rest of us (you?) that it could be done.

Modern type design is not fundamentally harder than it used to be. The tools are better. The knowledge is more accessible. What has changed is where power sits. As more foundries are absorbed by larger distributors, and as more designers relinquish control in exchange for reach, the only meaningful way to retain power is to move closer to the means of production. That does not require ideological purity. It requires proximity.

Releasing a font, even one you consider unfinished or imperfect, is not a declaration of mastery. It is a way of entering the market on your own terms. It creates a feedback loop. It teaches you how people actually use your work. It forces you to think about pricing, licensing, communication, and audience. It turns type design from a private exercise into an economic activity.

This is where many designers confuse caution with seriousness. Holding work back feels responsible. It feels like care. But often it is just self-doubt dressed up as professionalism.

You do not need permission from a distributor to begin. You do not need a catalogue. You do not need a theory of yourself. You need to put the work somewhere it can be used. FutureFonts; Gumroad; your own website; PayPal. Anywhere is better than a folder with “_WIP” in the title.

Do not worry about flooding the market. The market has been saturated for a long time. What has changed is not volume, but value. Our industry’s ideas of “perfection” are no longer the currency they once were. Clarity, specificity, and availability are. Designers who are doing better right now are not necessarily more talented, and they are not necessarily more ethical. They are simply more aligned with how the industry actually functions.

Release the font. Learn from what happens. Adjust. Do it again.

The shitty font is not the problem. Waiting for it to become something else is.