Lost in translation: decoding yet another ticket machine

I love travelling. And public transport is part of getting to know a new city. I don’t have scientific evidence, but my feeling is that it is becoming increasingly challenging to understand and handle ticket machines – and many other self-service terminals. That’s not how it is supposed to be, is it?

Your suitcase leans against your leg. A line forms behind you. The map above the machine is dense with colored lines and unfamiliar station names. The interface glows confidently, as if it assumes you already understand the rules of the game. You do not.

From a usability point of view, public transport ticket systems are fascinating — and often unforgiving. They reveal how deeply design is shaped by habit. What feels intuitive and logic to locals can feel like decoding a tax form to visitors.

The first challenge is often the hardest, as it requires you to understand things that are rarely explained: In some cities, you buy a ticket for time. In others, for zones. In others still, for distance, for lines, or for specific operators. Without context, words like “Zone A+B,” “peak supplement,” or “validation required” mean very little. A simple question such as “Where are you going?” would be nice.

And the struggle continues

Then there is language. Many machines offer an English option, but translation is not the same as clarity. Transport jargon travels badly. “Concession,” “carnet,” or “tap in/out” may be technically accurate yet culturally opaque. Please let me know what I have to do with the ticket …

Navigation structure matters too. Some machines present every possible ticket type at once: day passes, weekly passes, airport supplements, group tickets, youth fares, regional extensions. The cognitive load is immense and just reading through them takes time. For a traveler under time pressure, fewer, well-grouped options reduce stress dramatically. “Most popular tickets” is not just a marketing trick; it could be usability kindness.

Payment flows add another layer. Does the machine accept contactless? Does it require chip-and-PIN? Is cash still valid? Are instructions displayed before or after you insert your card? Nothing erodes trust faster than uncertainty during payment. Clear feedback – in multimodal ways such as sound and text – and just an ordinary progress indicator reassures users that the system is working with them, not against them.

Physical design plays its part. Screens placed too high or too low exclude users. Glare makes text unreadable. Buttons without tactile feedback increase errors. In bright sunlight or late-night dimness, contrast becomes crucial. Accessibility is not a niche concern; it is a baseline for usability.

The best ticket machines behave less like vending machines and more like guides. They anticipate confusion. They offer examples: “Going to Central Station? Choose this.” They default to sensible options while leaving room for customisation. They respect the user’s time.

In the end, transportsystems are often a visitor’s first real interaction with a city. Before the museum, before the café, before the skyline selfie, there is the ticket machine.

When it is well designed, it communicates something subtle but powerful: You are welcome here. We have thought about your journey.

When it is not, it communicates something else entirely — that mobility belongs to those who already know the rules, and are capable of using the unfriendly system.

I look forward to when the requirements of the European Accessibility Act become more widely spread across ticket machines. But I would also like designers of these machines to travel a bit and try what happens when you use the system for the first time.