The Myth of More

More effort is wasted managing what doesn’t matter than doing what does

Few things are more complicated than simplifying a family garage.

Dear Friend,

We all say we want a simpler life—less clutter, fewer responsibilities, more peace—but our behavior tells a different story. We value simplicity yet choose complexity. We buy, say yes, sign up for more, and wonder why we feel overwhelmed.

Complexity is seductive. It promises pleasure, possibility, or a sense of completion. But it also burdens us with more to manage.

I thought about this when my dad called and offered me an Amex card—not to spend with but to access airport lounges. “It’s free,” he said. “It might be nice to have.”

I hesitated, knowing how seemingly beneficial things carry hidden costs. Then I considered my few indulgences and how nice it’s been to spend a layover in a quiet, well-stocked lounge instead of a noisy terminal. So I said yes.

The Cost of Complexity

That, yes, snowballed into drama.

First came a fraud alert text. Then a call to the verification line—ten minutes of hold music. Then an email to my dad to confirm he had requested the card. Then his reply. The next day, two separate FedEx envelopes arrived—both with my name, each with a different card number. Next came more emails, a customer service call, and instructions for returning one of the cards because it was metal and required special handling.

None of these things were major individually. But together, they consumed hours of time and attention.

This is how complexity works. It doesn’t feel like a burden at the moment. It creeps in slowly, camouflaged as opportunity. But over time, it takes up mental, emotional, and energetic space, and we let it into our lives without careful consideration.

But if less feels so good, why do we often choose more?

We Were Happier Then

Over the years, I’ve had many conversations with people about this pattern: how readily we exchange simplicity for complexity and how rarely we realize what we’ve given up.

“My wife and I were happier when we were younger,” confided a dad at a musical afterparty. “I was in medical school at Stanford, we were living in a small apartment, and we didn’t have all the stuff we have now. In fact, we hardly had any money, but we were happy. Life was so simple.”

Another man, at a career event, said something similar, “When I was fresh out of the University of Chicago, and my wife and I were living downtown, we were happier.” Then he paused, “Well, life was simpler then.”

Different people. Different lives. Same realization.

It’s not that we had more back then. It’s that we had less, which was a blessing. Fewer possessions. Fewer responsibilities. Fewer things to look after. And yet, even after recalling how good the simple life was, most of us keep compounding our already complex lives with more.

But why?

The Paradox of More

There’s a now-classic study in consumer psychology that might help explain it.

At Draegger’s Market, two Stanford business school students set up a table for customers to sample jam. Some customers were offered 24 different flavors; others, just 6. When more jams were presented, more people stopped to taste, but when fewer jams were available, people were ten times more likely to buy.

This is the paradox of choice: More options give us more theoretical freedom but often less practical satisfaction. More choice means more effort, doubt, and a greater likelihood of regret. Psychologically, it means more mental labor, not just to decide but to feel confident in one's decision.

The same pattern shows everywhere—our garages, calendars, relationships, computer files, digital tools, and family rooms. We think more will make us happier, but we end up overwhelmed. We believe we are improving the quality of our lives, but we’re exhausting ourselves under the weight of our own ignorance.

Every time we add something, we commit to managing it indefinitely, which often outweighs the initial excitement of saying yes.

No is a choice. Yes is an obligation.

Complexity Masquerading As Enrichment

I laughed when my stepkids’ dad and stepmom mentioned wanting a golden doodle.

As someone who’s been dog-sitting for nearly three years, I can’t help but wonder how long it will be before the novelty turns into a chore. How long before they’re complaining about walking the dog in the rain, potty training it, or picking up poop in the backyard? How long before they’re cleaning up vomit from the rug, paying vet bills they didn’t budget for, or dealing with separation anxiety, excessive barking, or food allergies? How long before we’re asked to dog sit—for free, or “just a favor”?

Dogs are wonderful, but they require time, money and attention. This is how we confuse stimulation with fulfillment. We keep adding in hopes of feeling more alive, but often, we’re just contributing to our sense of overwhelm.

Complexity loves to wear the mask of joy, especially when it’s new.

Why We Do It Anyway

When asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, British climber George Mallory famously quipped, "Because it's there."

That same instinct drives much of our behavior. Why do we buy a newer version, say yes to a project, download an app, accept something just because it's free, and say yes when we want to say no? Because it’s there. Because we can. Because we have the cognitive ability to handle vast complexity and because the brain—when left unattended—will always find something to do. When quiet, the mind sees things to fix and searches for things to optimize. It turns ease into complexity.

The trap is that complexity often looks like progress. But in reality, it’s motion without meaning.

The Bowl on the Pedestal

One of my teachers once shared an analogy of a beautiful brass bowl.

If you place that bowl in a crowded convenience store surrounded by gum, candy bars and cheap lighters, nobody will notice it. It will disappear into the visual noise. But if you put that same bowl alone on a pedestal, under a soft light, people will stop and admire it for its beauty.

The bowl hasn’t changed. The environment has.

The bowl represents what we value: the rising sun, slow mornings, journaling, stretching, a warm shower, meaningful work, an evening walk, the sky between the branches, and meaningful connections. But when these are obscured by busyness and a mind lost in thought, their value is not readily apparent.

Complexity doesn’t just drain our life energy. It distracts our attention and obscures what matters.

Simplicity Is a Rebellion

Simplicity is not just a design principle. It’s a discipline.

It asks us to pause, reflect and say no to what’s easy in the moment to protect what’s meaningful in the long run. It’s difficult because it requires clarity, prioritization and restraint.

As Steve Jobs famously said, “Simple can be harder than complex. You have to work hard to get your thinking clean to make it simple.”

To live simply in a world that rewards complexity is a quiet act of rebellion.

The Power of Simplicity

More life energy is lost managing complexity than is ever gained from adding more to our lives. If that's true, choosing less and saying no is a more valuable discipline than saying yes.

I remember the famous Albert Einstein quote, “Any fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius—and a lot of courage—to move in the opposite direction.”

By the way, I never ended up using the Amex card to get into any airport lounges.

Keep simplifying,

Ryan

---

Monty, a gentle, old diabetic dog, in his sunbathing element.