Anyone Can Make. Few Have Anything to Say.

I fell in love with Arsenal F.C. in 1993. I was eight years old.

It wasn't one thing. It was all of it at once. The cannon on the badge. The JVC sponsor sitting in the middle of the shirt. The marble halls at Highbury. Floodlights over the North Bank. Tony Adams chest out at the back shouting orders. Ian Wright celebrating like the goals belonged to him personally. The yellow and navy "Bruised Banana" shirt cutting across the pitch under the lights. Two cup finals at Wembley in five days. Arsenal becoming the first club since Preston North End's original Invincibles to win both domestic cups in the same season. 

I could not have explained why any of it mattered. I only knew that it did.

What I was seeing, though I did not yet have the language for it, was a brand in its truest sense. Not a logo. Not a badge. A culture. Typography, colour, memory, architecture, songs, rituals, people, moments—decades of meaning held together tightly enough that even a child could recognize it instantly and feel something real.

Years later, at university, I read John Berger's Ways of Seeing and finally understood what had been happening. Berger wrote that seeing is never passive: what we notice is shaped by what we already know, what we believe, and what we have been trained to recognize. Long before I understood design, I had already been training my eye.

That thought has stayed with me through 22 years of design and creative direction. But my mind has been on Arsenal more than usual lately, because we have just won the Premier League after more than two decades. The last time Arsenal won it, I was at university reading Berger. This time, I am old enough to understand something I could not have articulated back then: institutions do not survive as cultural forces because of results alone. They survive because meaning compounds over time. Memory compounds. Identity compounds.

And increasingly, that feels like the real question underneath the AI conversation too.

The ground has shifted.

For most of modern creative work, making was the bottleneck. Skill was scarce. Software was difficult. Teams were expensive. Time mattered. If something looked polished, there was a reasonable chance somebody had spent serious time thinking about it. That relationship has broken.

AI can generate finish without thought, surface without substance, confidence without judgement. Work that once required a week, a team and a developed craft vocabulary can now be assembled in minutes by someone who has never opened Figma. This is genuinely exciting. It is also the most important shift our industry has faced in decades, because it changes what is actually valuable.

The problem is not that AI makes bad work. It is that AI makes bad work look finished.

Abundance changes behavior. When everything can be made instantly, most things become disposable instantly too. The internet is already flooding with work designed for immediate consumption rather than lasting connection—content optimized for novelty instead of memory; fast in, fast out, consumed and forgotten in the same movement. That is the environment brands now operate inside, and it is why taste matters more than ever.

What taste actually is.

The word “taste” is being used constantly right now, usually without much precision. Taste is not aesthetic preference. It is not knowing which typeface is fashionable or which chair belongs in a creative studio. Taste is judgement.

Every designer knows the feeling. A piece of work can be technically competent and still fundamentally wrong. The grid works. The typography works. The motion is smooth. The accessibility passes. And yet something about it feels empty—and often the fix is not adding more: it is removing something. The instinct that recognizes this before it can fully explain itself is taste. The ability to distinguish between what is alive and what is merely assembled; between what is earned and what is borrowed; between work with a point of view and work that is simply the average of other people’s references.

Taste is not magic. It is accumulated judgement, built through repetition, failure, observation and time. William Morris understood this during the industrial revolution: the danger was never the machine itself: it was removing human judgement from the process of making. The technology has changed; the question has not.

This is where many companies will misunderstand AI entirely. They will treat speed as the product rather than the capability: more assets, more campaigns, more outputs, more content. But when everyone can produce infinitely, production itself stops being the thing of value. Distinctiveness is. Craft is. Point of view is. Resonance is.

What it looks like when it works.

You can already see the difference between brands that understand this and brands that do not, and you can see it clearly in the way Arsenal has evolved creatively over the past few years.

In 2022, the club established an in-house creative studio—not simply to produce more content, but to create a central creative voice capable of protecting and evolving the culture around the club. The best work Arsenal has produced since has not felt like marketing as much as recognition of the emotional language that already existed around the club.

The reissued JVC shirts. “North London Forever.” The typography. The matchday visuals. The illustrations. The films. The tone of voice. The understanding that Arsenal is not simply a football club people support, but a cultural identity people inherit and that feels connected to an emotional truth. The club understands something many brands still do not: people are not looking for more content. They are looking for meaning.  

What it looks like when it doesn’t.

Compare that to much of contemporary brand and product design. You recognize it instantly. The softly glowing gradient mesh. The abstract shape symbolizing connectivity or intelligence. The neutral sans-serif. The thin-line iconography. The floating product render against a blurred background somewhere between lavender and blue.

Open the next website: it is the same website. Open the rebrand launched this week: it is also the same website.

None of it is offensively bad (and that is almost the problem). It is competent. Polished. Finished. Entire ecosystems of near-identical work generated from the same references, the same prompts and the same consensus about what modernity is supposed to look like. This is what taste-free design looks like in 2026: not ugly, not broken, just indistinguishable. And indistinguishable work disappears quickly, because people do not remember abundance. They remember the things that reflect a point of view. The things that felt emotionally true. The things that felt made by humans rather than generated for engagement metrics.

AI can mimic the surface of culture. It cannot recreate the inheritance underneath it or understand why a football shirt matters to somebody who watched Arsenal at Wembley in '93 from behind the sofa on an old television while adults shouted at the screen. It cannot understand memory, place, ritual or belonging. It can render the image, but cannot render what the image means.

What AI cannot replace.

The future is not AI versus creativity. That framing is already obsolete. The real shift is happening elsewhere: in how the best creative companies are learning to combine machine-scale capability with human-scale judgement.

That is already how we operate at Huge. Not treating AI as a replacement for craft, but as an extension of it. The right craftspeople using the right tools in the right way to arrive at better outcomes than either humans or machines could produce alone. The differentiator is no longer access to the technology but taste: knowing what to amplify, what to remove, what deserves emotional weight, what should stay human, and when speed helps the work versus when it starts flattening it into sameness.

AI-native creativity should not produce more average work faster. It should create the conditions for better work to exist at a scale and speed that was previously impossible. Anyone can now generate volume. Far fewer can generate resonance—and resonance is what brands will need in a world saturated with infinite content and immediate satisfaction. The brands that endure will be the ones that still know how to make people feel something specific.