Sometimes a design challenge does not begin with a client brief. It begins with a quiet, persistent frustration.

I have been playing the electric guitar for longer than I would comfortably admit in public. Long enough that I occasionally feel I should have reached some mythical level of virtuosity by now. Instead, I have spent years hovering on a skill plateau. And that is fine. Guitar is a hobby for me. My focus has always been songwriting rather than performance. I care more about ideas than speed.

Over the years, one recurring need kept surfacing. I wanted a simple, interactive fretboard map that would let me experiment with scales visually. But also I was not looking for a dense music theory app overloaded with features. I wanted something immediate and responsive. Something that would help me define a scale and explore chord possibilities intuitively.

Existing tools did not quite work for me. They were either too complex, too rigid, or too focused on memorisation rather than exploration. Much of Western music theory terminology developed through pedagogy, liturgical practice, and academic tradition, often reflecting historical lineage more than interval structure. For newcomers, these naming systems can obscure relationships that are otherwise straightforward.

Consider labels such as Hungarian Minor, the mystic scale, the Lydian Chromatic concept, or the Rimsky Korsakov associated octatonic scale. These names carry rich musical history, but they are only meaningful if you already understand what they describe. As both a guitar player and a designer, that gap felt like an opportunity. So I decided to design the tool I always wished existed.

Most music theory tools assume the problem is learning scales. That was no longer where I struggled. I was not trying to memorise the Ionian mode or recognise the Hungarian Minor by name. During songwriting, I wanted to experiment. I wanted to choose a set of intervals that sound interesting to me, place them on the fretboard, and immediately understand what harmonic space they created. I wanted a practical tool not a theoretical framework.

Existing tools forced me into predefined systems. They asked me to select a scale from a long list of historical names and theoretical categories. That approach assumes the user already knows what they are looking for. Creativity rarely works that way. Songwriting often begins with curiosity rather than certainty. What happens if I build a six note scale around minor thirds? What chords naturally emerge from it? Which shapes fall comfortably under the fingers?

The challenge therefore was to create an interactive fretboard experience that allows scales to be defined by intervals then immediately reveals their harmonic possibilities. I intentionally framed the challenge narrowly. This was not about building a full music learning platform. It was about answering one practical question at the moment ideas appear:

If I construct an unfamiliar scale using a specific interval pattern, what chords can I actually play on the guitar?

The user, in this case, was me. That might sound indulgent, but it allowed for honesty. I knew exactly where the friction lived. Designing for yourself can be risky if it becomes self centered. You can easily end up solving a problem that no one else has. But when approached as a real constraint rather than a personal preference, it can also produce clarity. The goal was removing friction from exploration.

In my designer roles, I have received both praise and criticism for my work that stayed with me. Both are useful. I tend to listen carefully, even when feedback makes me uncomfortable. Doubt can be productive. What anchors my process is not aesthetic preference but value. Does the design solve the problem? Does it reduce friction? Does it enable the intended behavior?

I am comfortable iterating. I do not mind yet another adjustment, rework or even a complete pivot if it improves the outcome. In this project, that mindset was essential. Because when you design something for yourself, you are constantly tempted to over-engineer it. I had to repeatedly ask; is this feature solving the core problem, or is it just another shiny thing?

Before touching any interface elements, I listed what I actually needed from the tool.

• The ability to define scale intervals. This was the most important feature, as I wanted to experiment with scales rather than be limited to the traditional church modes of the diatonic system. I decided to focus on a small set of interval distances: the minor third, and the minor and major second.

• Immediate visual feedback of scale tones. This became the primary feature of the tool and was tightly coupled with scale construction.

• The ability to define the number of steps in a scale. Theoretically, a scale can contain any number of tones between one and twelve within an octave. In Western music practice, however, scales containing five to eight notes tend to occupy the most musically usable range.

• The ability to switch between scale modes. Technically this is not strictly necessary, since scales are circular by nature, but it helps visualise scale maps across the fretboard and align them with chords that use open strings.

• A clear visual representation of the fretboard from the nut to the twelfth fret, as this captures a complete octave on each string. Since I play standard six string guitars, I decided not to support multiscale or extended range instruments. I aslo was not bothered about alternative tunings or capo. All great ideas for nice-to-have features, yet to me these were distractions I wanted to avoid.

• Fret markers to provide an intuitive reference for left hand positioning. Many guitar applications either omit fret markers entirely or rely on fret numbers. For me, traditional dot markers are the most intuitive visual reference.

I knew that I did not want to select predefined scales identified by archaic or confusing names such as the heptatonic melodic scale, or modes bearing the name of a long forgotten Greek tribe, such as Mixolydian. Synonymous labels like Gypsy Minor, Hungarian Minor, or Double Harmonic Minor felt equally limiting. They convey little practical meaning without prior theoretical knowledge. To me, Mixolydian and Ionian are simply interval patterns: 2, 2, 1, 2, 2, 1, 2 and 2, 2, 1, 2, 2, 2, 1 respectively.

• A way to identify potential chords within a scale. As an amateur guitarist, I tend to think of harmony in two categories: triads, and triads extended with additional tones.

• Minimal cognitive overhead. I wanted to avoid overly complex or academic chord naming conventions such as Cmaj9#11 jazz voicings, C7sus4 add tone structures, or altered dominants like C7b9#11. Frankly, I cared less about the theoretical label and more about whether the chord sounded good and functioned within the context of the scale.

That last point was crucial. Creativity suffers when the tool itself becomes the focus. The interface should feel like an extension of thought, not a puzzle to solve.

Finally, the interface needed a sense of playfulness. I wanted it to have a fun factor. Something slightly quirky.