Yes, This really happened.
And yes, I was at Taco Bell — against my better judgment.

Developer enjoying his burrito
When Life throws you a UX lesson.

I just wanted a quick dinner. Instead, I got a masterclass in how to build a system so broken it loops back around to being educational.

It all started when the self-checkout asked me to enter my own order number. What??

Next to the kiosk was a rack for those little buzzers that vibrate when your food is ready. Perfect I’ll just enter the number…except there were none. Just an empty holder, like a relic from a time when this system maybe tried to work.

I hesitated. Was I supposed to go to the counter? Was something broken? (Yes. But not just one thing.)

That’s when I noticed the little printed signs stuck to the self checkout. “Enter any 3-digit number.”

So I did what any sane person would do when confronted with an unsecured input field in the wild: I mashed in 123.

That’s right, I typed 123 — because why not. Surely there must be some magic behind the scenes would link it up.

That was the second mistake. The first was walking in the door.

The Ghost of UX Promises Past

While waiting, I heard the guy behind the counter yell out a four-digit number. Wait..What? It clearly said 3 digits. Then he yelled out a two-digit number.

So even the three-digit instruction was a lie. The system doesn’t care what you enter. Just give it a number-shaped thing and carry on.

At this point, I should have left. But I had already paid.

Minutes later, while standing near a puddle of unknown origin (because of course there was a puddle), I watched another customer approach the kiosk. She, too, typed in 123. No, surely the system would tell her to pick another number? Nope, it worked.

At that moment, two truths became clear:

  1. This system does not enforce uniqueness. It barely enforces reality.
  2. We are now in a Mexican standoff over a Crunchwrap.

“Order 123, your food is ready”

The moment arrived.

They called out “123” and two of us looked up. Me, and another customer who’d clearly chosen the same number.

We shared a glance. No panic. No argument. Just a mutual recognition that this system had abandoned both of us. A soft, resigned shrug passed between us like, “Yeah… this is weird.”

I moved first. She didn’t contest it. I got the food.

We can only hope she got hers.

Let’s Count the Sins

  • User-entered order numbers
    Congratulations, your kiosk is now a race condition.

  • No input validation
    Three digits? Four digits? Two? All good.

  • No lookup, no receipt pairing
    There’s no “your order is ready”. Just “an order is ready.”

  • Non-functional buzzer system
    The hardware’s there. The process is not. It’s like displaying a fire alarm labeled “decorative.”

  • Side puddle
    Not technically software, but spiritually connected. It’s the null pointer of this experience — unclaimed, unexplained, quietly leaking. What even was it??

The Cynical Takeaway

Someone built this.

Someone greenlit a system where customers invent their own order IDs.
Someone printed stickers suggesting a limit the software doesn’t enforce.
Someone installed buzzers and then abandoned them like a side quest.
And then someone else came in and said, “Yeah, ship it.”

This wasn’t an edge case. This was the experience.

And the worst part? We tolerate it. We shrug, eat our food, and move on because expecting quality from fast food software is like expecting your taco not to leak.

So here’s your UX tip of the day:
If your input field can trigger a silent duel in the dining area, maybe rethink your design.

And if you find a puddle near the self-checkouts, don’t ask. Just go.