Some interfaces are quiet
A button is the smallest contract a product makes with a person. Press here and something happens — reliably, quickly, without drama. When that contract is honoured, nobody notices. When it is broken, everybody does, and the whole thing starts to feel cheap in a way that is hard to name and easy to feel.
Weight is the sum of a hundred small decisions: the radius, the shadow that says the surface can be pressed, the hundred-millisecond delay before the ripple, the way the label sits dead-centre no matter the language. None of these is visible on its own. Together they are the difference between software you trust and software you tolerate.
The craft is in refusing to round any of them off. A button that feels expensive is not decorated — it is resolved. Every value has been argued for. That is the whole job, most days: arguing quietly for the values nobody will ever see.