Imagine walking into your favorite library. You know exactly where the fiction section is. It’s always on the second floor, to the left of the stairs. The librarian knows where you go. Your feet know the way. It’s muscle memory.
It is a week later when you walk in, and suddenly fiction is in the basement, behind the coffee shop, accessible only through a secret door behind the periodicals. The stairs are now an elevator, but it’s on the other side of the building. The librarian has vanished.
You’d feel disoriented. Frustrated. Maybe even a little unsafe. You’re just trying to find a book, not solve a puzzle.
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