About

Internet Labs is a small studio

We position brands, build interfaces and agents, and make the films that launch them

The studio was started by a design engineer: someone who designs and then, stubbornly, builds too. Everyone who joined since has caught the same habit. We design, build, write, and look after the people we work for, and in between we make a few products of our own: Internet+, Internet SI OS, Syntr, and Studio. Pull up a chair. This page is long on purpose.

Watch our film

The longer version

Pour a coffee, this one runs long

Hey there,

You scrolled past the top of the page, which means one of two things. Either you’d like to know more about us, or you’re looking for our email address. (It’s at the bottom. Everything’s at the bottom. We’ll wait.)

Still here? Lovely. Let’s do this properly.

That line up there, the one that says we’re a small studio that positions brands, builds interfaces and agents, and makes the films that launch them, is true. It’s also the kind of line every studio has. You could swap our name for almost anyone else’s and it would still be true, which is exactly the trouble with lines like that. So here’s everything it leaves out.

It started with someone who wouldn’t hand things over

Internet Labs was started by a design engineer. If you haven’t met one, a design engineer is a designer who refuses to stop at the drawing. They draw the button. Then they build the button. Then they spend a slightly unreasonable part of the afternoon deciding how the button should feel when a thumb lands on it.

That habit turned out to be contagious. It’s still how the whole studio works, and if you forget everything else on this page, we’d ask you to remember just this: the people who design are the people who build.

Why that matters to you, specifically

Picture the usual way a website gets made. A designer draws it. The drawing gets exported, annotated, and handed to somebody else, who builds what they think the designer meant. Somewhere in that handover, a thousand small decisions get made by someone who wasn’t in the room when the first ones were. The spacing drifts. The animation gets simpler, because it was hard. The error message turns into “Something went wrong.”

None of that is anybody’s fault. It’s just what happens when work changes hands.

We skip the handover. The button in the drawing is the button on the site, right down to how it moves when you press it, because the person who drew it is the person who built it. Nobody has to guess what a designer meant from a note in a file, because the designer is right there, sleeves rolled up, writing the code.

A designer at a desk in a dark studio at night, seen from behind, leaning toward a large monitor, with the city’s lights in the windows. — One person, the drawing, and the code. No handover in sight.

All seven under one roof

We position brands and design the interfaces people use. We engineer them, front to back, and the AI inside them. We make the commercials and the marketing that bring people to them. And we write the words that go in all of it, from the first line of the homepage to the button that says “Done.”

That’s a lot for a small studio. We know. People ask us about it, usually with one eyebrow raised.

Here’s our thinking. When your brand, your website, and your launch film come from three different studios, somebody has to make them match. When they come from the same people, they just do. They look like they were made for each other because, well, they were.

Eight people, four clocks

There are eight of us. We have offices in London, Delhi, Dubai, and New York, which means that somewhere at Internet Labs it’s nearly always the middle of a working day, and that finding an hour everyone can make is a small puzzle we’ve learned to enjoy. (Mostly.)

Being small has its perks, and most of them are yours. The people you meet on the first call are people who work on your project. Nobody gets lost in a chain of forwarded emails. And the person who answers your question is usually the person who knows the answer, because they’re the one who designed and built what you’re asking about.

A city street at blue hour seen from a high window: people crossing in long motion blur, under warm shop lights. — Somewhere in one of four cities, it’s the middle of somebody’s working day.

The products nobody asked us to make

Between client projects we design and build a few of our own. Internet+ is, more or less, an AI Netflix. Internet SI OS is a superintelligence operating system, built for brands and enterprises making themselves AI-first. Syntr is a full-stack AI marketing platform. And Studio is our own answer to the AI image and film tools out there, built in-house so the work our clients trust us with stays private and secure. Nobody asked us to make any of them. We made them anyway.

We think making our own products keeps us honest. It’s one thing to tell a client their sign-up has one step too many. It’s quite another to watch real people give up halfway through your own, and to know exactly whose fault it is.

About “Details on steroids”

Our line is “Details on steroids.” It isn’t a joke.

It’s the plainest thing we can say about how we work. We go further into the details than anyone we’ve worked beside, and further than most people have ever seen anyone go: the half-second after you tap something, the heading that would break badly on a phone and leave one word alone on its last line, the error message nobody reads until the day it really matters. Get those right and nobody notices. Get them wrong and it’s all anyone notices.

So we get them right. We’d rather spend a day on one of those than on a fourth round of logo options, and once you’ve used something made this way, you start to notice what everything else got wrong.

From above, a big table where dozens of small blank paper cards and cut shapes are laid out in rows, as a pair of hands places another. — Dozens of small parts, laid out until they all agree with each other.

We’d rather show you than tell you

You’ve probably noticed this page is long. The rest of the site mostly isn’t. Most of it is the work, each piece with a plain line on what we made and who it was for, and you should judge us by that rather than by anything we say about ourselves here. Including this sentence.

The rest of the site is us answering questions. You send them in, we pick one, and somebody here answers it in public, at length, with their real name at the bottom. That’s #HeyInternet, and it’s the closest thing we have to leaving the studio door open.

That’s the longer version. There’s also a film just below, Humane: Our doctrine, which says most of this in pictures. It’s much shorter. We won’t be offended if you skip straight to it.

Thanks for reading this far. Really.

— The folks at Internet Labs

Our film, Humane: Our doctrine. The human mind will leave its mark.

What we care about

Six opinions we’d defend in a meeting

The designer is the builder
So nothing falls through a handover
A drawing of a button is a promise about how that button will behave. Promises are easiest to keep when the person who made them is the one keeping them. Every handover between a designer and a developer leaves a small gap, and small gaps are exactly where the small things fall through: the spacing, the timing, the way a thing settles when it lands. Those small things are what people actually feel. So we close the gap the simplest way we know: the same person does both jobs. It’s more work for us. That’s rather the point.
Details are the work
Not the polish at the end
How fast a menu opens. Where your thumb lands when you reach for the next thing. What a button says when something goes wrong at eleven at night and you’re already annoyed. Nobody writes these into a brief, and everybody notices when they’re off, even if they can’t say why. A lot of projects save the details for the end, as a coat of polish. We think the details are the thing itself. We’d genuinely rather spend a day on how a sheet slides up than on another round of logo options.
Show the work
And skip the adjectives
Every studio’s website reaches for the same adjectives: innovative, bespoke, passionate, world-class. We tried writing ours, and it read like everyone else’s, so we deleted them. What’s left is the work, each piece with a plain line about what we made and who we made it for. If it’s good, you’ll see it. If it isn’t, no amount of “world-class” was ever going to save it. Judge us by the work, not by this paragraph. (Although, in fairness, we did work quite hard on this paragraph.)
Write like a person
Even on the buttons
Words are part of the design, not a grey box labelled “copy goes here” that somebody fills in the week before launch. A button should say exactly what happens when you press it. An error should apologize once, briefly, and then tell you what to do next. A sign-up form shouldn’t read like a tax return. Our rule is simple and only slightly annoying to live by: if we wouldn’t say a sentence out loud to a friend across a table, it doesn’t go on the page.
It should feel right
Not just look right
Things on a screen should move the way things in a room do. They speed up, slow down, and settle. They have a little weight to them. They don’t teleport from one place to another unless teleporting is the whole point. Motion is there to tell you what just happened: where a thing came from, where it went, and that your tap was heard. When an animation does that, it stays. When it’s only there to look clever, it goes, however many afternoons it took to make.
Why answer in public?
One person asks, everyone gets the answer
A good question rarely belongs to just one person. For everyone who writes in to ask us something, there are usually a few more people wondering the same thing quietly, and not writing in. So we answer on the blog, at length, with a real name at the bottom, where everyone who wondered can read along. It’s slower than a quick reply in an inbox. It’s also the most useful thing we know how to do with a good question.

Where we are

Four offices, four clocks

Internet Labs has offices in London, Delhi, Dubai, and New York. Between them they span ten and a half hours of time zones, so for most of any day it’s the middle of a working day somewhere in the studio. It also means that picking a time for a call is a small puzzle, usually solved with a message that starts “Does four work for everyone?” and ends with someone asking “Whose four?”