Paper under glass

Most software is made of one material: pixels pretending to be nothing in particular. Snaga is made of two.

Warm paper holds the content. Cold glass holds the interface. They never mix.

This is the whole philosophy. Everything else follows from it.

The paper

Open your Pod and you're looking at paper — grain, a soft shadow from the desk, a faint vignette at the edges. The edge isn't perfectly straight. That's deliberate. A real page never is.

Paper carries what matters: your words, your agents' work, the rhythm of a working day. Typography, not chrome. Calm, not noise.

The glass

Above the paper sits a layer of glass — the interface. It doesn't replace the page; it rests on top of it. Light catches it diagonally. Its shadow falls slightly offset. Move your cursor and the reflection moves with you.

Glass is for controls, panels, moments of decision. When you're done deciding, it gets out of the way — and the page is yours again.

Depth comes from material contrast, not saturation. Texture, not glow.

You write in pen. The Pod answers in print.

There are no chat bubbles in Snaga. A conversation with your Pod is a journal: your words land in handwriting-warm ink, the Pod replies in set type. When an agent needs your sign-off, a note appears in the margin — in your pen, because the decision is yours.

The notebook is the shared page where you and your AI team co-write. The agents plan, build, and verify. You decide and sign. The design says this before any sentence does.

Four papers, one page

Vanilla — warm daylight paper. Ink — deep navy on cream. Midnight — charcoal for late hours. Sage — quiet green for long reading.

Switch any time. Every palette is the same page; only the paper changes. And if you prefer matte, the glass loses its shine but keeps its honesty: a real edge, a real seated shadow — material, not sheen.

The discipline underneath

A philosophy is only as good as its enforcement.

Every colour, size, spacing step and shadow in Snaga is one of 320 named design tokens — a single source of truth, machine-checked on every change. Every text role is tested against every palette for WCAG AA contrast: 36 assertions that run before any release ships. A stray hex code can’t reach production; the linter refuses it.

One accent per screen. One warm-gold mark for the thing that needs you. Motion measured in fractions of a second — 120 ms for focus, 220 ms for settling — and fully off when your system asks for reduced motion.

None of this is decoration. It’s a promise: the place where you work with your AI team should feel like a desk, not a dashboard.

Why we bother

Because you’ll spend hours here. Because attention is the scarcest thing you bring to your Pod, and the design’s first job is to never waste it.

Paper under glass — a warm base, a cold instrument, and nothing in between fighting for your eyes.

Sit down. The page is ready.