Flash Hancock Breaks the Back Button

Lessons (and Laughs) from the Web 2.0 Era

Agency life in 2008 had its own flavor of chaos. Flash was everywhere, “Web 2.0” was the buzzword of the year, and clients still asked whether things would “work on AOL.” It was a transitional moment in digital — exciting, messy, and occasionally held together with ActionScript and hope.

In the middle of all that, I was the interactive lead at Wunderman (RTCRM) in Georgetown. Our team was pitching AARP on a bold idea: a full online car marketplace for their members. Think CarMax, but tailored to an older audience. Ambitious? Yes. Perfectly aligned with their technical infrastructure? Not even close.

To pull it off, we partnered with VML — the rising digital powerhouse inside WPP. Their Kansas City headquarters was housed in a converted airport facility, which somehow made the whole experience feel even more intimidating. Imagine walking into a terminal full of strategists, developers, and designers who all seemed to speak fluent computer code.

From the moment we arrived, it was obvious VML wanted the entire engagement: strategy, brand, digital, everything. We were the smaller CRM shop trying to hold our ground.

Somewhere in that pressure cooker, I found myself hunched over a tiny laptop, surrounded by my creative director and team, trying to concept something — anything — that would keep the work on our side. For a moment, I froze. Then instinct kicked in. What came out was a simple, human idea built around “effortless buying and selling” — cars floating in bubbles, light and approachable, designed for clarity rather than complexity.

And then, in a very 2008 move, we built it in Flash.

Flash was the magic wand of the era. It made everything feel modern, animated, and award‑ready. A user experience (UX) colleague warned me it wasn’t the right choice, but in the competitive environment we were in, Flash felt like the only way to match VML’s firepower. And honestly, it looked great.

Until it didn’t.

When AARP’s president tested the prototype on her extremely outdated version of Internet Explorer, the experience broke — specifically the back button. Flash and browser history were never friends, and our workaround script failed on her machine. Suddenly there was an “investigation.” Suddenly the project needed to be rebuilt without Flash. Suddenly the ground felt like it was shifting.

Two months later, the Great Recession hit and agencies everywhere began cutting staff. I was one of them. Not because of the project — though at the time it felt connected — but because the entire industry was contracting.

With distance, the whole episode feels almost comedic. A perfect snapshot of the era. But it also taught me lessons I still use today: how to perform under pressure, how to navigate agency politics, how to balance ambition with technical reality, and how external forces can reshape even the best work.

Would I choose Flash today? No — not for anything requiring broad accessibility. But am I glad I lived through the Flash era? Absolutely. My nickname in the studio really was “Flash Hancock.”

That era shaped how I think, how I lead, and how I design within real‑world constraints. And it left me with one enduring rule: Never break the back button.