Otto is a companion for parents in their 80s who find modern apps impossible — built by their family, with their family in the loop. One big button. One thing on screen at a time. Every screen below is the real product, captured from a live session.
No menus, no settings pages. A parent taps one chip — or simply asks — and Otto shows everything it can do for them. The list is composed live from what's actually connected, so Otto never advertises something that would fail. Every row is tappable and immediately does the thing.
Tap any row below to jump to that part of the demo — the same way the real card launches each feature.
Every flow works the same way: she says it (or taps it), Otto speaks one warm sentence, and a single large card shows the answer. Nothing to navigate, nothing to dismiss.
Otto answers out loud in plain language — “a lovely day for the porch” — and shows today plus the next few days in big type. Location comes from her profile, so the default ask always means her weather.
Reminders are real calendar events — not another app's notification queue. Otto confirms in one card, and mentions it again in the greeting when the time is near.
“Help me remember…” saves a note in her own words. Notes come back grouped in plain language — things to do, coming up, health & comfort — each stamped with when she said it.
Address, phone, and whether it's open right now — the three things she actually needs — with a map a tap away. “How far is the library from home?” answers with distance and drive time from her real home address.
Otto fills in pickup and destination and hands over a ready-made Uber link — to her, or to Mike, whichever the family chose during setup. Nobody types an address into a ride app.
Mom once built an entire Kroger cart and couldn't check out — that moment is why Otto exists. Now the whole trip is three taps, with her usual brands starred and pinned first.
Her usual milk comes first — real photos, real prices from her own Kroger store. Tap one and it goes on the list.
The list stays editable — quantities, removals, a running estimate — before anything is sent anywhere.
One tap pushes everything into her real Kroger cart. Otto never places the order — checkout stays in her hands (or Mike's).
Otto plans a simple version of the dish, checks the ingredients before anything touches the stove, then walks the recipe out loud — one step on screen at a time, at her pace.
A simple recipe, spoken and shown — servings, time, and every ingredient in big type before anything starts.
She taps Have it or Need it — or just says it. Anything missing becomes a shopping list, and with Kroger connected Otto offers to add it to her cart.
One step at a time, spoken and shown, until the pot's on the table. “Say next when you're ready” — Otto never rushes ahead.
A dish she liked gets saved in one word — and the family can type in the old favorites from the console. Type in Grandma's meatballs once; from then on she just asks for them, and Otto cooks it with her exactly as written.
Day by day, in her time zone, from the family's shared Google Calendar. Adding is just as easy: “Put lunch with Susan on my calendar for Friday at noon.”
Family first: people she loves are VIPs and float to the top, with a gentle nudge when someone's waiting on a reply. And every message is screened — the fake “package on hold” gets a red flag and a plain-language warning.
Her teams live in her profile, so “my team” always means the Reds. Last night's score, tonight's game — and she can ask for the story of the game, not just the number.
The family picks the sources and topics — and what to leave out. Every story is fresh, stamped with how recent it is, and Otto will read any of them aloud.
Otto looks it up and shows real videos — never a made-up one — with a picture, the full title, and how long it runs. The family can save favorite channels ahead of time, so “Lawrence Welk” means the exact channel they chose, not whatever the internet offers today.
She taps the one she wants and it plays. One tap, sound on.
Ask by voice instead of tapping — “play the first one” — and Otto has it ready and waiting, exactly as shown here, so one tap starts it. Either way there is only ever one play button and one way out.
One video at a time, in a card she can make full-screen with a tap — and stop with a tap.
While it plays, Otto goes quiet. It never talks over the show, and the microphone will not open by itself next to a television-sized sound — that is enforced in code, not left to chance. Tap the microphone and the video pauses first, so Otto hears her and not the soundtrack.
Everything you've read above, Maureen hears. Each family member picks the voice Otto uses with them — six to choose from, previewed right in the family console. These are all six, for real:
Otto is never a dead end. Anything it can't do becomes a hand-off to a real person — and the family runs everything from their own console, Otto.CARE.
One big button, spoken replies, and hands-free follow-up that survives a noisy living room — the TV can't hijack the mic.
Every fact on screen comes from real data — a real inbox, a real store, a real calendar. The AI never authors a price, a score, or a headline.
The abilities card only lists what's actually set up. Otto says “added to your cart,” never “ordered” — because checkout isn't its job.
Scam flags on email, a PII guard that refuses to store passwords or card numbers, and a ride guard for odd destinations — all deterministic.
Anything Otto can't finish becomes a warm hand-off to family, with the context already gathered. “Get help” is one tap away on every screen.
Each family's data is fully isolated. What Otto learns is reviewable, sensitive settings live on the family console, and the parent's own accounts stay theirs.