I heard a complaint the other day about UAC – User Account Control – that was new to me.
Let’s face it, as a Security MVP, I hear a lot of complaints about UAC – not least from my wife, who isn’t happy with the idea that she can be logged on as an administrator, but she isn’t really an administrator until she specifically asks to be an administrator, and then specifically approves her request to become an administrator.
My wife is the kind of user that UAC was not written for. She’s a capable administrator (our home domain has redundant DCs, DHCP servers with non-overlapping scopes, and I could go on and on), and she doesn’t make the sort of mistakes that UAC is supposed to protect users from.
My wife also does not appreciate the sense that Microsoft is using the users as a fulcrum for providing leverage to change developers to writing code for non-admin users. She doesn’t believe that the vendors will change as a result of this, and the only effect will be that users get annoyed.
But not me.
I like UAC – I think it’s great that developers are finally being forced to think about how their software should work in the world of least privilege.
So, as you can imagine, I thought I’d heard just about every last complaint there is about UAC. But then a new one arrived in my inbox from a friend I’ll call Chris.
“Why should I pretend to be different people to use my own PC?”
I must admit, the question stunned me.
Obviously, what Chris is talking about is the idea that you are strongly “encouraged” (or “strong-armed”, if you prefer) by UAC to work in (at least) two different security contexts – the first, your regular user context, and the second, your administrator context.
Chris has a point – you’re one person, you shouldn’t have to pretend to be two. And it’s your computer, it should do what you tell it to. Those two are axiomatic, and I’m not about to argue with them – but it sounds like I should do, if I’m going to answer his question while still loving UAC.
No, I’m going to argue with his basic premise that user accounts correspond to individual people. They correspond more accurately – particularly in UAC – to clothing.
Windows before NT, or more accurately, not based on the NT line, had no separation between user contexts / accounts. Even the logon was a joke – prompted for user name and password, but if you hit Escape instead, you’d be logged on anyway. Windows 9x and ME, then, were the equivalent of being naked.
In Windows NT, and the versions derived from it, user contexts are separated from one another by a software wall, a “Security Boundary”. There were a couple of different levels of user access, the most common distinctions being between a Standard (or “Restricted”) User, a Power User, and an Administrator.
Most people want to be the Administrator. That’s the account with all the power, after all. And if they don’t want to be the Administrator, they’d like to be at least an administrator. There’s not really much difference between the two, but there’s a lot of difference between them and a Standard User.
Standard Users can’t set the clock back, they can’t clear logs out, they can’t do any number of things that might erase their tracks. Standard Users can’t install software for everyone on the system, they can’t update the operating system or its global settings, and they can’t run the Thomas the Tank Engine Print Studio. [One of those is a problem that needs fixing.]
So, really, a Standard User is much like the driver of a car, and an administrator is rather like the mechanic. I’ve often appealed to a different meme, and suggested that the administrator privilege should be called “janitor”, so as to make it less appealing – it really is all about being given the keys to the boiler room and the trash compactor.
It’s about wearing dungarees rather than your business suit.
You wear dungarees when working on the engine of your car, partly because you don’t want oil drops on your white shirt, but also partly so your tie doesn’t get wrapped around the spinning transmission and throttle you. You don’t wear the dungarees to work partly because you’d lose respect for the way you look, but also because you don’t want to spread that oil and grease around the office.
It’s not about pretending to be different people, it’s about wearing clothes suited to the task. An administrator account gives you carte blanche to mess with the system, and should only be used when you’re messing with the system (and under the assumption that you know what you’re doing!); a Standard User account prevents you from doing a lot of things, but the things you’re prevented from doing are basically those things that most users don’t actually have any need to do.
You’re not pretending to be a different person, you’re pretending to be a system administrator, rather than a user. Just like when I pretend to be a mechanic or a gardener, I put on my scungy jeans and stained and torn shirts, and when I pretend to be an employee, I dress a little smarter than that.
When you’re acting as a user, you should have user privileges, and when you’re acting as an administrator, you should have administrative privileges. We’ve gotten so used to wearing our dungarees to the board-room that we think they’re a business suit.
So while UAC prompts to provide a user account aren’t right for my wife (she’s in ‘dungarees-mode’ when it comes to computers), for most users, they’re a way to remind you that you’re about to enter the janitor’s secret domain.