Programming insights to Storytelling, it's all here.
So, I call myself an AI skeptic. But honestly? It's more accurate to say I’m a technology skeptic in general. Before you picture me churning butter by candlelight, boycotting smartphones, or mailing handwritten letters, let me clarify: skepticism isn’t rejection. It’s a pause, a thoughtful question: Does this actually solve a real problem, or is it just the latest shiny new hype cycle?
How many terms and conditions did you agree to today? If you're like most people, you probably signed up for a website and clicked "I agree" without reading a single word. We all do it. Yet, what if these documents we collectively ignore are actually legally binding and could be used against you in court?
In The Expanse, humanity’s sprawling interplanetary empire rests on a single, elegant piece of fiction: the Epstein Drive. This miracle engine effortlessly defies physics, allowing ships to accelerate continuously, cross the solar system in mere days, and make far-flung Ceres as accessible as a commuter suburb. The show’s true genius lies in its grounded illusion: it layers the Drive with convincing jargon, detailed specs, and plausible limitations ("the Tori models can’t sustain 5G burns for more than 12 hours"). You’re genuinely tempted to believe it because the entire world feels engineered, not simply dreamed up.
Remember Bryant Gumbel? Back in the mid-90s, as the digital world began its explosive growth, the then-Today Show co-host famously dismissed the internet as a passing fad. "I'm online, and I think it's a fad," he declared, suggesting we'd all soon forget about it. History, of course, seems to have mocked him. The internet is now the bedrock of modern life.
At some point, in any company, there is always a new process introduced. This process promises to make things better, safer, and more efficient. In theory, it's brilliant. On paper, it addresses all the potential pitfalls. But then, it hits the real world, and what sounded like a stroke of genius becomes a bureaucratic nightmare, often leading to the exact opposite of its intended outcome.
When I encourage friends to start blogging, a common fear pops up: "What if I'm wrong?" or "What if no one likes what I write?" It's a completely understandable concern in an age where online engagement can feel like a high-stakes game. Being "wrong" on the internet can certainly generate a lot of attention, sometimes overwhelmingly so. But for every viral misstep, there's an entire digital forest of content that goes completely unnoticed.
In a world overflowing with "how-to" guides and expert advice, it's easy to fall into the trap of endless consumption. We binge YouTube tutorials on video editing, devour articles on effective writing, or meticulously study blueprints for building. And while these resources can be helpful, they often miss a critical point: for true beginners, the most potent learning tool isn't a tip, it's repetition.
I recently had a firsthand experience that perfectly illustrates this. I was helping a small startup on a project in my spare time. I set up an application from top to bottom, documenting the entire process with screenshots and everything they could possibly need to manage it themselves. My thought was, "Great, they're probably good to go; they won't need a developer for this again." I had essentially given them all the tools for free.
A colleague was once stuck on a task that was taking forever to resolve. Every day, he would say that he was making progress, only to later report that the solution didn't pan out. He was looking through different solutions he found online and was experimenting. After some time, I was tasked to help him get it resolved. The problem was to make sure the cash backs and cash forwards were properly calculated.
A few years back, I wrote a blog post to give some writing tips. I have a habit of writing on an external distraction free editor then copy and paste it to my blog when ready. For this entry, there was a problem. Whenever I hit the "Publish" button, I got a 500 Internal Server Error. I didn't have the time to debug it, so I kept the entry as a text file until I could analyze my error logs.
