Programming insights to Storytelling, it's all here.
I use Apple products mostly for work. When it comes to iPhone vs Android, I need access to my file system, so I choose Android any day. But the last thing I'll say is that Apple products suck. Whether it's the UI, screen quality, laptops, or tablets, Apple has done an amazing job. Yet every time there's a new iteration, someone will write about how much Apple sucks right now. The same happens with new Android phones too. There's no way of satisfying all users. No matter what you do, someone will complain that your product is now worse than ever.
Imagine this. You walk up to your driveway where your car is parked. You reach for the handle that automatically senses your presence, confirms your identity, and opens to welcome you in. You sit down, the controls appear in front of you, and your seatbelt secures itself around your waist. Instead of driving forward onto the pavement, you take off. You soar into the skies like an eagle and fly to your destination. This is what technology promises: freedom, power, and something undeniably cool.
AGI has been "5 years away" for the past decade. The Tesla Roadster? Five years away since 2014. Tesla's Level 5 self-driving? Promised by 2017, then quietly pushed into the perpetual five-year window. If you've been paying attention, you've probably noticed this pattern extends far beyond Silicon Valley.
I was too young to lose money in the Dot-Com crash of 2000. I didn't own any tech stock. In fact, I didn't even know there was a bubble to pop. My interaction with the "Internet" was a dial-up modem sputtering to life and the simple, joyful ritual of visiting a handful of websites I had discovered.
The computer is not just working less well. Instead, it is actively trying to undermine you. And there is nothing you can do about it. When Windows wants to update, you don't get to say "no." You get "Update now" or "Remind me later." When Twitter shows you notifications from people you don't follow, you can't dismiss them, only "see less often." When LinkedIn changes your email preferences, you'll reset them, only to find they've reverted a few months later.
There has always been a disconnect between the hiring process and finding the best engineers. But when we somehow find them, the career ladder ensures that they don't remain in that position of strength. An incompetent company might create the conditions for engineers to leave for better jobs. A generous company will apply the Peter Principle and promote engineers to their level of incompetence. Either way, the best engineers never remain in that position of strength.
A few years back, I had a ritual. I'd walk to the nearest Starbucks, get a coffee, and bury myself in work. I came so often that I knew all the baristas and their schedules. I also started noticing the music. There were songs I loved but never managed to catch the name of, always playing at the most inconvenient times for me to Shazam them. It felt random, but I began to wonder: Was this playlist really on shuffle? Or was there a method to the music?
On my first day at a furniture store, my boss pointed to a warehouse full of boxes and said, "Unpack that one and build it." Simple enough. I found a large, heavy box, sliced it open, and laid out an array of wooden slats, metal screws, and chains. It was a love seat swing. Clearly a two or three person job. But I didn't know that. If my boss asked me to build it, I figured, it must be possible.
The moment I learned how to program, I wanted to experiment with my new super powers. Building a BMI calculator in the command line wouldn't cut it. I didn't want to read another book, or follow any other tutorial. What I wanted was to experience chaos. Controlled, beautiful, instructive chaos that comes from building something real and watching it spectacularly fail.
On the first day on the job, the manager introduced me to the team, made a couple of jokes, then threatened to fire someone. At first, I thought it was just his sense of humor, that it was something I would understand once I worked long enough on the team. But no one else laughed. The air in the meeting room became stiff as he rambled about issues we had. The next Monday morning, he did it again. Now I was confused. Was I being hazed? No. Because he did it again the following Monday. He was an asshole.
Whenever a major platform announces changes, the internet's response is predictable: "Let's just build our own." I remember the uproar when Facebook introduced Timeline. Users threatened boycotts and vowed to create alternatives. The same pattern emerged with Stack Overflow. There were countless weekend-clone attempts that promised to be "better." Back then, building an alternative felt possible, even if most attempts fizzled out.
