Journal tags: actions

I don’t like magic.

I’m not talking about acts of prestidigitation and illusion. I mean the kind of magic that’s used to market technologies. It’s magic. It just works. Don’t think about it.

I’ve written about seamless and seamful design before. Seamlessness is often touted as the ultimate goal of UX—“don’t make me think!”—but it comes with a price. That price is the reduction of agency.

When it comes to front-end development, my distrust of magic tips over into being a complete control freak.

I don’t like using code that I haven’t written and understood myself. Sometimes its unavoidable. I use two JavaScript libraries on The Session. One for displaying interactive maps and another for generating sheet music. As dependencies go, they’re very good but I still don’t like the feeling of being dependant on anything I don’t fully understand.

I can’t stomach the idea of using npm to install client-side JavaScript (which then installs more JavaScript, which in turn is dependant on even more JavaScript). It gives me the heebie-jeebies. I’m kind of astonished that most front-end developers have normalised doing daily trust falls with their codebases.

While I’m mistrustful of libraries, I’m completely allergic to frameworks.

Often I don’t distinguish between libraries and frameworks but the distinction matters here. Libraries are bits of other people’s code that I call from my code. Frameworks are other people’s code that call bits of my code.

Think of React. In order to use it, you basically have to adopt its idioms, its approach, its syntax. It’s a deeper level of dependency than just dropping in a regular piece of JavaScript.

I’ve always avoided client-side React because of its direct harm to end users (over-engineered bloated sites that take way longer to load than they need to). But the truth is that I also really dislike the extra layer of abstraction it puts between me and the browser.

Now, whenever there’s any talk about abstractions someone inevitably points out that, when it comes to computers, there’s always some layer of abstraction. If you’re not writing in binary, you don’t get to complain about an extra layer of abstraction making you uncomfortable.

I get that. But I still draw a line. When it comes to front-end development, that line is for me to stay as close as I can to raw HTML, CSS, and JavaScript. After all, that’s what users are going to get in their browsers.

My control freakery is not typical. It’s also not a very commercial or pragmatic attitude.

Over the years, I’ve stopped doing front-end development for client projects at work. Partly that’s because I’m pretty slow; it makes more sense to give the work to a better, faster developer. But it’s also because of my aversion to React. Projects came in where usage of React was a foregone conclusion. I wouldn’t work on those projects.

I mention this to point out that you probably shouldn’t adopt my inflexible mistrustful attitude if you want a career in front-end development.

Fortunately for me, front-end development still exists outside of client work. I get to have fun with my own website and with The Session. Heck, they even let me build the occasional hand-crafted website for a Clearleft event. I get to do all that the long, hard stupid way.

Meanwhile in the real world, the abstractions are piling up. Developers can now use large language models to generate code. Sometimes the code is good. Sometimes its not. You should probably check it before using it. But some developers just YOLO it straight to production.

That gives me the heebie-jeebies, but then again, so did npm. Is it really all that different? With npm you dialled up other people’s code directly. With large language models, they first slurp up everyone’s code (like, the whole World Wide Web), run a computationally expensive process of tokenisation, and then give you the bit you need when you need it. In a way, large language model coding tools are like a turbo-charged npm with even more layers of abstraction.

It’s not for me but I absolutely understand why it can work in a pragmatic commercial environment. Like Alice said:

Knitting is the future of coding. Nobody knits because they want a quick or cheap jumper, they knit because they love the craft. This is the future of writing code by hand. You will do it because you find it satisfying but it will be neither the cheapest or quickest way to write software.

But as Dave points out:

And so now we have these “magic words” in our codebases. Spells, essentially. Spells that work sometimes. Spells that we cast with no practical way to measure their effectiveness. They are prayers as much as they are instructions.

I shudder!

But again, this too is nothing new. We’ve all seen those codebases that contain mysterious arcane parts that nobody dares touch. coughWebpackcough. The issue isn’t with the code itself, but with the understanding of the code. If the understanding of the code was in one developer’s head, and that person has since left, the code is dangerous and best left untouched.

This, as you can imagine, is a maintenance nightmare. That’s where I’ve seen the real cost of abstractions. Abstractions often really do speed up production, but you pay the price in maintenance later on. If you want to understand the codebase, you must first understand the abstractions used in the codebase. That’s a lot to document, and let’s face it, documentation is the first casuality of almost every project.

So perhaps my aversion to abstraction in general—and large language models in particular—is because I tend to work on long-term projects. This website and The Session have lifespans measured in decades. For these kinds of projects, maintenance is a top priority.

Large language model coding tools truly are magic.

I don’t like magic.

My week at the Belfast TradFest culminated in a cathedral.

Everyone who has been taking classes during the week made their way to Belfast cathedral for a communal finish. Every class played a short piece to round out their week of workshops.

The whole experience was quite lovely. At one point, I was unexepectedly moved to tears by the performance of the cello class (not a common instrument in Irish traditional music).

When I got home, I decided to send a message to Neil Martin who taught that class. It was just a quick line or two to tell him how special it was.

He responded, saying he found the whole experience of the closing concert very moving and powerful.

I was glad I sent that note of thanks.

Then, a day later, I received my own note of thanks. It wasn’t music-related. Someone I had met and chatted with at a conference last year told me that they had just watched the video of my talk, The State Of The Web. They were very moved by it. Then they took the time to send me an email to tell me. As you can imagine, I was really touched to be on the receiving end of that.

I resolved that I would do it more myself. Whether it’s a piece of music, writing, or anything else, I’m going to try to remember to pass on my appreciation more often.

That’s a good place to end, isn’t it? A nice heart-warming reminder that small acts of thoughtfulness can make a big difference to someone else’s well-being.

But there’s a corollary to that lesson. Acts of thoughtlessness will almost certainly make a very big difference to someone else’s well-being.

This is something I know in theory but struggle with in practice. I’ve experienced the regret of wishing I hadn’t acted so stupidly in my dealings with work colleagues, for example.

There’ll be some discussion happening on a topic that I might have strong feelings about, and I let those strong feelings take over my behaviour. Quite frankly, I act like a dickhead.

Sure, I can analyse it in hindsight and identify what causes this unintended behaviour, but that sounds an awful lot like excusing it. In the end, it doesn’t matter what my intentions were or what the circumstances were. It’s my actions that matter. More specifically, it’s the effect of my actions on other people that matter.

So, yeah, I am going to try to do more of those small thoughtful acts, like sending thank-you messages to people. But frankly, that’s a stretch goal. The shamefully low bar I first have to pass is to simply treat people with the respect they deserve. To paraphrase the Hypocratic oath: first, don’t be an asshole.

There’s an oft-quoted adage:

They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel.

This is usually applied in the inspirational, positive sense: get out there and make people feel good! But it works equally well as a warning.

There are intentions and there are outcomes. Sometimes bad outcomes are the result of good intentions. Less often, good outcomes can be the result of bad intentions. But generally we associate the two: we expect good outcomes to come from good intentions and we expect bad outcomes to come from bad intentions.

Perhaps it’s because of this conflation that we place too much emphasis on intentions. If, for example, someone is called out for causing a bad outcome, their first response is often to defend their intentions. That’s understandable. When someone says “you have created a bad outcome”, I understand why the person on the receiving end would receive that feedback as “you intended to create this bad outcome.” Cue a non-apology that clarifies the (good) intention without acknowledging the reality of the outcome (“It was never my intention to…”).

I get it. Intentions do matter …just not as much as we give them credit for. I mean, in general, I’d prefer bad outcomes to be the inadvertent result of good intentions. But in some ways, it really doesn’t matter: a bad outcome is a bad outcome.

Anyway, all of this is just to preface something I’m going to say about myself:

I am almost certainly racist.

I don’t intend to be racist, but like I said, intentions aren’t really what matter. Outcomes are.

Note, for example, the cliché of the gormless close-minded goon who begins a sentence with “I’m not racist, but…” before going on to say something clearly racist. It’s as though the racism could be defanged by disavowing bad intent.

The same defence mechanism is used to defend racist traditions. “Oh, it’s not racist—that’s just something we’ve always done.” Again, the defence is for the intention, not the outcome. And again, outcomes matter far, far more than intentions.

I really don’t intend to be racist. But how could I not be? I grew up in a small town in Ireland where literally everyone else looked like me. By the same token, I’m also almost certainly sexist. Growing up as a cisgender male in a patriarchal society guarantees that my mind has been shaped in ways I now wish it weren’t.

Acknowledging my racism—and sexism—doesn’t mean I’m okay with it. On the contrary. It’s a source of shame. But acknowledging my racism is a necessary step to changing it.

In any case, it doesn’t really matter how I feel about any of this. This isn’t meant to be a confessional. What matters are outcomes. Outcomes aren’t really the direct result of intentions—outcomes are the direct result of actions.

Most of my actions lately have been very passive. Listening. Watching. Because my actions are passive, they are indistinguishable from silence. That’s not good. Silence can be interpreted as acquiescence, acceptance. That’s not what I intend …but my intentions don’t matter.

So, even though this isn’t about me or my voice or my intentions, and even though this is something that is so self-evident that it shouldn’t need to be said, I want to say:

Black lives matter.