0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
/
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
/
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
ANNO·​TRICESIMO·​DIE·​DVCENTESIMO·​VNDECIMO·​VITÆ·​POVYA
FindingtheGodWithintheDetails
Finding the God Within the Details
Quotes & Excerpts

Where did your taste come from?

No really. Where did it come from, was it genetic? Were you abducted by aliens one day that forcefully injected your sense of taste into your mind and wiped your memory?

I’ll tell you this much: it’s not from consuming good work. You cannot read a hundred excellent programs and absorb the judgement by osmosis, any more than you can become a chef by eating in good restaurants. Taste is built the slow, stupid, humiliating way: you make something bad, you are forced to live with it, it fails in front of you, and some part of you files the failure away. Then you do it again. The palate is an accretion of your own mistakes, sat with long enough to sting.

The friction was not an obstacle to developing taste. The friction was the curriculum. Every wall I cursed while climbing it was, without my noticing, teaching me which walls were worth climbing. The cost that rationed my output also educated my judgement, because paying the cost over and over is how you learn what is worth paying for.

So watch what happens when you remove the friction for the next person.

They can generate fluently from the first day. They will never ship the bad version and be forced to sit in it, because the tool offers them a competent version for free. They will climb no wall, and so they will learn nothing from the climb. They will arrive at fluency having skipped the entire apprenticeship that fluency used to require—and they will be more productive than I was at their stage, by every metric anyone bothers to measure.

They will be able to make anything, and unable to tell (or stop to think) whether they should. Not necessarily through any fault of their own. We removed the part of the process that would have taught them, and we called it progress, and by most definitions it was.

Harry Frankfurt once drew a careful line between the liar and the bullshitter. The liar at least respects the truth enough to work against it. The bullshitter does not care about the truth in either direction; he is simply indifferent to it. 4 Slop is the bullshit of engineering. It is not wrong, exactly. It is indifferent. It works, it passes, it is fine. And fine, produced without friction and shipped without judgement, is now the most abundant substance in the field.

Sturgeon said it decades ago, defending science fiction from a critic: ninety percent of everything is crap. 5 He meant it as consolation. Ninety percent of every field is bad, so do not judge the field by its bulk. But the ratio was never the danger. It held steady for centuries. What held the flood back was that producing the crap cost something. Bad novels still took a year to write. Bad software still took a month to build. The ninety percent was throttled at the source by the sheer inconvenience of making it.

We have now removed the throttle and left the ratio intact. Ninety percent of an infinite output is still infinite. The signal did not get worse. The noise became free, and free noise rises without limit, and every real thing you make now arrives into a sea of plausible nothing that looks, at a glance, exactly like it.

Which means the scarce act is no longer making. It is choosing. Deciding what, out of the endless generated plausible, deserves to exist and be kept. Curation was a minor virtue when things were expensive to make. It is the whole game when they are free.

When the factories came, they could suddenly make everything—cheaply, uniformly, by the thousand. 6 And a handful of people, Morris and Ruskin among them, looked at the flood of cheap identical goods and asked a question that sounded, at the time, sentimental and doomed: not can we make this, but should this be made, and made this way, by no one, for no reason but that the machine could.

The tools did not devalue the skill. They stripped away everything that was not the skill. All those years I thought the work was the production—the typing, the wiring, the wall—and production turns out to have been the toll. The tax you paid for the privilege of exercising judgement. Now the tax is close to zero, and what is left standing, exposed, with nowhere to hide, is the judgement itself. The part that was always the point.

Taste did not become less valuable. It became the only thing that was ever scarce. We just could not see it, because it was buried under all the labour it used to take to get to it.

Day's Context
Open Books