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Now that we have actually good AI, I have this vision of a form of computing that doesn’t involve me using a computer so much. Imagine you had the day’s emails to go through. It would be nice if the ones that required a simple decision could be dispatched with a few pen-strokes: I could write down a date that would work for that meeting; check a box to accept that invitation; etc. If an email required me to review a draft, I'd love to mark up a print version on my couch, sans screen, and have those notes scanned and sent off as if I'd done the whole thing on Google Docs. The point is not to give up on virtuality, but just to save the end user from having to interact with it. It's great to be able to send information to anyone in the world instantly; but let me do it without the glaring screen and the thousand distractions. Is such a thing even possible? I'm not sure, but I just now uploaded a first draft of this post, handwritten in a small notebook, into ChatGPT. Its transcription was nearly perfect. A first draft of this blog post Here's another example: when I really want to play with re-arrangements of a complicated outline, or when I want to collaborate with someone else on one, I find myself laying physical note cards on a table. Having real objects to work with allows for more flexibility than software. If the problem demands it, you can stack cards, draw on them, cut them, tape things to them, etc.—and none of these improvised ways of organizing has to be coded up in advance. Space turns out to be a good way to organize information. I gather that in the paper days if you had a big project you were working on, say a book, it would spill out into the room you were working in: chapter outlines pinned up on the walls, stacks of books in meaningful piles on the floors, folders with drafts and clippings. Certain sections of the work in progress would become associated in your mind with certain parts of the room. Chapter 3 would be over there. I rarely use paper or physical space this way because it lacks critical conveniences. A huge wall-mounted paper calendar is maybe the best way to plan and visualize a large coordinated effort. (In "making-of" documentaries you find that movie shoots are often planned this way.) Everyone can see it and point to it because it's at human-scale; you can express many dimensions of information simultaneously using shape, color, position, size, and any other physical attribute. But I have a hard time understanding how I'd keep such a calendar up to date. In practice, like almost everyone else, I use a virtual calendar that automatically adds events as I'm invited to them, syncs with other people's calendars, reconciles time zones effortlessly, and interoperates with other programs like email. Could we get the best of both worlds? In other words, shouldn't one goal of rapid technical advancement be some melding of the physical and virtual worlds such that I can sit quietly in an easy chair with pen and pad; or lay cards out on a table to organize my thoughts; or turn a room into the embodiment of a project; and yet have the same flexibility, portability, persistence, and remixability as in the digital versions of these things? I spend a lot of my day on screens. There are many problems with these things, articulated well by Bret Victor in the context of his Dynamicland project. Screens are small, antisocial, and they have a tiny vocabulary of affordances compared to physical objects. Plus they have the problem that they make it difficult to just use your calendar, todo list, or map—or even just respond to a friend's message—without encountering something else along the way, like a social network, short-form video, Slack, the news, or some other notification. To state the obvious: your phone is the best place to keep your calendar and inbox and todo list because you always have it with you, but of course that makes it ripe for other intruders. Bundling makes your phone indispensable, but also a menace. If nothing else I'd like it if operating systems and web browsers helped me be less distracted and frenetic, instead of encouraging exactly that multi-tasking freneticism. When I opened my phone or computer, it'd be nice if it was constrained to operate in a mode purpose-built for whatever task I intended to use it for. If I want to look something up, for instance, my phone should be a look-up machine (ie no texts, no apps, no ads, just a place for my question and the answer). If I want to compose a word of the day entry, I should launch straight into a browser with the tabs I regularly use for that, including the CRM, Webster's dictionary, and the OED; if I want to work on an article, my computer should assume the form of a typewriter, word processor, or McPhee mode note-processor depending on what stage I'm at. In each of these modes everything else should disappear, inaccessible. At least then you could mimic in software that thing you get from physical objects—which is that they are usually built to do one, and only one, thing well. My alarm clock, for instance, is just an alarm clock; and that's what I like about it! Not too long ago I spoke to a roboticist for an article I was writing, who worked with large autonomous earth-moving machines—e.g. a retrofitted excavator that could lift a boulder, scan its every edge and dimple, then model how it would settle amongst other boulders in a retaining wall before placing it there. He imagined a future in which such machines enabled a return to natural materials in the built world. He talked about old stone walls he’d seen in New England. Those walls, made of loose rocks found in situ, are lovely and sturdy, and adaptive—constantly rebuilt as farmers go about their work and notice areas that need patching up, adding stones they find lying around. But this is the very reason such walls aren't really built anymore. They're too labor-intensive. We live in a prefab world because the scarce thing now is not material or money but "the works and days of hands." I am moved by the idea that our future could feel less futuristic than pastoral. High tech could save us from high tech. We'd go back to the old interfaces without giving up the conveniences of the new ones. Read, write, communicate, create—and hardly ever see or touch a screen. I'm not sure that'll happen or be what people want. But shouldn't we be thinking of ways to use the new magic to spend less time tapping and clicking?
When I first started writing professionally, for the Atlantic’s website, I taught myself “reporting” with a simple self-made curriculum unfolding over six or seven articles. The first two pieces I wrote from my head, with reference to things I already knew or to books I’d read. For the third, I layered in firsthand experience, when […]
On podcasts it's pretty common to hear something like this: So Alexander Hamilton has just finished law school, and he's trying to make a name for himself. He's only been in New York a few years. So he takes on this case... The problem with the past tense ("Hamilton had just finished law school, and […]
The game of Five'Em was invented by two friends of mine, Ben Gross and Rich Berger, to combat Hold'Em fatigue. The rules are simple: You're dealt five hole cards instead of two, and after each round of community cards comes out (starting with the flop), you discard one of these extras. After the river is […]
In 1963, the philosopher Edmund Gettier published a three-page paper in the journal Analysis that quickly became a classic in the field. Epistemologists going back to the Greeks had debated what it meant to know something, and in the Enlightenment, a definition was settled upon: to know something is to have a justified true belief […]
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Reading my recent computing retrospective, I realised there was a big section missing: the people in my life that made an impact and helped shape my career. Outside my immediate family, one person made an outsized contribution, and I’m fairly certain that without his influence my life would have taken a very different path. The fact that I’m still here in 2026, still writing code and being fortunate enough to have a career in something I love is testament to him. So I’d like to take a few moments to talk about my old secondary school teacher, George Dryden. Denied Back in 1995, I had a problem. I knew I wanted to study computing at university and build a career out of my passion, but there was a snag. For those unfamiliar with the UK schooling system, when you’re 15-16 you take a set of GCSE exams in a broad range of subjects. After that, you pick around 3 subjects to really focus on over a period of 2 years. These are called A Levels, and they are a big step up and are meant to prepare you for a degree-level course at university. Admission to university is also governed by these results - if you want to study computing, you’re going to need a computing A-Level, and most universities will only accept you (or “make an offer”) if you achieve a certain grade. And whilst I had taken computing at a GCSE level, my school did not offer a computing A-Level course. I instead had to settle on “Design & Technology”, which just didn’t inspire me. Instead of working on my portfolio and projects, I spent most of my time daydreaming and writing code on the Acorn Archimedes computers that were the staple of every 90s UK school. No disrespect to the teachers - they were all awesome - but it just wasn’t for me. I was miserable, and by the end of my first year, I was well on my way to failing outright with my entire future plans seemingly going up in smoke. Someone noticed That’s when George stepped in. He’d taught me computing right the way through my GCSEs, and with no A-Level course on offer, that was officially where his involvement was supposed to have ended. It didn’t. He had noticed my constant presence in the computing labs - before and after school, during lunch breaks, free “study” periods - working on some little pet project or digging into RISC OS internals. I remember him as warm, with a wicked, dry sense of humour, and a refreshingly spiky attitude to authority - I always got the sense he’d worked out for himself which rules were worth taking seriously and which ones weren’t. And he always had time for me. I spent years pestering him with questions that had nothing to do with anything on the syllabus, and he’d always find a way to answer them that actually made sense. He was just as supportive of my odd little obsessions. At one point I’d got deep into the BBS scene, which I thought was the coolest thing ever, and decided what the school really needed was an internal BBS running on its own network. So I wrote one. It was deeply cringeworthy, obviously - but George helped me put posters up around the school advertising it, and even gave it a mention in assembly one morning. I think about five people in total ever checked it out. It didn’t matter: a teacher had stood up in front of the entire school and treated my weird little project like it was worth something, and that was a hugely validating moment for me. Off the books He recognised the passion, and eventually he made a suggestion: What if I quit the Design and Technology course, and instead attempt the A-level course myself? Personally, I also suspect he was enjoying himself. There was some internal school politics behind why computing wasn’t offered at A-Level in the first place - I never knew the details - and I think the prospect of one of his students simply going out and getting the qualification anyway appealed to him on two separate levels. It would get me where I wanted to go, and it would wind up exactly the right people. It wouldn’t be easy, he warned. The school would be against it, plus it was a two-year course which I’d have to cram into one year. I’d have to do it all myself - studying, lesson planning, coursework - he couldn’t help me in an official capacity, but he said he’d advocate for me and help where he could. If I had assignments, he’d send them off to be graded and would give feedback in his own time. He’d enter me in for the exams and also gave me a set of keys to the computer lab so I could use it whenever I needed. It was the first time anybody outside my own family had really shown faith in my abilities and encouraged me to take a stand. It was a pivotal moment for me - I realised if I wanted something badly enough I would have to fight for it, but I could still make it happen. I didn’t have to take “NO” for an answer - a lesson I think I picked up from watching him as much as from anything he ever actually said to me. After a few weeks of dithering, I took the jump. I remember a few awkward meetings with the school administration but thanks to his behind-the-scenes work, I was soon following my dream. An intense year And yes, it was bloody hard work. I had to condense an entire two year course into under a year, be disciplined enough to produce my own study plan, and be critical enough of my own shortcomings that I could focus my study where it was needed. I pretty much lived and breathed it for months straight and was more-or-less a permanent fixture in the labs or school library poring over my course books. I’d make lists of questions and chat to George over lunch, and he’d provide guidance and encouragement. It was a lonely way to learn with no classmates to compare notes with, no lessons to turn up to, and right up until the end I had no real idea whether any of it was good enough - but bit by bit, it started to feel like something I could actually pull off. And sure enough, in the late spring of 1996, I sat down in an exam hall with my fellow students, the only one with an A-Level computing question paper in front of me. The final exam went by in a blur - I can only remember a few of the questions now (and a peculiar obsession with the Pascal language) - but I do remember the euphoria as the invigilator called “time’s up, pens down, close your papers NOW”. I had done it. A few nerve-wracking months later, my Mum drove me into school to pick up my results. I ripped open the envelope and saw it - I’d passed with an A grade! I literally ran up the stairs to George’s office next to the computing labs to thank him personally. I’d taken my camera into school to take a few last photos for memory’s sake and snapped this photo of him before I walked out the school gates for the last time: A different path Because of him, I managed to get into my university of choice, studying computing with a focus on networks. Because of that, I landed my first job working as a “webmaster”, and my career since has been one of the highlights of my life. All these years later, it’s a real privilege to be able to get up each morning and actively look forward to working in an industry I love. Without George stepping up for me and encouraging me to believe in myself, none of that would have happened. I wouldn’t have had the career I have, and I wouldn’t be where I am now. I met my wife when we both worked at a software company - she sat at the desk behind me - so even my home and family life can be traced back to that spring of 1996. And the A-Level itself was only half of what I took away from that year. The qualification opened the door to university, but the lesson that came with it was every bit as important: that a “no” isn’t always the end of it, and that sometimes the answer can be argued with. I’m so proud of what I managed to achieve all those years ago, and even more thankful to have had someone like George in my life to put me on the right track. Mr. Dryden I did see him again after I left. He drank in one of my local pubs - a pub I’d been going to for a good while before I was technically old enough to be in it - and I’d say hello if I spotted him in there, mostly in the months before I moved away to university. After that it was only a handful of times. For years I’d find myself scanning the room whenever I was back home and in for a pint, half expecting him to be at the bar. At some point I stopped seeing him altogether and eventually moved across the country. The trouble was I never really knew how to talk to him outside of school. He was always Mr. Dryden, or just “Sir”, I don’t think I ever once called him George to his face! I was (and still am if I’m honest) fairly socially awkward, and I never worked out how to phrase the thing I actually wanted to say: that he had changed the entire direction of my life, and I wasn’t sure he knew it. So instead I’d say hello, and ask how he was, talk about nothing much, and go back to my friends. Epilogue Sadly, 3 years ago now, I opened the latest issue of my old school alumni newsletter to read that he’d passed away. The photo at the start of this article was taken from his obituary article and I read that he’d had a long illness and had suffered from dementia at the end. I did write to him years ago by email - I don’t know if he ever got it, or was in any capacity to understand what he’d done for me, but I hope so. There’s an old saying by one of my favourite authors (Terry Pratchett) that “no one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away”. In one of his books, a character keeps the memory of his son alive by passing his name along a series of telegraph towers. It’s in that spirit that I’m writing this post - I debated it for many years as it’s very personal to me and I also have no contact with any of George’s family so I have no idea what they would make of it all. But even though it’s 30+ years ago now, I will never forget him or what he did for me - and at least now, if someone searches his name it’ll be recorded here for as long as I’m alive and running this site. Thank you, Sir. George Dryden 1942-2023
Let’s step inside the kernel and understand how it implements copy-on-write and what are its implications for the performance of user-space systems
Yesterday, I received this email as a response to You Can't Vibe Code Love. It's such a remarkable and powerful statement that I asked permission to share it here, in its entirety, with personal information redacted: Hey Jeff, Hope you and your family are doing well.
A frustrated Reddit post about being a condom between an AI and production made the rounds in our team. Here is why I think the opposite is true and what it means for how we review code, plan work and think.
And here we are three years after I wrote about the Google Pixel Fold being announced, followed now with the announcement of the iPhone Duo...(I have questions about the naming by the way). Four years ago I was talking about web primitives in the platform for the Surface Duo. My how time flies. There are CSS media features, a Viewport Segments API, a Device Posture API but Chromium based browsers are the only ones currently supporting these things. I haven't been able to find any signal yet on whether Safari will support these things in the web platform as the developer docs focus on application development. If you're interested in trying out the platform features, you can emulate the Surface Duo and Galaxy Z Fold in the developer tools. And if you're thinking, do I really have to have my website adapt to two screens? The answer is no. Adding a design to an application or dual screen makes sense if you have an experience that has two simulataneous contexts that are useful e.g. a list of email messages/inbox on one screen, an open message, email thread or email composer on the other. Here's one of my talks from 2022 if you're interested in learning more about what's available in the browser for dual screen/foldable devices. Happy building :)
