Leaving the Island

As the pods for Your Commonbase deploy in chorus to a production Kubernetes cluster, I have mixed feelings about this moment in time. On one hand, I feel a sense of accomplishment. A visceral shock of reality in a largely abstract series of efforts. This code, it’s real. It functions. It solves problems (and has bugs of course). Most importantly, it has lifeblood. A purpose. This feeling I get from watching the machine in its entirety move smoothly is euphoric, relieving even. And yet, on the other hand, I feel a very, very real sense of dread. 

Let me explain.

For almost two years now, I’ve been on an island of sorts. This island, like many islands tend to be, is small. I can walk the entire thing from end to end. Indeed, I have done this walk many times, sometimes multiple times in a single day. I’ve mapped the local fauna and wildlife. I’ve whiled away entire days, weeks, months, on this island, adrift on the river of time, just me, my thoughts, and the island.

Could I have lived like this forever? Perhaps. It’s safe. Familiar. Events happen firmly under my control. There is even the occasional visitor from time to time.

But I knew.

I knew I couldn’t stay on my island forever. Or rather, Your Commonbase couldn’t.

Programs are like words. If left unsaid, they enter a stasis state. For its programmer, this dormancy is a kind of failure. Like authors of novels who become the eyes through which the world sees, a programmer strives to say something true through logic, something worth repeating by millions of computers and the humans who use them.

A dead language is not dead because it was never spoken, it is dead because it has stopped being spoken.

Worse yet, this stasis state suffers from degradation. Not internally, of course, the code will not change to the ravages of time if committed to disk. The real threat comes from outside. The environment around the code continues to change, as new dialects emerge and occasionally entire new versions of thought. Even if (and that’s a big if) the program is ever found in this dormant state, there’s no guarantee that it will even be able to run in the new world that finds it.

I can’t stand to let this island I’ve been living on die a quiet death. It’s too beautiful to me. I can’t stand to let personal doubt get in the way of publishing and let it be repeated by other computers and the people who sit in front of them. It’s too important to not try.

To invite others to the island is to alter the math. The calculus of the island changes drastically once other people are involved. 

The island will grow, and suddenly but surely, I will no longer grasp it from end to end. The risk increases, and with it, the reward. There are parts of the island I will no longer have access to, ideas that will spring up and take form almost if by magic. The island will begin to evolve according to its own design, with or without me. This is bittersweet to me, a man who has enjoyed solitude on an island for quite some time now.

And even then, unfortunately, after publishing, the island can still die.

A quiet death is not the only kind of death a program can face. There is a different kind of death when work is published. Anything that is owned at least in part by the public is subject to the whims of the public. Sometimes, the public razes an island for parts. Sometimes they praise the island, others lodge formal complaints. Sometimes the cost of maintaining the island builds until it collapses it under its own weight; or outside investment will prop up a farce until it gets swallowed by some tragedy of the commons private equity firm who lack vision but have capital.

But publishing is also a shot at life.

It’s a chance. A chance that others will appreciate the island as it is, and improve it thoughtfully. 

By virtue of being on this waitlist, I presume you are in the class of people who I trust can see the beaches of the island, who can take from the resources from it, but give as well. A beta is a conversation between you and I, a larger island than a solitary one, to be sure, but still an island where the entire community is within arms reach. Most importantly, the beta users leave a significant mark, they shape development on the island for those who come after.

The pioneers are the first to come, and the last to leave.

Currently as of writing, the waitlist is at 95 people. At first, I’ll be bringing in two-three people a week. If that goes well for the first month or two, I’ll increase the rate. 

I’ll be reaching out through my [email protected] email, and one by one, I’ll set you all up with account and show you the ropes over Zoom. 

By virtue of being a beta, this phase does require willingness to deal with a) buggy software b) using the software consistently despite said bugs, and c) offering feedback when prompted. If that’s not you, no worries, let me know and I’ll skip past you.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be posting some of the elementary mechanics of YCB to this newsletter, but if you’re curious to see some of the features now or if you want another understanding of my software philosophy, you can read this essay I published on Sunday, June 8:

https://www.bramadams.dev/software-is-about-promises/ 

Best,

Bram