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A version is essentially a marker, a seal of the codebase at a specific point in time. However, code is complex, and every change involves trade-offs. Describing how a change affects the code can be tricky even with natural language. A version number alone can’t capture all the nuances of a release. That’s why we have changelogs, release notes, and commit messages to provide more context.

I see versioning as a way to communicate changes to users — a contract between the library maintainers and the users to ensure compatibility and stability during upgrades. As a user, you can’t always tell what’s changed between v2.3.4 and v2.3.5 without checking the changelog. But by looking at the numbers, you can infer that it’s a patch release meant to fix bugs, which should be safe to upgrade.

In the JavaScript ecosystem, especially for packages published on npm, we follow a convention known as Semantic Versioning, or SemVer for short. A SemVer version number consists of three parts: MAJOR.MINOR.PATCH. The rules are straightforward: MAJOR: Increment when you make incompatible API changes. MINOR: Increment when you add functionality in a backwards-compatible manner. PATCH: Increment when you make backwards-compatible bug fixes.

However, humans perceive numbers on a logarithmic scale. We tend to see v2.0 to v3.0 as a huge, groundbreaking change, while v125.0 to v126.0 seems a lot more trivial, even though both indicate incompatible API changes in SemVer. This perception can make maintainers hesitant to bump the major version for minor breaking changes, leading to the accumulation of many breaking changes in a single major release, making upgrades harder for users.

The reason I’ve stuck with v0.x.x is my own unconventional approach to versioning. I prefer to introduce necessary and minor breaking changes early on, making upgrades easier, without causing alarm that typically comes with major version jumps like v2 to v3. Some changes might be "technically" breaking but don’t impact 99.9% of users in practice.

There’s a special rule in SemVer that states when the leading major version is 0, every minor version bump is considered breaking. I am kind of abusing that rule to workaround the limitation of SemVer. With zero-major versioning, we are effectively abandoning the first number, and merge MINOR and PATCH into a single number (thanks to David Blass for pointing this out)

In an ideal world, I would wish SemVer to have 4 numbers: EPOCH.MAJOR.MINOR.PATCH. The EPOCH version is for those big announcements, while MAJOR is for technical incompatible API changes that might not be significant. This way, we can have a more granular way to communicate changes.

I am proposing a new versioning scheme called 🗿 Epoch Semantic Versioning, or Epoch SemVer for short. It’s built on top of the structure of MAJOR.MINOR.PATCH, extend the first number to be the combination of EPOCH and MAJOR

The format is as follows: {EPOCH * 1000 + MAJOR}.MINOR.PATCH EPOCH: Increment when you make significant or groundbreaking changes. MAJOR: Increment when you make minor incompatible API changes. MINOR: Increment when you add functionality in a backwards-compatible manner. PATCH: Increment when you make backwards-compatible bug fixes.

For example, UnoCSS would transition from v0.65.3 to v65.3.0 (in the case EPOCH is 0). Following SemVer, a patch release would become v65.3.1, and a feature release would be v65.4.0. If we introduced some minor incompatible changes affecting an edge case, we could bump it to v66.0.0 to alert users of potential impacts. In the event of a significant overhaul to the core, we could jump directly to v1000.0.0 to signal a new era and make a big announcement.

We shouldn’t need to bump EPOCH often. It’s mostly useful for high-level, end-user-facing libraries or frameworks. For low-level libraries, they might never need to bump EPOCH at all (ZERO-EPOCH is essentially the same as SemVer).

I’ll offer this closing thought, too: A disastrous, horrific episode like October 7 and the years since could be a genuine opportunity — that part is not naive, absurd, or pollyannish. It’s a real opportunity for a generation of Palestinians to see clearly the futility of Hamas’s vision, the futility of trying to destroy Israel, and the inevitable failure of militant Islamist leadership. It’s also a real opportunity for a generation of Israelis to see clearly the folly of Netanyahu’s post-October 7 response, the unspeakable pain it has wrought, and the impossibility of living next to a nation of people you are consistently and repeatedly suppressing with violence in the name of self-defense.

Broadly speaking, Alphabet, Amazon, Apple, Meta, Microsoft, Nvidia, and Tesla are all “technology” companies. Looking more specifically, though, each company occupies fundamentally different categories of tech. Apple is a consumer computing hardware manufacturer. Its primary products are smartphones, laptops, desktop computers, and tablets. Other products that it makes, including the so-called “services,” are primarily accessories to or supportive of their consumer computing hardware: e.g., App Store, Apple Music, and iCloud. Apple’s specific product focus has remained unchanged since its founding as “Apple Computer Company.”

Meta has tried to pivot to the so-called “metaverse,” symbolically renaming the whole company from “Facebook” and continuing to pour $billions every year into the effort, yet with not much more return on investment than Apple’s own “spatial computing”, i.e., Vision Pro. And now Meta is trying to pivot to A.I., pouring a ton of money into that too, but with nothing much to show for it. We’re supposed to be impressed by Meta poaching individual Apple engineers with nine-figure pay packages, which in one sense is impressive, just not impressive in the sense of paying off for Meta. Perhaps it will pay off for Meta in the future. Or perhaps not. Meanwhile, Meta is still practically printing money at its old, core business: selling ads on social media

Jobs did not just make tech products willy-nilly, for no other reason than to maximize profit and stockholder returns. He was always focused specifically on consumer computing devices and platforms. That’s what he cared about, and where his experienced rested. When Jobs left Apple in the 1980s, what did he do? Again, he created a new personal computing platform, NeXT, a combination of hardware and operating system, just like the Apple II, Lisa, and Macintosh that came before. Jobs was innovating… on a theme, almost like a classical composer. Jobs was eventually able to return to Apple and become CEO precisely because Jobs made what Apple needed: a personal computer operating system, NeXTSTEP, which became Mac OS X.

It’s instructive to recall that the iPod, Apple’s second hit product under CEO Jobs after the iMac, was not only a consumer electronics device but also originally an accessory to the Mac.

I feel that McGee and other critics of Tim Cook fallaciously lump Apple in with other tech companies that are not Apple competitors. Tesla is not an Apple competitor. Neither are Nvidia or Meta, or for that matter, Amazon. You have to ask what makes Amazon a “tech” company. Amazon is primarily a retailer of physical goods. It sells those goods over the internet, which was novel in the 1990s but unremarkable today. I can order food online, but that doesn’t make the restaurant a tech company. If any product qualifies Amazon for the label, I’d say it would be Amazon Web Services. This is a business product, though, not a consumer product.

Why are we comparing Apple to Meta and Nvidia rather than to Samsung and Xiaomi on mobile, Lenovo and HP on desktop? Perhaps those markets have become saturated and don’t provide as much room for growth as other potential markets. So what? I get the impression that commentators complaining about Tim Cook’s lack of innovation simply want “growth,” unlimited growth, without any purpose behind that growth, technology without the intersection of the liberal arts, to use a metaphor from Steve Jobs, who always had a purpose, his innovation always oriented toward consumer computing hardware

a healthy person asks for what they need and trusts others to help them. And a healthy person also trusts others to figure out their own lives and ask for advice when needed. Co-dependent people do literally every other single thing in dealing with people, because they lack the self-esteem to be direct. Codependent people wheedle, whine, charm, bribe, get sick, delay, interfere, etc.—because they don’t have the self-esteem to ask and trust. Because living with an addicted person often means that we asked and we’re not heard or helped, so we learned 300 alternate ways to get what we needed. That’s how I see it. We were smart as children to discover these survival techniques. But as adults, it’s all so dysfunctional, the manipulation, rescuing, feeling overly responsible for everyone and everything. We try to control everything because we don’t trust anything. It’s an exhausting way to live, and it harms everyone in our circle. We interfere with natural consequences that help other people grow. We give our all, and people just resent it, because nobody wants to be controlled.

My codependent partner, who felt like I was dependent on them and saw me as the “taker”, withheld important information from me about their feelings. They continued to give and give without being honest with me, partly because they were scared to hurt me and be the cause of my pain, partly because they were afraid of abandonment themselves, partly because they felt compelled to maintain their self image of “the perfect partner” that I thought they were. This is controlling and manipulative because my partner was trying to control the emotional outcome of everything by hiding their feelings from me. In this withholding, they built up intense resentment towards me and our relationship, blaming me as the reason they couldn’t share their feelings instead of being reflective on their people pleasing and conflict avoidant tendencies. All of this behavior is in fact manipulation because it is robbing me (or whoever else is involved) of my own autonomy and decision making, leaving me completely in the dark, making me feel like I am in a perfect relationship when I’m not.

I learned that you can’t control how people respond or treat you, but you can control how you respond to them. But you can’t do better till you know how to, so having self compassion is very essential

The way I interpret it is that the essence of codependency is feeling powerless. We are unable to deal with the fact that the world is not treating us the way we wish to be treated. Some people deal with the feeling of powerlessness by being angry and controlling. By holding on to someone else very tightly so we can force them to understand and behave toward us how we wish to be treated. Other people deal with that feeling of powerlessness by being passive aggressive, by fawning, by being nice to people who don't deserve it with the hope that the other person will respond by being nice to us back, the way we wish to be treated. Both perspectives are problematic in that our feeling of self-worth is dependent on how others treat us, rather than coming from within ourselves.

We’re trying to control outcomes because we feel terrified, not trusting that natural outcomes will be survivable. We’re trying to control perceptions because we feel we are deeply unlovable and will be abandoned and left to die if we can’t make a good impression. We’re not super controllers because we think we know best or we have extra power. It’s all born of fear. It’s still damaging to other people, but … I couldn’t see my own codependent manipulative behaviors for a long time because I knew how loving and well-meaning I was.

Because I had bad parents, and I was sure I had given 100 percent to being a great parent. I’m trying to forgive myself by saying none of my parenting errors were intentional. But because I had untreated depression, she saw me cry a lot, which affected her. Even worse, she worried about my mental health so much that she was afraid to leave and hang out with her teen friends. All the while, in my mind, I was thrilled to have this close and faithful companion. It was my job to recognize that I was leaning on her too much, and I failed at that, because it felt too good to have the unconditional love I’d always needed. It’s almost like manipulation by omission. By instincts had me clinging to her, and she was too kind-hearted to push me away.

eople who are overly codependent lose their sense of self in an attempt to please others. Their over-reliance on external validation damages their relationships. People who are healthily interdependent have a good balance of serving and being served by others. They have a strong love for both themselves and for others, never neglecting the needs of either.

The core of codependency, to me, is not about "taking care of others", but an "inability to define yourself without others". A dependant on others to fill in the pieces of yourself that are missing. Taking care of others is great, but how do you feel when you aren't?

It can also make it difficult to have healthy reciprocal friendships, find internal sources of validation, and lead to passive aggressive behavior or participation in the drama triangle. At its most severe, codependency and enmeshment with emotional controlling behavior can create a nonviolent coercive relationship; it isnt identified as often because a lot of codependents view themselves as givers, martyrs, protectors but discount how their good intentions may facilitate unhealthy behaviors, expectations, bad habits, and cause distress to others. It doesnt feel good to be pitied or viewed as a project. It doesnt feel good to worry that your healthy boundaries harm your partner, or to be held responsible for someone's hurt feelings in response to self care. It is hurtful to have emotionally intelligent language or unasked for help wielded against you, and this often happens when resentment builds in a codependent relationship.

It doesn't let you grow if you are always in roles that allow you to perform versus be authentic, and it can actually be unkind to yourself and others to focus on how they make you feel and how they serve you versus seeing them as a whole person who is worthy without changes, and who doesnt need help but can ask for it when needed

If you find yourself comfortable in the rile of helper and unsure how how to behave outside of it, it is a good challenge to undertake to truly examine the motives of your kindness and how you respond when you aren't "needed".

two things stand out when I look at this chart. First is how evident the 2008 Great Recession, the pandemic drop, and the post-pandemic recovery are in the data. And, given what we know about how this data is collected, that actually makes sense; BLS surveys about 631,000 worksites for their employment data as of the 12th of the month, then revises the monthly numbers as more data comes out. The corrections to the jobs reports in 2008 were likely caused by numbers that continued to decrease throughout consecutive months, while reports late in 2021 showed an economy actively adding jobs as it rebounded from the pandemic. In short: A growing job market has positive revisions, a shrinking job market has negative revisions.

National Review’s Dominic Pino wrote a thorough breakdown of the complex work that goes into producing these reports, noting how variables like seasonal employment patterns, self-employment, and new and shuttered businesses make creating an accurate snapshot of the economy on the first try very difficult. Furthermore, the response rate to BLS surveys has dipped since the pandemic. Ironically, Secretary of Commerce Howard Lutnick fired the team of people who help us know how many people are getting fired, making it even more difficult to get accurate initial estimates.

employment in industries that Trump is trying to boost with tariffs have hit a wall: Since May, manufacturing, wholesale trade, and retail trade — three sectors most sensitive to tariff policies — have lost jobs. Meanwhile, both the rates of nonfarm hiring and workers quitting their jobs are steadily decreasing, showing a labor market that’s getting tighter and tighter.

Instead, this firing looks like a case of Trump injecting us-versus-them politics into another arena that could really benefit from reasonable discussion. Whoever takes the role next will still be attempting a difficult task with dwindling resources, but with the addition of a white-hot spotlight of the political culture war beating down on them.

In short, managers kick off a feedback loop by trying to close the gap between their team’s current and desired performance. They have two options: 1) Drive short-term improvements by asking more from senior designers, increasing rewards for top performers, and creating upward pressure through reviews, or 2) Build long-term capability by investing in training, coaching, and career development for junior designers. But the feedback loops between these approaches push companies to prioritize hiring senior talent, as the immediate performance gains outweigh the diffuse returns of capability-building.

Andrej is an extremely talented and experienced programmer—he has no need for AI assistance at all. He’s using LLMs like this because it’s fun to try out wild new ideas, and the speed at which an LLM can produce code is an order of magnitude faster than even the most skilled human programmers. For low stakes projects and prototypes why not just let it rip? When I talk about vibe coding I mean building software with an LLM without reviewing the code it writes.

If an LLM wrote the code for you, and you then reviewed it, tested it thoroughly and made sure you could explain how it works to someone else that’s not vibe coding, it’s software development. The usage of an LLM to support that activity is immaterial.

The job of a software developer is not (just) to churn out code and features. We need to create code that demonstrably works, and can be understood by other humans (and machines), and that will support continued development in the future. We need to consider performance, accessibility, security, maintainability, cost efficiency. Software engineering is all about trade-offs—our job is to pick from dozens of potential solutions by balancing all manner of requirements, both explicit and implied.

I think vibe coding is the best tool we have to help experienced developers build that intuition as to what LLMs can and cannot do for them. I’ve published more than 80 experiments I built with vibe coding and I’ve learned so much along the way. I would encourage any other developer, no matter their skill level, to try the same.

As many have pointed out , not all code written with AI assistance is vibe code. Per the original definition , it’s code written in contexts where you “forget that the code even exists.” Or as the fairly fleshed-out Wikipedia article puts it: ”A key part of the definition of vibe coding is that the user accepts code without full understanding.”

Our AI minions are also exceptional tools for learning when you move too far towards the high-vibes-low-understanding end of the spectrum. I particularly like getting Claude to write me targeted exercises to practice new concepts when I get lost in generated functions or fail to implement something correctly sans-AI. Even though doubling-down up on engineering skills sometimes feels like learning to operate a textile loom in 1820.

Unpacking is a way of re-inflating all the little particulars that had to be flattened so your imagination could produce a quick preview of the future, like turning a napkin sketch into a blueprint

When people have a hard time figuring out what to do with their lives, it’s often because they haven’t unpacked. For example, in grad school I worked with lots of undergrads who thought they wanted to be professors. Then I’d send ‘em to my advisor Dan, and he would unpack them in 10 seconds flat. “I do this,” he would say, miming typing on a keyboard, “And I do this,” he would add, gesturing to the student and himself. “I write research papers and I talk to students. Would you like to do those things?”

more likely, they weren’t picturing anything at all. They were just thinking the same thing over and over again: “Do I want to be a professor? Hmm, I’m not sure. Do I want to be a professor? Hmm, I’m not sure.” Why is it so hard to unpack, even a little bit? Well, you know how when you move to a new place and all of your unpacked boxes confront you every time you come home? And you know how, if you just leave them there for a few weeks, the boxes stop being boxes and start being furniture, just part of the layout of your apartment, almost impossible to perceive? That’s what it’s like in the mind. The assumptions, the nuances, the background research all get taped up and tucked away. That’s a good thing—if you didn’t keep most of your thoughts packed, trying to answer a question like “Do I want to be a professor?” would be like dumping everything you own into a giant pile and then trying to find your one lucky sock.

When you fully unpack any job, you’ll discover something astounding: only a crazy person should do it. Do you want to be a surgeon? = Do you want to do the same procedure 15 times a week for the next 35 years? Do you want to be an actor? = Do you want your career to depend on having the right cheekbones?

High-status professions are the hardest ones to unpack because the upsides are obvious and appealing, while the downsides are often deliberately hidden and tolerable only to a tiny minority.

When you come down from the 30,000-foot view that your imagination offers you by default, when you lay out all the minutiae of a possible future, when you think of your life not as an impressionistic blur, but as a series of discrete Tuesday afternoons full of individual moments that you will live in chronological order and without exception, only then do you realize that most futures make sense exclusively for a very specific kind of person. Dare I say, a crazy person.

We tend to overestimate the prevalence of our preferences, a phenomenon that psychologists call the “false consensus effect”3. This is probably because it’s really really hard to take other people’s perspectives, so unless we run directly into disconfirming evidence, we assume that all of our mental settings are, in fact, the defaults. Our idiosyncrasies may never even occur to us.

whenever you unpack somebody, you inevitably discover something extremely weird about them. Sometimes you don’t have to dig that far, like when your friend tells you that she likes “found” photographs—the abandoned snapshots that turn up at yard sales and charity shops—and then adds that she has collected 20,000 of them. But sometimes the craziness is buried deep, often because people don’t think it’s crazy at all, like when a friend I knew for years casually disclosed that she had dumped all of her previous boyfriends because they had been insufficiently “menacing”

This is why people get so brain-constipated when they try to choose a career, and why they often pick the wrong one: they don’t understand the craziness that they have to offer, nor the craziness that will be demanded of them, and so they spend their lives jamming their square-peg selves into round-hole jobs.

On the other hand, when people match their crazy to the right outlet, they become terrifyingly powerful. A friend from college recently reminded me of this guy I’ll call Danny, who was crazy in a way that was particularly useful for politics, namely, he was incapable of feeling humiliated.

Unpacking is easy and free, but almost no one ever does it because it feels weird and unnatural. It’s uncomfortable to confront your own illusion of explanatory depth, to admit that you really have no idea what’s going on, and to keep asking stupid questions until that changes.

Making matters worse, people are happy to talk about themselves and their jobs, but they do it at this unhelpful, abstract level where they say things like, “oh, I’m the liaison between development and sales”. So when you’re unpacking someone’s job, you really gotta push: what did you do this morning? What will you do after talking to me? Is that what you usually do? If you’re sitting at your computer all day, what’s on your computer? What programs are you using? Wow, that sounds really boring, do you like doing that, or do you endure it?

It’s no wonder that everyone struggles to figure what to do with their lives: we have not developed the cultural technology to deal with this problem because we never had to. We didn’t exactly evolve in an ancestral environment with a lot of career opportunities. And then, once we invented agriculture, almost everyone was a farmer the next 10,000 years. “What should I do with my life?” is really a post-1850 problem, which means, in the big scheme of things, we haven’t had any time to work on it.

The trajectory of all this is well rehearsed at this point. Progressive posters register their genuine outrage. Reactionaries respond in kind by cataloging that outrage and using it to portray their ideological opponents as hysterical, overreactive, and out of touch. Then savvy content creators glom on to the trending discourse and surf the algorithmic waves on TikTok, X, and every other platform. Yet another faction emerges: People who agree politically with those who are outraged about Sydney Sweeney but wish they would instead channel their anger toward actual Nazis. All the while, media outlets survey the landscape and attempt to round up these conversations into clickable content—search Google’s “News” tab for Sydney Sweeney, and you’ll get the gist.

Even that word, discourse—a shorthand for the way that a particular topic gets put through the internet’s meat grinder—is a misnomer, because none of the participants is really talking to the others. Instead, every participant—be they bloggers, randos on X, or people leaving Instagram comments—are issuing statements, not unlike public figures. Each of these statements becomes fodder for somebody else’s statement.

Our information ecosystem collects these statements, stripping them of their original context while adding on the context of everything else that is happening in the world: political anxieties, cultural frustrations, fandoms, niche beefs between different posters, current events, celebrity gossip, beauty standards, rampant conspiracism. No post exists on an island. They are all surrounded and colored by an infinite array of other content targeted to the tastes of individual social-media users. What can start out as a legitimate grievance becomes something else altogether—an internet event, an attention spectacle. This is not a process for sense-making; it is a process for making people feel upset at scale.

It has changed the way people talk to and fight with one another, as well as the way jeans are marketed. Electoral politics, activism, getting people to stream your SoundCloud mixtape—all of it relies on attracting attention using online platforms. The Sweeney incident is useful because it allows us to see how all these competing interests overlap to create a self-perpetuating controversy.

The Sweeney ad, like any good piece of discourse, allows everyone to exploit a political and cultural moment for different ends. Some of it is well intentioned. Some of it is cynical. Almost all of it persists because there are deeper things going on that people actually want to fight about

Discourse suggests a process that feels productive, maybe even democratic. But there’s nothing productive about the end result of our information environment. What we’re consuming isn’t discourse; it’s algorithmic grist for the mills that power the platforms we’ve uploaded our conversations onto. The grist is made of all of our very real political and cultural anxieties, ground down until they start to feel meaningless. The only thing that matters is that the machine keeps running. The wheel keeps turning, leaving everybody feeling like they’ve won and lost at the same time.

If I am trying to be everything, will I end up being nothing? There’s a tension I incessantly carry: the pull between curiosity and mastery. I want to write beautifully till I run my own magazine. I want to draw till my pieces are installed in galleries. I want to understand the intricacies of chemical engineering till I become distinguishable in the industry. I don’t want to just dabble in these disciplines. No, I want to know them in depth, in profundity.

But what happens if I keep stretching myself across too many directions? Will I dilute my potential? Is there a point where breadth undermines depth?

Mastery is not claiming expertise, but in staying committed. In showing up again and again to each craft, even if progress feels slow with each, even if I am unsure where it will all lead. (I wasn't sure how to end this, but I had a thought: I wonder if, perhaps, instead of mastering each thing in isolation - engineering, writing, drawing - I can weave a larger net, one that forms nuance and connections among all of which, till it becomes something uniquely my own? Could that be its own kind of mastery? Well, only time will tell.)

For interface designers, this distinction opens up new possibilities: instead of just helping users complete a task, we can design interfaces that also help them grow. In the symbiosis between humans and machines, there's potential for real, meaningful gains

if we think about how to turn this competitive interface into a complementary one, some ideas pop up: Explain: Show not just the corrected text, but also why and where it was corrected Feedback: Send a weekly email with the top three recurring mistakes, along with exercises Challenge: Highlight a mistake and ask the person to fix it themselves before showing the corrected version.

All this can be incorporated without slowing the whole process. And there are plenty more possibilities. Even just doing this thought experiment shows how powerful this framework can be for interface design.

Just like living a healthy life means paying attention to what we eat and how we move, we'll need to be more mindful of where we invest our mental energy. The same goes for our creative and learning processes. Instead of just asking for a corrected version of a text, we could request feedback like an editor would give, or ask for a list of five authors who would argue against your core idea.

We are entering a new era of tools and it is up to us to shape them so that in the future they shape us in ways we can be proud of.

Apple’s stated design philosophy is to build interfaces that allow content to flow behind them, showing through (a glass, darkly?). The official line is that this makes more space for your content—but, of course, sometimes using computer software means using interfaces to manipulate content and data and other stuff, and it feels like Apple has lost its balance in a quixotic attempt to make every app look like a photo editor. I also have to point out the hypocrisy of Apple claiming that it’s building better frames for its users’ content. That’s not what’s happening here: Apple is using our content as decoration for its interfaces, using blurred and distorted versions of our images and words to show off those glass interface elements. Sometimes, it works: the feel of a canvas sliding under a bunch of glassy interface elements makes the whole thing feel like a harmonious whole. Other times, it feels like the interface and the content have both been obscured into unusability—and that’s bad.

“Noah makes these things that always have something to say and have real substance,” says Balian. “But he’s also a fanboy.”  Hawley, a cerebral Sarah Lawrence graduate who’s published six novels on top of his work in TV and film, found a special appeal in just how uncharted the “Alien” universe was. “There’s surprisingly little mythology across seven movies,” he says. “It was great to not have to jerry-rig a mythology into what’s existing, but to just start again.” Hawley cites “the three main branches of science fiction — ‘Star Wars,’ ‘Star Trek’ and ‘Alien’ — you would never confuse one for another.”

A child’s mind in a grown-up body is a potent symbol, one Hawley says was inspired in part by observing moments of both immaturity and surprising maturity in his own kids.

Should “Alien: Earth” earn a second season, though, Hawley is hoping the production can move. “Season 1 is the proof of concept,” he says. “And if it works commercially, then Season 2 is about building a model upon which we can envision making a Season 3, 4, 5.” He describes Bangkok as “a challenging location for a number of reasons — the health and well-being of your crew; my ability to participate.”

Performance review driven development is the bane of the whole industry. People inventing bullshit work for absolutely no reason other than to pad their yearly reviews. I've been through two large useless rewrites at my current job just so a bunch of folks could get promoted

What worries me more about iOS 26 is the continuing trend of platforms being so ashamed of any visible UI that they feel the need to hide it. More ‘…’ menus everywhere, some of them only appearing after certain scroll gestures, which means tools that used to be ever-present and immediately tappable now require three gestures to activate. This desire to squash every UI down into one barely visible drop of glass isn’t ridiculous because of the glass, it’s ridiculous because UI is important. These devices have big screens and tons of pixels (not to mention hardware buttons) but somehow we only have room for the main content pane in any app.

The only wow feeling I get is the refraction effect. Like, it’s a ”novel” effect in GUIs. But when elements are still it looks the same as regular glassomorphism which we already had years ago. Buttons look totally different depending on what’s underneath, and in 90% of cases it’s messy and blurs together. The wow feeling will fade quickly, but the clutter will remain… The only thing I like is that it makes layering a bit clearer (groupings, buttons vs indicators) compared to ultra-flat design of the last years. But that could have been achieved with subtle 3d/parallax effects, eg based on gyro. My theory is that Apple specifically wanted an effect that can’t be replicated in webviews, to drive more devs towards native, out of FOMO for looking ”cheap”.

Virtually everyone in Aster’s COVID Western is a victim to one extent or another, even if some of them have a lot more blood on their hands by the end of it than others; there’s no need for false equivalencies in a film whose characters are all powerless to disentangle the internet from the fabric of their personal lives.

He’s trying to make peace with the fact that his QAnon-susceptible wife Louise (Emma Stone) would rather watch numerology videos on YouTube than acknowledge her husband’s existence, but Eddington’s mask-happy mayor Ted — a handsome tech entrepreneur (Pedro Pascal) who secretly intends to host a massive artificial intelligence datacenter on the outskirts of Eddington after he wins re-election — is in thrall to the state’s liberal governor, and his political career hinges on enforcing their various COVID mandates.

That doesn’t sit well with the asthmatic Joe, who doesn’t consider the coronavirus to be a “here” problem, in much the same way as he later tries to wave off the idea that Eddington is a microcosm of the structural racism and class inequalities that people begin to protest on Main St. after police execute a man in St. Louis. Everyone in his jurisdiction is getting their news from a different source, and tensions are spilling into the supermarket aisles as people struggle to find a common harmony amid the noise of their competing echo chambers

The more that Aster’s latest freakout begins to resemble an apocalyptic kumbaya about the need for non-partisan communication, the more gleefully he obliterates any hope of restoring a shared reality between his characters

Aster’s fourth feature is less effective as a shock to the system than it is for how vividly — and how uncomfortably — it captures the day-to-day extent to which our digital future has stripped people of their ability to self-identify their own truths.