title: Death of a Craftsman
This is a transcript of a talk I did at KanDDDinsky 2019 in Berlin.
Hi! My name is Einar. I design and write software for a living, presumably like you. You could call me a software developer, a coder, a programmer, and also a software designer, I guess. Those are all things I do and labels that I’m comfortable with. I am not, however, a software craftsman. This blog post is about why.
I must say that this is a very difficult topic to write about. It’s difficult because I don’t want to insult or belittle other people and their beliefs, and I’m sure that some of you identify as – and even take pride in your identity as – a software craftsman. So to clarify, this is not “death to all craftsmen”, “craftsmen are bad”, “craftsmen are stupid” or anything like that. In fact – and this is super super important – if you think of yourself as a craftsman or a crafter, and this gives you energy and inspires you, if it gives you the drive to improve and do better, that’s great. Never mind me! I’m just one guy! This blog post is just about why I don’t think of myself as a software craftsman. That’s all. Granted I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t think that some of the things I’m going to bring up might resonate with some of you, or at least trigger some reflection. But we’ll see.
Why the dramatic title though? The title is a pun on the title of a stage play by Arthur Miller, called Death of a Salesman. The play deals with identity crisis and the relationship between dreams and reality. So it seemed a fitting title for a story about my own identity crisis.
Before we get to that though, I also want to acknowledge all the great work done by many people who do identify as software craftsmen or software crafters. There are lots of conferences and unconferences and meetups and what have you where people learn from and inspire each other. That’s great. I don’t want to diminish that in any way. What’s more, we agree on a lot of things about software development. We follow many of the same practices.
And yet I’m not a software craftsman.
I should explain why I use the label “software craftsman” here, rather than “software crafter”. I’m very aware that the label “craftsman” is problematic and unfortunate in an industry that has real diversity issues. I share that awareness with hopefully a growing part of the software development community. Moreover, in the subset of that community that forms the craft community, there are people who are working hard to replace the notion of craftsman with crafter and similarly craftsmanship with craft. I think that’s great and very commendable.
Those people, if they read this blog post, might feel that my critique is a bit unfair, or that at least some of the issues I’m going to bring up are no longer relevant. But I’m not so sure. Change takes time and craftsmanship is a concept with a lot of mindshare. For a litmus test, consider this: do you think there are more software developers out there today that identity as software crafters or as software craftsmen? There are multiple books – very, very popular books – on software craftsmanship, none on software craft that I’ve found. That is the status as of this writing.
So I’m going to use the old craftsman term here. It feels better to aim the critique at the death star, as it were, than at the nascent community trying to do better. Also, my identity crisis really was with the original craftsman concept, not with crafting, which came later. Though I will say that I have problems with the metaphor of craft itself that cause me to reject the identity as crafter as well, and I’m going to touch on some of those too.
So. I am not a software craftsman. The obvious question is “why not?”.
After all, I used to be. I used to think of myself as a software craftsman, until maybe, what, five years ago? It’s hard to tell, time goes fast.
In fact, let’s rewind time quite a bit, much more than five years. Back in 2002, I was fresh out of the university with my Master’s degree in Computer Science and got my first job as a programmer. And I was delighted to learn of all kinds of interesting stuff concerning software development that wasn’t taught at the university! Agile obviously was the hot new thing that everyone was talking about. I remember attending a conference around 2003 and Kent Beck was there, Robert C. Martin, Ward Cunningham, Rebecca Wirfs-Brock, even Eric Evans. I worked hard and read a lot of books and blogs as well. It was exciting times. I was looking to prove myself, I guess, trying to find out who I was as a programmer and software developer. And I wanted to be good.
Then I heard about craftsmanship and it just clicked. I had found my identity. I’m guessing I first read about it in the book The Pragmatic Programmer. I remember the title page with a woodworker’s tool on it, and the subtitle “from journeyman to master”. It resonated. That was me. I wanted to master programming. You might say I tried on the craftsman’s cloak, and my god, it fit me! It looked good on me! I was a “journeyman” on my way to mastery. And of course I also liked this idea that craftsmanship seemed to solve the age-old dilemma: is programming art or engineering? It was neither and both: it was a craft! I could be half engineer, half artist, and sort of make up the mix myself as I went along. Of course, what exactly that meant was a bit unclear, but it felt good.
Over time, I gained much experience with software development in practice, and the forces that influence it. I learned a lot about myself and about others. I learned about my capabilities and limitations, my strengths and weaknesses. I learned that my brain and my ability to understand complex code is finite, for instance. Not only that, it’s shrinking! I also learned that my self-discipline and my rationality are pretty fixed entities. I’m disciplined most of the time, rational most of the time, but not always. But that was OK, I could live with being human and a craftsman, even though I started to realize that I might not actually be able to level up indefinitely. But there was a bigger problem. I was starting to feel that there were vitally important things influencing the success and failure of the software I worked on that had nothing to do with craftsmanship. There were both things out of my control, and things that I could potentially influence, but that craftsmanship said nothing about.
Eventually this led to an identity crisis. The cloak of craftsmanship was starting to itch and no longer felt right. It no longer fit me. It felt quaint and awkward. So finally, I had to take it off. But of course, this left me with a dilemma. If I’m not a craftsman, who or what am I then?
I was back where I started. I once again faced the problem that I wanted to be a good developer. But what does that mean? What is a good developer?
And that’s an important question to answer, because it enables you to answer the even more important question: am I a good developer? Because this has to do with sense of worth. Am I valuable? Am I a good egg? We all want to be good eggs.
And that was the original lure of software craftsmanship for me – it provided simple and clear answers to these questions.
But what exactly were those answers? What is software craftsmanship?
According to Robert C. Martin, an authority on software craftsmanship if ever there was one, software craftsmanship is a meme that contains values, disciplines, techniques, attitudes and answers. And I wholeheartedly agree with that. It’s an idea that has proven very successful in spreading from brain to brain among software developers.
Moreover, software craftsmanship is an identity. It is an identity because it offers a narrative about what matters in software development and hence a way to distinguish yourself.
It is a narrative that talks about pride and professionalism. You’ll find that craftsmanship and professionalism is used more or less as synonyms in the literature. In fact, you can get the impression that craftsmanship is just a slightly kitschy word for professionalism. And this is actually quite sneaky and one of the things I don’t like so much. Because when you start to use those terms interchangeably, then suddenly you can’t be professional unless you’re a craftsman. And that’s problematic.
So let’s dig into the narrative a bit deeper. The way I hear it, the craftsman’s tale is a slightly medievally themed story of heroes and adversaries.
Let’s start with the hero. Who is the hero of software development in the craftsmanship narrative? That’s easy. It’s the programmer of course! The programmer is the main character in this adventure. The picture I have in my head is of Geralt of Rivia – The Witcher himself. The hero of software development is the pragmatic good software craftsman, who relies on his skill and training and his own good judgment to do good in the world. He answers to no-one but himself. He is armed with the twin swords of TDD and SOLID, drilled through countless katas. He’s a trained coding machine!
Being a good developer in the craftsmanship narrative means seeking mastery of the craft, technical excellence, flawless execution. There’s an underlying belief that discipline and virtue can fix software. If I’m just disciplined enough, I will do well. I just need to follow the best practices diligently. There may not be a silver bullet but there is a silver sword, and I can slay the monster of software development!
So it all comes down to me. Me and my skills. If I’m high level enough, the software will be great. And in some ways, that’s a very optimistic tale, because it means it is within my power to determine the outcome. It’s empowering.
Of course if that’s the case, then it also goes the other way around. If the software is broken, I simply wasn’t good enough. My coding skills weren’t up to the task, or I wasn’t disciplined enough in my practices, or I wasn’t professional enough in my communication. Human, all too human!
And this is where the cloak really starts to itch for me. I think this is just wrong. And since it’s wrong, it’s also dangerous. Because now you have a narrative of software development that sells you a false promise and sets you up to feel bad about yourself. Gerry Weinberg warned us about this 50 years ago, in The Psychology of Computer Programming, when he talked about egoless programming.
But why is it wrong? Isn’t it just the harsh, cold truth that if I fail, I’m not good enough? Shouldn’t I just face reality, accept the challenge, buckle down and work harder? Be better? Get good?
Let’s consider another question. Who makes software?
That’s a trick question, right? We all know who makes software, right? This is like asking who the hero of software development is again! It’s us, the programmers, we sit at the keyboard, we type the code, we test it, we ship it to production, it’s us? Surely it’s us! No one else can make software!
At this point, I would like you to form an image of a bubble in your head. A beautiful soap bubble, as multi-chrome as Saruman’s cloak in the Lord of the Rings, a perfect sphere floating in the air.
The bubble you just conjured up in your head is the craftsman’s model of software development. Coding happens inside the bubble. This is where software is created. You have a border of professionalism to protect against the outside, and you have passion on the inside. It’s very inward-facing. The problem is that the border isn’t going to hold. It’s super-weak. The bubble is going to burst and there is nothing you can do, great hero! No amount of skills or professionalism is going to change that. Because the outside forces you’re dealing with are much stronger than you are.
Those forces are organizational forces, and the reason they matter so much is that programmers don’t make software. We may think we do, we might wish we did, but we don’t. Organizations make software. Conway’s Law is one expression of this. Despite your values and disciplines and practices, the health of the organization will be an upper bound on the health of your code. Communication patterns, weak concepts, ambiguity, conflicts, conflict avoidance, all that is going to affect your code. It seeps in and you can’t stop it. You have no practices that help against that influence. None of your weapons work. Moreover, your code or your team’s code doesn’t live in isolation. Most modern software talks to other software, made by other teams and organizations. Therefore, to make good software, you need to direct your attention outward and work on the conditions for making software. You need to address the organizational forces head-on, build culture and understanding, spread your ideas of what healthy software development looks like. You might still fail because there are many things beyond your control, but at least you’ve entered the playing field.
With this realization, a seemingly simple question is suddenly difficult. If organizations rather than programmers make software, what is the craft of making software? Is it coding? Deploying software? That doesn’t sound right anymore. Rather: isn’t it about using your skill, knowledge and influence to shape software that somehow benefits your organization? And you can do that without writing code, can’t you?
Now everything is in flux! It all falls apart! Who performs the craft? What is the craft anyway? Who can be a software crafter? Who is the hero? Isn’t it true that any work that affects the finished product must be considered part of the craft of making software? How is coding special?
There’s an interesting dynamic when we program, when we write code, between our intent and the reality of the code and ultimately the machine. The code offers resistance to being formed, so we try different strategies, making tradeoffs. And that’s part of why the craft metaphor is so compelling to us. But! That’s not the only malleable material involved in making software. Consider user experience work or visual design – there is the same dynamic of forming and resistance. The organization itself can be changed, again with the same dynamic, as well as the business it engages in and the products it makes. What this means is that if there is craft involved in software development, there is a multiplicity of crafts. It’s not just the craft performed by coders. So how come we are the craftsmen?
The craftman narrative fails to see this because it is caught up in a fetish about code. Like the code is the only thing that matters and everything else is noise and waste and irrationality. Software craftsmen are fond of saying things like “The code is the truth!”. (You have to say that in like a deep masculine voice, regardless of your gender or pitch of voice.) But there is no truth about anything interesting in the code! Apart from tautology, that is. The code can only tell “the truth” about what the code does – or will do, if you compile and run it. For instance, it can’t tell you what it should have done, how to make users happy, how to provide value to someone, how to earn money. It can’t even tell you if it’s in production!
We know that software is organic, it’s alive and changing, but the code at any given time doesn’t point in any particular direction. It has no idea of what’s going to happen next. The code doesn’t want anything. It’s not strategic. It doesn’t have plans. It doesn’t know how to improve itself. There’s no reflection except the bad kind. It doesn’t know how to make priorities. But these are super-important things to talk about.
The idea that “the truth is in the code” is a passive-aggressive power trick as well. Because only we, the coders, can read the code. So if the code is the truth, then we are keepers of the truth, aren’t we? Not those other people. They might hold other kinds of power and prestige but they don’t wield the truth! So the question becomes: do we really want to communicate? Or do we prefer to hold on to this monopoly of truth as leverage to exert our will over others?
Another problem is what I call the RPG model of skill acquisition. An RPG is a role-playing game. In your typical RPG you find yourself in a medieval setting, just like a software craftsman, and your character has a level. You start at level 1 and then you kill some rats to gain experience because you don’t have many hit points yet, and eventually you reach level 2 and maybe you kill some bigger rats and you get to level 3 and you can kill, I don’t know, undead rats or something.
And you have the same thing in the craft narrative. There’s a linear notion of leveling up, step-wise, as you gain experience. It’s a model taken from medieval guilds. There’s a book by Pete Breen that discusses it in detail, and you’ll also find it referenced lots of other places. Recall that the subtitle of first edition of The Pragmatic Programmer was “from journeyman to master”. I think they changed it for the new edition, now it says “your journey to mastery”, which sort of tones it down a notch.
It’s very simple. You start out as an apprentice. Then at some ill-defined point you progress to journeyman and I think this is basically where every craftsman I’ve ever met puts themselves, because they’re too modest to claim to be a master and too experienced to be a mere apprentice. But of course the implied goal is to become a master, whatever that entails in software development. In a sense it’s a pretty sentimental and naive model. But it’s not entirely harmless. A side-effect of this model is that it establishes a hierarchy of practitioners. It ranks us.
Now since many craftsmen are helpful and want to share their knowledge, some people form mentorships or apprenticeships. That’s great, it’s great that people want to help others “level up” as it were. But there’s something here that’s strange to me, in that the relationship has such a clear direction. Knowledge flows from the mentor to the mentee. Of course mentors will say that they also learn from that process, that teaching clarifies their understanding or something, but it’s still directional. There is an ordering in the relationship.
Contrast that with a camerata of peers, to use Jessica Kerr’s term. The relationships I’ve learned the most from have always been bi-directional, between people with mutual respect and complementary skills. That enables a group dynamic that lifts everyone up. You can take turns inspiring each other and taking things to the next level.
Finally there’s the monopoly on virtue. It’s this thing where being a craftsman is the same as, or a prerequisite of, being professional. You see, in the craftsman’s tale, there are three kinds of programmers.
There are the unwashed masses, programmers who don’t care, who have no passion for programming – lazy, undisciplined filth! Apparently there are many of these. (I personally haven’t met too many of them, I must have been lucky.) But these are bad, obviously. Luckily if you merely attend a talk on craftsmanship or buy and perhaps even read a book on craftsmanship, you’re not one of them! Because then you’re a software craftsman. These are good, by definition. You could be an apprentice, could be a journeyman, could be a master, doesn’t matter, you’re on the virtuous path!
And all would be pretty much well if that were all there was to it. A simple, unproblemtic story. But then there is the third category: the ivory tower zealots! These are terrible! They have passion but they use it all wrong! They have principles but they are wrong! They could be into category theory instead of SOLID! Unrealistic! Unpragmatic! Proofs! Maths! Maybe they write comments or even specifications!
For these terrible sins, they must be banished from the real world! It is inconceivable that the ivory tower zealots inhabit the same world as the software craftsmen. Why? Because they’re a direct challenge to authority. They represent a threat to the monopoly on virtue. Both can’t be right, both can’t wield the truth about what matters in software development, and so the zealots have to go. It turns out that craftsmanship is really surprisingly conservative! Software craftsmen are a rare breed of dogmatic pragmatists.
As an example, let’s take a topic that presumably all programmers care about, which is software correctness.
One practice that is always mentioned by craftsmen is test-driven development, TDD. Of course, it’s hailed as something much more than just a testing technique. It’s also a design technique, and the by-product of that technique is a comprehensive test suite. Since TDD is example-driven, the test suite is an instance of example-based testing. This helps ensure software correctness and offers some protection against regression in the face of changes. So that’s fine. Many people, self-proclaimed craftsmen or not, find TDD to be a valuable practice – both for the design aspect and for the effect on software correctness. What’s weird is that software craftsmen seem generally uninterested in other approaches.
Because there are other approaches to ensure software correctness. One example is property-based testing, where you verify properties that will hold for all inputs to your code. That’s a powerful design technique as well, as it guides you to think of your code in terms of properties and invariants, not just examples. There are advanced static type systems aiming to make software correct by construction, by disallowing illegal states in the software. There are formal methods, mathematically based techniques for the specification and verification of software. But craftsmen seem completely uninterested in all of these, brushing them off as “academic” or “impractical” – the sort of stuff that ivory tower zealots meddle with instead of solving real problems.
For instance, I haven’t heard of a single craftsman with any interest in a tool like TLA+. TLA+ a language for modelling concurrent and distributed systems, developed by Turing-award winner Leslie Lamport. Is it an ivory tower language? Is it for academics? Microsoft has used to find bugs in the Xbox and Azure. Amazon has used it to verify AWS. That’s pretty real world. Is it overkill for your application? Perhaps, I don’t know, it depends on your context. Wouldn’t you want to find out? Most applications these days are concurrent and distributed in some way. (If you do want to find out, you should check out one of Hillel Wayne’s talks.)
The conservatism of craftsmanship is baked into that three-step ladder of skill. The master already has all the knowledge written on a scroll and just needs to pass it on to eager students of the true way. It’s not terribly progressive. Progressive learning requires you to look for counter-examples to your current beliefs rather than confirmation. Radical improvement to the way we do software must challenge and overturn best practices, and is likely to come from outside our bubble.
So I wonder: Do craftsmen question their beliefs? Do craftsmen welcome differences of opinion? (Do craftsmen like this blog post?) I don’t know, but I think disagreement is good! We need disagreement! Disagreement has energy! We should seek out tension and dissonance, because that’s where we might learn something.
Speaking of dissonance: let’s backtrack a bit. If the programmer is the hero in the craftsman’s tale about software, who are the adversaries? Apart from the ivory tower people, that is.
The business. The suits. The accursed clueless managers. People who have never coded in their life!
People who are also part of your organization. People who have an interest in the software we help make. Sometimes they’re called stakeholders, because they have a stake in the software. Just like us, in a sense.
Software craftsmen speak a lot about respect. But it seems pretty one-sided from what I can tell. It’s mostly about programmers respecting themselves, or demanding respect from others. Which is fine and good and important. But it’s not so great when it’s not balanced with an equal respect for others. Have you seen and heard how craftsmen speak about non-programmers? It’s not pretty. And it’s not just embarrassing and undignified, but actively harmful to software development.
For one, it’s not a very good way of forming productive partnerships. Instead it deepens the divide between the so-called “business” and the craftsman. It’s a bit of medieval kitch imagery again. The business people, the suits, can visit the craftsman’s shoppe, where everything is neat and tidy, a stronghold of sanity in a crazy, irrational world. There “the business” can order hand-crafted artisan software of the highest quality, and maybe there’s some negotiation and the craftsman can offer alternatives at various costs, according to need. So it’s a client-supplier kind of relationship. Communication is negotiation.
But the problem is that there is no “business”. Or rather we, developers, are the business, just as much as anyone else. There are no separate “business people”! There are other people doing things besides programming in the same business. We’re all in this together. We have the same goals. If not there are going to be problems! Software development should be a cross functional team effort to achieve a business goal. Communication should be about collaboration.
So in this environment, how can we be valuable? How can we be good eggs?
I would like to see more programmers looking beyond the craftsmanship narrative, beyond technical skill, beyond code, to be valuable. In my work, I try to bring value by doing domain modelling, because I believe that poor modelling and weak, ambiguous language is the primary cause of accumulating complexity and technical debt. (Indeed, I like to say that technical debt isn’t technical.) I also work on storytelling and culture, by which I mean I try to shape the story of how we do software development and help grow a healthy and safe culture to work in. I believe mob programming, where the mob includes so-called non-technical people, can help us move away from the programmer-as-hero myth. In particular I have high hopes for what I call “Conway’s Mob” as a self-empowering juggernaut to overcome organizational silos and work across existing team and system boundaries. I would like to see us programmers engage in organizational refactoring, trying to influence how we are organized to provide better solutions to the right problems. We should do more strategic architecture work, working iteratively to improve the architecture to support evolving business needs. Of course, that requires that we know what those evolving business needs are, so we need to learn about that. There are so many valuable skills for a software developer besides writing code.
Which brings us back to where we started. What is a good developer? What is my identity? Am I a good egg?
What identities are there for those of us who are not software craftsmen? I for one want to see more heresy in software development, so I would welcome more software infidels! I want us to fear orthodoxy. Is there such a thing as a software jester? Someone who can turn things upside down and make jokes at the king’s expense yet get away with it? I wouldn’t even mind meeting an actual, genuine software engineer! Not the ill-advised 1990-style kind perhaps, but someone who actually made meaningful measurements to understand the dynamics of a running distributed software system, say, and ran experiments and made strategic decisions based on those experiments. That sounds valuable to me. Or even a proper software artist, whatever that might be.
I would like to end this long blog post with a book recommendation. There’s a great story by Italo Calvino called “The non-existent knight“. It was written in 1959, but it’s clearly about software development. The main character – the hero, as it were – is Sir Agilulf Emo Bertrandin of the Guildivern. (I’m not making it up, his name really is Agilulf. Of the Guildivern.) He is the perfect knight in white armor. He carries out all the duties and routines of a knight with the utmost discipline and precision and keeps everything shining and clean. He berates his fellow knights for all their sloppiness and shortcomings. The only problem with Sir Agilulf is that he doesn’t exist. There’s no body inside the armor. When he takes off his armor, he simply disappears.
We should not let ourselves disappear.