So, we all know about contempt culture nowadays, the effect that we’re building status on top of displays of contempt and showing that we’re holders of the ”right” knowledge.
But this has some unfortunate side effects that result, that I’ve been starting to notice.
Contempt culture doesn’t just encourage us to shame, dismiss and behave contemptuously towards outsiders, it also encourages us to shame and dismiss each other within the community.
You may have seen this effect with “You didn’t know that?!” style responses to people’s ignorance or questions. This style of response is suppressive, and encourages people who don’t know what’s being talked about to stay quiet, to not ask, to withdraw. It’s a shaming act, a demonstration that you don’t belong because you didn’t know.
But, when this is done, we’re binding the status of belonging to the group to how few questions we ask. Asking is an opportunity for mockery, for responding in (possibly mock) shock regarding your ignorance.
How could you be here without knowing that, after all?
Because belonging is part of how few questions we ask and positioning ourselves as knowing things even if we don’t, newcomers to our communities don’t see a community of people who seek knowledge and admit their ignorance.
Instead, they see a community of people who profess expertise and, through contempt culture, are positioning their biases and contempts as the result of that expertise.
Because newcomers don’t see people asking questions, and are shamed for asking questions by those questions being seen as a challenge to their right to belong, they are trained to behave in the same way.
This is one of the causes of impostor syndrome. People caught in this coupling of ignorance as status will never feel, internally, like they belong. They will always be caught in needing to show that they know everything but afraid of asking, of being caught out as a fraud, of the challenging, harm-filled “You didn’t know that?!”
This is the feeling of being an unwelcome impostor.
This makes our communities quite hostile and difficult to participate in, because we spend our time afraid and uncertain instead of open and participatory. We perform contempt culture, reinforce that we all hold the right knowledge, and questions that imply we don’t know things are shut down as fast as possible.
Solving this isn’t an easy process.
As a community, it requires calling out behaviour where people are behaving as though you must have known something.
It requires luminaries in the communities always being vulnerable, and continually admitting that they don’t know things, don’t know why. It requires that everyone dismantle contempt culture by asking ”why?”. Why did they use that technology? Why did they make those choices? What are the surrounding requirements that informed these decisions? There are always reasons why things are done the way they are, and until we understand it we cannot usefully comment on the why.
It requires tools like a Code of Conduct, such that participants have can request help when they are excluded in non-public spaces, tools which describe the standards of behaviour and insist upon their adherence.
More than anything else, it requires caring about being explicitly welcoming to everyone, and interrogating your culture and truly, painfully asking why it isn’t.
These questions are hard, but they’re necessary.
Tech culture idolises the idea of the meritocracy, the mythical organisational strategy where those of skill and capability rise to the top, and lead ”naturally”. Of course, being tech this means that those of great technical knowledge and coding skill are the most meritorious, deserving of our recognition and adulation.
But, meritocracy is just an unacknowledged bias. When you say “good at coding”, what you mean is that they have your background, value your values, prioritise like you prioritise. They have your ability to share on GitHub, your spare time to contribute, and make decisions that look like your decisions.
Unacknowledged bias looks like “The best devs spend their holidays coding”.
This bias devalues the idea of other perspectives being meritorious. It insists that other views can never be good enough.
How could they? They don’t fit what you know “good enough” looks like, so you don’t have to think, or question, or challenge.
You know, so you can remain ignorant, deny that questions need to be answered, let alone exist.
This bias means that people who can’t act like you can never be meritorious. How could they? They’re not spending their holidays coding like those with merit, they have other responsibilities and commitments.
Thinking of the meritocracy in this way isn’t the normal way of considering it, as when we challenge what the underlying values are, what the implications and ramifications are, we are showing ignorance.
As we know, contempt culture bases itself on displays of contempt and reinforcing pre-existing group knowledge, and according status on adherence to that demonstration.
This has some side effects, like the bitter knife of impostor syndrome. Asking for knowledge or help is the domain of the lesser, those who are not elite. It works such that impostor syndrome is a natural result, as those who are able to answer questions so quickly are looked up to, lauded as the luminaries in the communities. This reinforces that because we don’t know, we aren’t looked up to, that we don’t belong here like they do.
They are the wizards, and we are not.
When we feel like we’re incompetent or don’t belong for asking questions, we don’t (can’t, even!) challenge the ideas within the culture. Asking what the side-effects of the meritocracy are just. isn’t. done.
This attitude acts to suppress introspection and questions.
We are prevented from asking questions through the fear our culture instills of our own ignorance, through the backlash that arises when our culture is questioned. Instead, questions to the status quo cannot be heard, or even permitted to exist.
This attitude gets reinforced every day by tech culture. Hacker News suppresses social discussions and conversations where perspectives other than the ones we already have can be examined.
This is an ideology of contempt culture, of confidence being status, that we know enough about social issues already, we know enough about the impact of our actions already.
It is an attitude of continually reinforced ignorance that rewards participants for their complicity.
We’re rewarded for our complicity with a sense of belonging. As we know, this is how social norms and mores propagate at all, how we teach children what’s acceptable in society, how we tell each other what we should and shouldn’t do.
In tech culture, belonging is coupled to the rejection of introspection and questioning why we do what we do in the way we do it. When we behave this way, people offer us their support either through their silence and their overt support.
We get to belong, to feel the wonderful endorphin rush of being included.
We push it further because if we don’t then we’ll be seen for the fraud we are, as impostor syndrome whispers such believable lies in our ears.
A lot of why I initially participated in contempt culture was driven by wanting to belong. Like so many, I was bullied in school and didn’t have a supportive home life, resulting in my withdrawal into computers.
I belonged, there. Videogames never questioned whether I got to play too, they just ran, and I got to play. They never made fun of me for my body, or who I was or wasn’t. I was never judged.
Contempt culture was how I belonged to those communities early in my tech career. Showing that I knew the right things, to show that I was the Right Sort of person, not one of those horrible “lusers”.
That I hadn’t belonged or fit in for so long meant that now that I finally did it meant so much to me and I was so thrilled that I would have done anything to keep feeling it, to keep it being true.
Asking me to have considered the consequences of my actions, if my behaviour made others feel like they weren’t welcome?
I would have felt like you weren’t just questioning my actions, that you were questioning my very ability to belong, because this is how I showed that I belong.
So, I parroted the lines. I said that you should be coding more, immersed in your work. I refused to consider the consequences of how that would exclude people, because I couldn’t focus beyond my own fear of exclusion.
I could not allow myself to accept the consequences.
It was all I knew. It is all we know.
I say that the meritocracy doesn’t exist, because it is a parroting of a culture that surrounds us with ideas that tell us that we are permitted to belong, because we fit the right pattern.
We don’t look at the consequences, because looking at them challenges that we deserve to belong at all, challenges our own ability to think of ourselves as good people.
It does not and cannot allow itself to be challenged, because it challenges our own self-worth, our own belonging.
It does not and cannot exist, because we use it to mean like me. Like me, which means nothing except is like me, not capability or intelligence or skill, just that someone does or does not have a history that looks like mine does.
No merit involved.
I experienced this, when I started to question my own ideas around the meritocracy and what being “good” meant. I remembered so many things I’d done, things that I cannot ever undo, or even apologise for, that now I am horrified to have done.
Where was the merit in my shouting out into a meetup to “get a real language”? I was pushing that those of skill and competence should ignore this person, this company, this technology.
In tech culture, be it on mailing lists, IRC, on everything else, my behaviour back then is the meritocracy of now. It is shouting into the dark that I know better, and that you do not belong,
you never will,
because you lack merit.
So after my recent(-ish)((6 months is recent, right?)) “publication of Fly, A Collection”, I wanted to talk about the process of making a book of photography.
Fly is my third work, following Linear A and Distinctly Coromandel. All three went through different publication routes, but contain a lot of similarities that are worth discussing.
So, how does one publish books of photography? Well, as much as others might say otherwise, it’s pretty straightforward.
My experience is entirely around self-publishing and developing my own publishing workflows, both by myself and with others.
The major blocker to publishing a work is the belief that you’re not allowed to, that you’re not good enough to do so, or that your work just isn’t worth showing off.
Your brain is lying to you.
Publishing a work is, in a lot of ways, a big deal. It’s not just judging your own work, but putting it out there in such a way that others will also judge it and hold it to their own critical eye. You’ll get feedback, and it won’t always be positive.
More than that, you’re overcoming your own sense of taste. Ira Glass said this brilliantly when discussing the creative process. The work you put together is something you will not be happy with. This is a huge barrier to get over, a hump that will give your brain ample opportunity to tell you that because your work doesn’t live up to your expectations, it won’t live up to other peoples’ either.
Again, your brain is lying to you. Yes, your work is going to disappoint you in some ways, but others will not see that disappointment. Instead, they will see the result of your hard work: the finished piece, complete to the best of your skills at the time, and something that maybe they’re not yet brave enough to make.
They’ll see achievement, not disappointment.
The current internet age has had some interesting side effects with regards to photography. On the one hand, photography is democratised to a point where we have amazing cameras in our pockets all the time. This is amazing, powerful, and a magical world where we can document so much, share so much, and build a collective view of our world in real time. I love it.
On the other hand, because we take so many photos and so many photos get uploaded so frequently our streams are often sequences of beautiful images that lack cohesion or continuity, and it becomes harder to think in terms of a collection of your work, your vision, and your taste.
“Here’s some pretty images I took” isn’t a theme. Like your stream, the lack of a contiguous theme will make the final product feel messy, and it will be a lot more difficult to find a point of completion.
Find a theme.
Your theme will something you want to present through your work. Linear A grew out of my interest in minimalist images, capturing the way lines work within photographic frames. Fly recaptured the magic of flight, to reclaim it from the misery of airports and long haul and rejoice in the majesty of our world seen from above. Distinctly captured the beauty of the Coromandel, and the ways that humans have irrevocably changed the land.
Themes aren’t always immediately obvious in your master collection. They may only be visible after you’ve dug through the images for a while, categorising and sorting and deciding what belongs where.
Once you’ve found your theme, you’ll probably discover that you don’t have enough pictures. Fortunately, this is a great excuse to go take more pictures, and may be the impetus you need to get out the door and start shooting stuff again.
This step is really, really hard.
For Fly, this step took 5 months, going from almost 2000 images to the 28 that made it into the book. This won’t be an overnight process, and you will need to often to refer to Step 1, believing that you both are good enough and that your taste is good enough to do this.
So you have a collection you’re not too unhappy with! Congratulations, you are further ahead than most get. You’ll feel like you need to keep refining it, trying to make it better, improve what you have.
Stop. It’s done.
Yes, you can keep polishing and keep improving, but there must be a point where you let it go and bask in the achievement of creation. Not releasing means you can’t take what you’ve learned and try again, as the current work remains “unfinished”.
Not only that, the “getting it ready to print” stage will take a lot more effort than you realise.
There’s two major ways of approaching this:
This will be a service like Blurb or Snapfish or a number of others. They offer tools and super easy integrations to make it really easy to make printed photos happen.
Lightroom integrates with Blurb, and they also have their own “make an book thing!” app, if you don’t use Lightroom, or want more control. This is great, because you can just drag and drop images into the layouts, push a button, and you’ll get a copy through the post a couple of days later.
It’s pretty magical.
The other ones are equally easy to work with, though lack the close Lightroom integration that Blurb offers.
Working with a local printer is considerably harder.
You’ll need to do a lot of the pre-press work yourself, handling layout with something like Indesign, and produce a file for the printer to work from. It’s not particularly more onerous, but it’s much less drag-and-drop easy than working with major publisher software toolchains.
Local printers usually also prefer to work at a larger scale than Blurb or others, requiring you to purchase more than a single book. Blurb is happy selling you individual books, and dealing with any fulfilment themselves.
The advantage is you get a lot more control over the print process, from paper selection to ensuring that your prints happen on a particular printer with particular inks.
For Linear A, I used Blurb to handle the printing, and I’m really happy with the quality of the books. For Distinctly, my co-author arranged the print with a print shop local to him. For Fly, I worked with a print shop directly to manage the print process, and we discussed paper weight, size, and other items.
Either way, now you have A Book! Your thing! You made it! You actually really made it! YOU MADE A THING. Twitter and Facebook that thing. It’s yours.
And then you’ll notice that all the colours are wrong. What. The printer screwed up your amazing work!
What you’ve just discovered is that your eyes are great big liars, computer screens are liars, and paper is what is this I don’t even.
Welcome to the miserable land of colour theory.
You’re probably already aware of white balance, if only passively. Some light bulbs look “warm”, right? And some look “cool” or “cold”. This is white balance in action, where the colour “white” isn’t actually ever white, it’s just perceptually white because your vision system is out to mess with you.
On top of this, what your computer screen is showing you is red isn’t actually red. Or green, or blue. Because our vision system is adaptive, we don’t notice that it’s not real red, it’s just red until we have a comparison, at which point we can see how red it isn’t.
On top of that, what colours a printer can represent are different from what colours a screen can represent. You’ll start to hear terms like “gamut” and “colour space”, describing what you can get onto the paper at all. Different printers and inks will have different capabilities, too!
Intense shades tend to get lost, being clipped back to dimmer, less saturated versions, and saturation as a whole tends to suffer. It’s harder to get deep contrasts.
On top of on top of that, your computer screen and the printer disagree on what colour that red even is.
Finally, remember how I mentioned that sometimes lights look cold and sometimes they look warm? Well, this means that depending on where you edited your photo, what time of day you edited your photo, and where you look at the print all matter when it comes to how it’s going to look when you hold it in your hand.
It’s possible to correct for all of this, to get what you see on the screen to match what you see on the paper. But, this is the section of 😡🖥😡. This is the point where you have to decide how much this bothers you and how close is close enough.
This is also the point where you’re totally allowed to go “Screw this, black and white it is.”
If you’ve decided to go down this road, you’re going to need some things:
The first one is the critical component of managing colour. This is a piece of physical hardware that you stick to your display, and it measures what your screen thinks “red” looks like, compared to what it thinks red should be. It uses this information to build a profile, which you apply to your screen while editing. This profile ensures that the image you’re looking at is represented as closely to the agreed-upon colour point as possible. This will usually happen at a white point of 6500K (Bluish, but not too bluish).
You may also need a better screen. Most computer LCDs use TN pixels, which generally only have 6 bits of colour information and use dithering effects to make it look closer to 8 bits. The side effect of this is that they’re harder to get accurate, and you’ll see banding as you edit that won’t be present in the final print. An ideal editing display will use IPS as the underlying pixel technology, and (at the upper end) may even offer wide gamut or 10-bit colour support.
For looking at the print, a reference light is necessary. This will be a bulb calibrated at the same white temperature as the screen, generally 6500K. I use a 6500K LED bulb in a standard desk lamp, which seems to work well enough.
So now you have a calibrated display. You can look at images and get a really good idea of how they’ll look when other people see them on their screens, and edit accordingly. It won’t be perfect, but it’s better than it was.
The next part you need is a profile for the printer you’ll be using. Blurb has their colour profiles listed on their site, as do most of the online publishers. If you’re working with a local print shop, you’ll need to ask them for the printer make and model and look up the ICC files, or ask if they have a more recent ICC file they’d like you to use for soft proofing.
These will come as ICC files, which you’ll use in Lightroom and Photoshop soft proofing systems. This will give you a good, albeit not perfect, idea of what the print is going to look like.
Lightroom and Photoshop have great tools for showing you what’s going to be out of range for the printer, and let you see how the contrast and tones are going to shift as a result of the printing process.
If the print shop you’re talking to doesn’t have ICC files, or doesn’t know what they’re for, find another print shop. If they haven’t recalibrated recently, find another print shop. If they offer to have you come in and look at the photos on their Photoshop machine, find another print shop.
Once you’ve re-edited your work, it’s time to find out how it actually looks on paper, so you need to order some prints. For Blurb and friends, this may be ordering a complete book. For a local printer, you’ll be able to ask them to run a couple of images off the same printer (… maybe …) for you to look at.
Bring them home. Look at the prints under the reference light. Compare them to your screen in a room lit only by the reference light.
Decide if this is, in fact, close enough. If it’s not, re-edit based on what you see, order more proofs, and try again.
The final thing you could do, depending on how much it bothers you, is to get a print colourimeter as well as a display colourimeter. This device is used to measure the colour on a piece of paper, from a reference light (usually inside the device itself).
For the ultimate in colour control, this device is necessary. I don’t have one, and I made the call that I don’t actually care that much about fully accurate colour, and I’m satisfied with “close enough”.
I went with black and white for Fly, mostly because I thought it was a better choice for the images, but also because managing the full colour process can be pretty obnoxious.
Black and white doesn’t change the contrast and loss of tonal range, though. You’ll still need to order proofs and edit against what you see.
For instance, I noticed that a lot of my images needed to be brightened considerably in order to not lose detail in the shadows, during print, images that had gone through soft proofing and I thought I’d corrected enough, but were still too dark.
And even then, your proofs might be done on a different printer.
You’ve proofed, or not, and now it’s time to get some books!
If you’re using Blurb or other online services that give you a free web store, you don’t need to order more than one for yourself, and maybe some to gift to friends and family.
If you decided to work with the printer yourself, now you’ll have possibly a box of books! It’s a really amazing feeling to open a box and see a pile of things that you made.
They’ll be slightly different, within the tolerance of how much you might care, from what you thought you’d get. Printing is hard! But you did it!
This is the part where the dream is easily crushed, and where you learn whether or not you want to do this because you love doing this.
Linear A has sold 17 copies since I released it, and Fly was a limited run of 30 copies, of which 19 sold, one was mine, and one went to the National Library.1
As Distinctly, was run as a PledgeMe campaign, it pre-sold 50 copies for backers to give us the means to make it at all. We have yet to sell any from after the campaign.
Making a book probably isn’t going to make money. It’s probably not going to launch a career as a photographer, especially in the modern world. With Blurb, your up-front outlay is nothing, so you won’t lose money, but will make very little. Depending on your choices, a Blurb book can cost north of USD$50 per book, before you see anything.
With private printing, you’ll be putting a decent amount of money up to do the print run at all. Distinctly needed NZD$1800 just to do the printing for 100 books, handle shipping fulfilment, and other rewards, with none of our time or effort being covered.
We did it for the love.
Fly cost a considerable amount up-front as well, and required multiple back-and-forth’s with the printer, multiple proof runs, and many tweaks to get a final book. In the end, I haven’t made money.
I did it for the love.
Linear A has so far made enough money to buy me a couple of pairs of socks. I’m not kidding, that’s all it’s made.
Again, I did it for the love.
At the end, you’ve done it. You’ve made a work, you’ve discovered more of what your taste looks like and means, what images you find meaningful and worth sharing. You have made something, a real physical artefact in the world that only you could make.
It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t simple. It wasn’t flawless, but nothing ever is.
But it is yours, and no one can ever take that from you.
It doesn’t matter that only a few people ever see it, it doesn’t matter that only your friends bought it. What matters is that you did it.
Congratulations. You’re awesome. Welcome to the club.
Now, let’s go do it again. 😄
Turns out that, in New Zealand, any book needs to be submitted to the National Library. So now I have work in the National Library. How cool is that?↩
So by now you’ve probably seen this graph bouncing around the tech conversation in the last couple of days. It’s interesting data science! It’s a great way to see the sorts of trends around how people program and how people are learning to program.
You may have also encountered this idea of contempt culture that I’ve spoken about earlier, where tech communities use on demonstrating contempt towards tools outside what’s “acceptable” in their group as a proxy for belonging to that group.
One of the biggest ways that’s manifested in my career has been a vicious contempt of PHP.
You should be able to see where I’m going with this. Contempt culture tells us to hate PHP, “everyone knows” that PHP is bad and that PHP programmers are bad, and now we have some data science that backs it all up!
I haven’t seen it directly, yet, but this sort of data science is exactly what participants in a contempt culture thrive on. It’s data. It demonstrates that people who write PHP really are worse or less intelligent but most definitely don’t belong, and we have every right to be contemptuous and cruel towards them.
The data supports it, after all.
There’s a wonderful saying that covers this beautifully:
Explanations exist; they have existed for all time; there is always a well-known solution to every human problem — neat, plausible, and wrong
So there’s a couple of things about people in tech that are relevant here, namely that we are blazingly incompetent at cause analysis and understanding the consequences of our actions.
Let me explain.
The one is the most bizarre to me. As a programmer, my entire job is doing cause analysis through debugging and finding out why things are failing, and asking very specific “why”’s as a service.
But using that same set of skills and abilities to examine the cultures around us is apparently so horrifying to even consider that it is rejected out of hand, even where we have an oral record of misery and despair, like dysfunctional employment environments.
We know these tools are powerful, because we use them every day. We know we can do amazing things, because we do amazing things every day, but we refuse to just use the tools.
The second one is the strongly held belief in tech that we don’t need to examine or consider the consequences of our actions. This is visible with an example that came out today, where Hacker News openly admits to censoring anything related to diversity.
In a culture where it’s already normal to not care what our technical choices will do to others, this provides reinforcement that we will never have to.
So the major question with that data that I have is why. Not “why are they asking on Stack Overflow”, or “why are they using PHP”, but ”why did they learn to code this way”.
That is the giant neon sign question that comes out of this data, the fiery inferno of something is very wrong here.
Well, let’s add some framings. One, tech culture is highly contemptuous of PHP, a state that traces itself back to Perl’s CGI/Web dominance and relevance being eroded, and the attendant contempt culture that reinforced. This has the effect that if one is trying to learn PHP, either to make their own website, or learn what they need to work with Wordpress, they are made to feel awful by anyone they discuss it with.
So, they’ll tend to puzzle it out on their own, working with some tutorial material they find online.
“Ah-hah!” I imagine you saying, preparing to stop and tell me that the tutorials are awful and that these new programmers should know better.
And I have one response.
These people are making a rational choice to learn to work with, to take one example, Wordpress, which is one of the biggest projects around. There’s a huge market for making themes and providing plugins for Wordpress, why would I not want to be a part of that?
But we’re not considering the consequences of our actions. We act like contemptuous jerks, they wisely disengage, and then we use that disengagement and attendant insecure practises to reinforce our own contempt.
We don’t consider why people do what they do, and take into account all the inputs, and I say that because this has been happening to PHP users since the 90s.
We, technologists, programmers, all of us, through the adherence and perpetuation of contempt culture, drove early PHP programmers out by making them feel bad. So they built their own communities, and wrote tutorials, and learned on their own. Those cultural artefacts are still around, and we can see their effect in the data in front of us.
People don’t want to learn from us because they don’t want to be around us, and we mock them when they ask us for help. To this day.
This data is a wake-up call. It’s a canary that tells us that our culture is poisonous, that we are not teaching people how to act securely, that we are pushing people outside our ability to help.
We are not making a better world. We are refusing to look at the consequences of our actions.
When we try to say we’re nice now, that we’re approachable and won’t bite is hollow and meaningless, because we’ve spent a lifetime being proactive with our contempt and hostility.
Which means we have to be proactive to fix it. We have to care and reach out, we have to do the work, because ultimately we’re responsible for the situation we’re in.
Our culture is to blame, our culture of me, of you, of everyone who’s ever bashed PHP or its users.
But pointing fingers doesn’t help, we just get into another cycle of demonstrative contempt where I can assert that I am better than you because I didn’t do it as much.
It also doesn’t make the code secure, or help that they made these mistakes.
So how do we become proactive? How do we actually help?
Programming, tech as a whole, is a service entity. We exist to support and enable. You have knowledge on how this is harmful, and they don’t. You can help fix it, but not by being an ass about it.
So there’s a three step process to doing something constructive.
You’re not here to show your superior knowledge or to shame people for not knowing what you know. You’re here to help others learn and grow, to show them that they’re not bad for not knowing, but that it can be harmful.
That there can be consequences.
So do the work. Reach out. Help your friends, acquaintances, neighbours. We can make the world better.
We can be better than what we are.
We just have to try.
Hey cool people!
Back in late July, I was honoured to get to speak at WDCNZ here in Wellington, and my talk was on the culture of technology and how contempt culture damages our communities and creates hostile and unpleasant environments.
I think it’s a great talk, and I’m honoured to be able to share the video with you today, right here, right now
As a business aurynn, I keep finding out about conferences far too late to either submit to them or even attend.
Case in point: NDC in Sydney next week (Aug 1-5) that I found out about on Jul 28.
This. Keeps. Happening.
and it is frustrating.
I have not yet found a single point where I can go to discover AU/NZ tech conferences that are upcoming, or have open CFPs, or have opened ticket sales. I have yet to find anything that regularly issues reminders of conferences I may wish to be interested in.
There are a couple of data sources (Lanyrd, for instance) that cover the some of the necessary data, but as they are diverse data sources I don’t often think to go digging.
Even when something crosses my radar, it doesn’t stick the first time, and I will often forget about it.
A potential solution for this is a curated, human-run website which offers a data feed describing upcoming conferences, conferences with open CFPs, and conferences that have been announced.
There would be no automation around conferences being published to the blog or the mailing list.
The mailing list would be managed via a tool similar to MailChimp.
A human would vet each conference for suitability by the (at least) following criteria:
A post including:
This post would happen at most once a week.
A post including
This post would happen at most once a month.
This places the mailing list or RSS feed at no more than 5-6 posts per month.
In each section above(New, CFP, ticket sales), a post should only have
to ensure that conference details are all fully up-to-date.
Assuming this hits a point where it needs to have itself paid for (IE it turns into a job and not just an aurynn-is-annoyed-at-the-things), monetisation should happen via a mechanism like The Deck:
We offer up to 4 sponsorships on the mailing list. Each one gets its own weekly post per month dedicated to their conference. This may be included in the normal weekly posting, or, a dedicated post for that conference. (TBD). In the event of an inclusion in the normal weekly, a paragraph dedicated to that conference would be made available.
All paid sponsorships would be included in the monthly post.
Monetisation WOULD NOT be pushed on any conference. It would be a mechanism to provide additional support, not as a means to badger conferences for money in exchange for greater publicity.
Does this sort of data-source/site sound like it’ll be useful? It seems to cover my needs and cover the sorts of conferences I want to attend, as well as excluding conferences which reinforce contempt culture (anti-CoC, for instance).
It also provides a mechanism for regular reminders of conferences, to ensure that they don’t fall off my radar.
So, give me your thoughts and opinions! With, of course, the following caveats:
So I had a meeting the other day, where a really interesting term came up, that of “temporal teams”.
In the context of the conversation, we were discussing teams that come together to achieve some goal, but disband after the project is completed. It’s a model that’s used extensively in the film industry, where contractors are brought together for the project and part ways at the end.
This is a workable model for projects that don’t have an extended lifecycle, but isn’t really appropriate for ongoing software development, as so much state is held inside the heads of the team working on it, and bringing new people in later without the original team means they’ll be fumbling in the dark.
But we have onboarding, and our teams don’t disband, and we’re sad but happy when our teammates leave us for other things. But our team lifecycles aren’t that they grow and shrink, by gaining and shedding people.
Instead, I think our teams only ever grow.
“Wait, what?” you might ask - people are leaving all the time! My team is staying roughly the same size!
That may look true, but consider what you do as a developer and how you build new things on top of existing tools and techniques. Those things that you build on aren’t just pieces of code, they are also expressions of the culture in which you build them. After all, culture isn’t what you say, it’s what you do.
These pieces of underlying software are your foundation. They determine what makes sense and what paths you can take, impose their design choices upon you and limit possibilities. Your culture, what you do is founded on the culture of what came before and what they did.
So how does this relate to teams?
Similar to the external libraries you use, what team members have done before you limits what you can do now. They made decisions that are now part of the foundation upon which you build, and the culture of those decisions is encoded in that foundation.
Decisions of what library to use, how to deploy the software, how the architecture is intended to work. These are decisions that you couldn’t affect, but still affect you.
But I said earlier that your team size only grows, and I still haven’t explained why I said that.
If you think about the idea that what you can build is determined by others’ past choices and past culture, then, when did they actually leave the team? Every day that you interact with the choices they made you are having a conversation with them, communicating with their ideas, ideas that form the basis of the ideas that you can have.
So why is this important?
Well, Metcalfe’s Law states that the value of a telecommunications network is proportional to the square of the number of users, which tells us that the number of communications we need to make with our team members is also proportional to the square of the number of members. A team of 6 members requires 36 potential communication events to discuss ideas and approach a consensus.
So why is that important?
Your past team members are a part of that. They aren’t full members as far as the communication properties of the graph goes, since they’re only ever telling you things, but they are communicating with you across time.
A potential revision to Metcalfe’s Law to account for this is n^2 * m, with n representing current team members, multiplied by past team members. Past team members no longer communicate with each other, and no longer communicate with current members, and the longer they’ve been gone from the team, the less relevant their input.
Modern software development is a team sport, and the complexity of team communication is a vital aspect of team dynamics. As a result, removing *m from the equation means not rebuilding the culture of the team but ripping out its foundations. Since the foundations are often encoded into the software and datasets that the team works with, this can mean replacing large pieces of the software codebase or backing datasets, either through a “clean rewrite” or an evolutionary process.
And this is necessary! Choices that were correct in the past may no longer correct in the present, and will always need re-examination in the future. We implicitly know this and feel bad that we’re making the “wrong” decision now for expediency or other constraints.
Thinking of how our software must always evolve in terms of Metcalfe’s Law means that understanding our communication around our decisions is important and must be an intentional act. Because software is a team sport and the quality of our software rests solely on our ability to communicate and collaborate, treating the future team as non-existent is an act that disrupts future cohesion and teamwork.
It’s a disruptive act because it increases the communications complexity far beyond the size of the team and the number of departed members. The reasons for decisions are lost and, like the bugs and edge cases embodied in our code, must be continually rediscovered and lost again.
The most obvious cause is a lack of good documentation. From no comments in source code to poor README or wiki or other up-to-date resources, you are not communicating with future team members.
And for your current teammates, this doesn’t seem to matter since they can just come and ask you, after all. Even more, they’re in the middle with you, they understand what’s going on and where things need to go, what the plan is.
That information is your context, and we already understand that we need to communicate that when we’re onboarding a new teammate and gett them up to speed. But instead of treating this as an intentional act, we treat this as an implicit function of the current team, passing on context using osmosis through immersion.
This mostly works, but over time the knowledge around why the team or organisation decided to do something is lost. The ultimate failure mode of this effect is the normalisation of deviance, where extremely harmful behaviour has been so accepted and internalised that potentially lethal results can occur.
How do we fight this? We write down why we’re doing something, what the context we had when we made that decision is and what the cultural requirements were. If we don’t the culture forgets, the reasons are lost, and you aren’t communicating with your team.
Another failure mode of future team communication is the Knowledge Sink. You’ve likely encountered this person, someone who’s worked to make themselves indispensable on one particular aspect of knowledge, who refuses to write things down or allow others to encroach on their domain.
Again, while annoying, this can seem somewhat harmless as you can just go ask them, but we all know that that doesn’t work over time. We have terms for this like “vulnerable to busses” where we try to recognise and joke about the fact that we will be remarkably crippled if we lose them.
Again, these people are very toxic to the team. They’re safe enough today, but that knowledge and context is lost when they leave. These people aren’t useful repositories of knowledge or context that other team members can ask, they are knowledge sinks, absorbing knowledge as a black hole absorbs light that leaves only the what we are doing, not the why, or, depending on their efforts, the how. We are prevented from effective communication.
These behaviours are strongly rooted in contempt culture, and are performative examples of “we are better than you” directed towards the future. The person who refuses to document code because it should be self-documenting holds contempt for those who lack the time to learn code as well as he does, for the future who will need to dedicate more energy to improve things. He thinks that if you aren’t smart enough to understand the code, you shouldn’t be coding.
The person who acts as a knowledge sink has contempt for the healthy communication and function of his team, he demands that others perform more work to route around the damage that he causes.
But more importantly, poor communication is contempt for the future. He sacrifices the future to his own need for importance and devalues the future of the team by increasing their communication cost of each decision we make and each cultural norm we adopt.
Not having time is valid, and important to acknowledge. Like all things, this is not meant as a you are bad for doing this, but a you really need to think about this. By considering what we do under new lights and within new framings, we give ourselves better tools and ways of acting with considered intent.
We often don’t have time in the here and now to broadly define our decisions and our culture. We have deadlines, milestones, and business needs that must be considered. But we can talk about our future selves and make them a part of today’s communications. We can think of steps towards including our future.
When we discuss that inclusiveness and think of what that entails, we discuss when we can put the communications we need on our roadmap and the intentionality of what we will say. Instead of relying on implicit cultural osmosis and the potential for harmful normalisations, we begin to explicitly define our own culture by what we choose and what we do.
And I think the future is worth it.
So you saw my post about Fly not that long ago, with the announced ebook that you can go look at right now! It’s pretty awesome stuff.
But a lot of people don’t know that this isn’t my first book!
Fly is my third collection of work. My first collection was made to help me own a sense of achievement and victory, and my second was a collaboration, resulting in a book of Photo Poetry of New Zealand.
My first work holds a lot of meaning to me. It’s the first time I ever went through the agony of trying to filter a meaningful collection out of a lot of random photographs and started learning the skills around making coherent works.
Not very many people have seen my first book. It sold 14 physical copies, was never published in as a free ebook as Fly has been and the images are meant to be in a collection, not standalone.
Today I’d like to share my first ever work, the first book I ever made, Linear A.
You can download it right here, for free, right now.
So the “Clarke” update for Stellaris came and went, and I gave it another go after my initial enjoyment of playing Space Kitties Bastards Edition, wherein I was a domineering warlike species that was busy subjugating half the galaxy.
It was fun. 😀
After the patch, I decided to have a go at playing a pacifist species, focussed on a small empire with great tech research speeds. I never grew to need a sector, because every planet now slows down research by another 10%.
I decided on a hyperspace game, with a spiral galaxy. This ended up being a really interesting choice, as the hyperlanes just follow the spirals, making early-game exploration very very linear, and ensuring that empires mostly flow along the spiral lines (except for the few that have warp or wormhole drives).
I was bordered by a sort-of-expansionist empire, and a Fallen empire. The expansionist ate the other empire near me, and then ignored me the rest of the game. The Fallen empire was a “watch the tiny little people” variety, and also ignored me.
And that… characterised everything else. Being ignored, researching tech, being ignored, researching more tech… being ignored some more, and now I’m in the late game, I formed a federation, I’m sitting at the end of the tech tree and wondering, well, now what? I have the best jump drive, I can strike deep and hard with my big ships full of best guns and shields, but everyone is just not. paying. attention. to. me.
It’s boring. There’s nothing to do in diplomacy. The only win conditions are “conquer everyone” or “conquer everyone, but differently.” There’s nothing do do at the top of the tech tree except research more “5% better!” techs. As a tiny, tech-focussed nation, there is nothing to do after the first third of the game, except pick what to research next.
So yeah. I’m excited for the DLC, but don’t actually bother until there is some DLC.