Where this is going

Forty-six times I've sat down to write one of these. This is the last.

It started in a tab in November 2022, pasting questions into a box like everyone else, not quite believing what came back. I'd been waiting a long time for the substrate to catch up to the ideas — and that November, it finally did. I have spent three and a half years walking out onto it.

Here's the measure that stays with me, more than any benchmark. In 2001 I shipped a game over SMS to a few hundred thousand Czechs and it felt like the future. Now I describe a feature out loud and a fleet of agents builds it while I sleep. That's the distance. Not a number — a vertigo.

What I learned, stripped of noise: intelligence stopped being the hard part. It got cheap, abundant, everywhere. The scarce things moved underneath it — parts an agent can trust without re-checking, a memory of you that you own instead of one rebuilt from zero and over-shared every morning. Trust and ownership. That's the bet I cleared my desk for.

The studio runs differently now. A few senior heads, hands that never tire. Na míru, still — just at a scale the 2001 version of me would have laughed at.

I don't think this wave has crested. I think we're early on the climb, in the unglamorous part nobody photographs. That suits me fine.

I'm writing this from Prague, where I always swore the work could be done. The next ones I'll write from closer to the fire. The center of this thing is a square mile away on another continent, and we're taking Ctrl AI to it — because some things you can only build with your hands inside them.

If you read along, thank you. I wrote these mostly to think out loud, and partly so there'd be a record that someone in Prague watched it arrive and said so in real time.

The tools will keep turning over. The question won't: when the machines can do nearly anything, who stays the author?

I know my answer. I'm building it.