I’ve really enjoyed working on the Wallet Attached Storage project and with the Digital Credentials Consortium more broadly. Was honored to get a call out in their digital wallet repository:
Thanks for the quick response!
And if you’re interested in learning more, dear reader, you’re welcome to attend the Wallet Attached Storage Webinar, scheduled for next Tuesday at noon Eastern.
I talk often about Conway’s Law, both here and in real life. I also talk often about working in the public sector. But for some reason I’ve never mentally put the two topics together and drawn the inevitable conclusion discussed in this article: Conway’s Law at Government Scale.
I’ve read Recoding America, and generally agree with the notion that a product operating model makes sense and leads to better outcomes. But here’s the thing: change comes slowly, if it comes at all, and solutions are needed now, across many domains.
I’m grateful for the work of those whose role is to reorganize and rethink government, and wish them success. But in the meantime, I see my role as working within the structures that exist now and doing the best that can be done. Projects can succeed, even with constraints.
Technologists love to collect and share horror stories (see, for example, The Daily WTF). It’s one of the reasons this blog exists, as a brag document of a different sort.
No matter how stressful the situation may be, no matter how long the debugging session took, no matter how brain-melting the eventual solution was to implement, on those days when you experience a moment that you know will go into the annals of “how the heck did this happen” infamy, it brings a smile to your face.
For me, yesterday was one of those days.
It’s a little too early to tell the full story in a public place (the key stakeholders should get to hear it first), but I hope to eventually. It’s an all-time head-scratcher.
Despite having had a number of opportunities to do so throughout my career, I’ve never progressed beyond being an average public speaker.
Thankfully I don’t have any particular phobias about it, and I can do a decent job relaying facts while being mildly interesting, but I’m far from a great orator, especially when I have to speak on the fly.
Still, every once in a while I’m happy with my ad libbing. This past week I spoke at a conference, and came up with this turn of phrase that I quite liked:
Universal problems are often best-solved through many local partnerships.
Perhaps that’s why I enjoy building for state government so much?
Sitting on a late flight to New York City last night, I spent a few minutes time rereading my previous writing on radical responsiveness (yes, I do this sometimes). In the former post I said the following (and yes, it’s absolutely self-indulgent to quote myself, but here we go):
Being known as a responsive person 95% of the time usually means others will assume the best of you for the 5% of time you fail.
That ratio got me thinking: at what response rate will others start losing faith that you’re a responsive person, and thus begin not giving you the benefit of the doubt? It’s gotta be higher than 50%, because I can’t imagine thinking a person who’s likelihood to respond is no better than a coin flip could be viewed as a reliable responder. Maybe 70% or so? I bet a plot of actual response rate against fraction of people who will perceive said rate as responsive would look something like this:
The lesson: earning trust in responsiveness is hard, and keeping it is even harder!
As I’ve gotten older, it’s become increasingly important to me to capture (usually digital) relics of what I’ve been up to. Mostly for my own benefit, but it’s a good professional habit regardless.
Five years ago today I was part of a team launching a new website and associated automated phone system helping unemployment insurance claimants at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic. I wish I’d done more to document our midnight release event, because it was a pivotal moment in my career. But I do have this one blurry screenshot:
This launch had a trifecta of positivity: a meaningful use case, cool technology, and (most importantly) it all actually worked! I’ve been doing this almost 25 years, and it’s rare to have all that come together. It made such an indelible memory that several of us have found ways to continue working together since.
(Obviously I didn’t get the memo about hoodies; instead opting for formalwear. No regrets on that one!)
Speaking effectively to non-technical people can be a challenge for technical folks, but it’s an essential task for all but the most mundane (read: least-effective) of roles. One mechanism that I’ve found helpful is the use of metaphor. I’m a huge fan of trying to describe complex topics by mapping them to more broadly understood concepts. Being able to come up with such mappings fluently is a powerful skill. There may be many ways to develop it, but I suspect one is cultivating a wide set of interests.
While I was writing Tuesday’s post, it occurred to me that today’s Generative AI tools are to software what today’s 3D printers are to physical objects. On one hand, it’s incredible to be able to provide a specification and have it manifested in near real-time. Printers can make a variety of solids: toys, some kinds of replacement parts, that sort of thing. GenAI can create chunks of useful code, quick user interfaces, and basic apps, like my Pinochle scoresheet. But there are limits. Can either of these tools produce high tolerance, precision parts / highly secure, performant code? Can they build complex solutions like electronics / web browsers?
I could be wrong, but just like we’re a long ways from 3D printing an iPhone, we seem a ways away from vibe coding Microsoft Word or an entire government system of record.
I’ve been an Android user since the original Motorola Droid was released back in 2009. However, last month I finally broke down and made the switch to iOS.
I didn’t buy new, though. Because I don’t like big phones, I found myself a refurbished iPhone 13 Mini. It’s perfect. Sure do wish Apple would acknowledge the ongoing market for small devices, but it seems they’re well and truly dead. Maybe I should get a second Mini as a backup, especially since I’m case-free?
We’re all pretty big Lord of the Rings fans in our house, both books and movies. A few months ago we rewatched Return of the King, and I was struck by a couple moments in the dénouement that are worth talking about.
The first is one I’ve loved for a while. The hobbits have returned to the Shire and are together enjoying some well-deserved ales. Their reflective mood is in stark contrast to the conviviality around them, in particular one fellow who is showing off a massive pumpkin he’s grown. Our heroes don’t seem to mind the attention he’s getting; they’re content to sit in silence, apart from the crowd, with nothing more than a toast and some knowing glances.
No one else in that pub understands the grave danger they, and the whole of Middle-earth, were in. No expressions of thanks will come to Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin. But that’s okay. It’s how it’s supposed to be. Leaders make the sacrifices so that those in their care can enjoy their pumpkins, and they seek not the credit. Fellowship amongst a small circle of friends who know the story is enough.
But even within that circle, there’s layers to the levels of awareness. It wasn’t until this most recent viewing that I realized that only Sam knows the full story: that Frodo had fallen at the last to the power of the ring, and its destruction was only completed through earlier mercy shown to Gollum, and some luck.
What Sam chooses to do with this knowledge is worthy of especial praise. When the fellowship is reunited in Rivendell, joy and celebration surround Frodo. Even the wizard Gandalf smiles in approval. Sam is late to the party, but catches Frodo’s eye from across the room.
In that moment, I wonder if Frodo is briefly afraid that Sam will interrupt with a tale of how he had to carry Frodo the final stretch, and that Frodo essentially failed, claiming the ring as his own. It would be the truth. But Sam doesn’t do that, and his expression says he never will. It’s as if he said, “I know that you aren’t a perfect hero. That at the end you did things you’re not proud of, even to me. But you gave everything you had, and the job got done. That’s worth celebrating. Fear not, my friend. Some things are just between us.”
I’m not sure if this is canon, but I imagine no one else, not even Gandalf, ever learned what really went down on the slopes of Mount Doom. That too is okay, because Middle-earth survives regardless. And that’s what ultimately matters.
Nothing thrills quite like launch day, and this time, it was nearly literal. It’s been a privilege to have been involved in this work, and fun that I can (finally) talk about it in public. I mean, when it’s on the news that’s gotta mean something right? You can check it out right here if you’re so inclined.
Hopefully the above partly explains why I’ve been pretty quiet here. As I said last month: crunch time. It’s certainly not for lack of ideas; sitting on 95 draft posts as I type. Someday I’ll get through the backlog. Or not. But it’ll be okay regardless.
