I remember when I was first bitten by the computer programming "Bug."
I was young: still in high school, in fact. At my particular high school (in Fontana, California), we had an Indian Education Department. That small department was lucky enough to have a TRS-80 computer for the kids in the Indian Club to play on. I dare say that the computer itself drew a few kids to the club; we were misfits, outcasts, by and large, but we were drawn to that thing like moths to a flame.
It was nothing to look at really. It was just an old monochrome monitor, with a keyboard, and a tape drive. Our model didn't even have a floppy disk. Everything was on tapes. But we were mesmerized by that thing. I remember watching one of the other kids, Dan, fire up ZORK, and typing, "go north" into the computer. It responded to his simple command, and described the next room to him. It amazed me. I remember sitting there and thinking, "How did they do that?"
I mean, it was just a stupid box, with a keyboard and a cassette drive. It couldn't think. But there it was, responding to him as if it could think. And he could type commands that were, for the day, fairly close to English. "Eat food." "Quaff potion." "Open door."
I remember sitting there, thinking about that and being relentlessly tormented by it. I had to know. How could an inanimate box like that do things like that? How did it know what room he was in? How come the rooms changed every time we played the game? How did it decide if the potion killed him, healed him, or made him sick? How did it decide what color the potion was? How did it decide what was in the room? For a stupid box with no brain, this thing was pretty damned smart.
And then, one day, Dan got stumped by the game. Something, apparently was wrong. A few years later, I'd realize he'd found a bug. So, he fired up a program, and cracked open the game's source code. And there, before my eyes, was the big secret. It was line after line after line of source code: carefully written instructions that told the stupid box exactly what to do. From those cryptic instructions, written in some obscure language called BASIC, you could make that TRS-80 do amazing things!
That was the beginning of the end for me. I had to master that language. I had to know how I, too, could command a stupid, brain-dead box and make it do amazing things. It wasn't long before I had obtained a copy of the language reference for BASIC and taken a computer programming course at our High School. (Yes, we had them, even out in the sticks in Fontana.)
So, in a way, ZORK made me a programmer.
It's been about twenty-five years since I watched Dan crack open the source code to ZORK, and the path of my life was irrevocably altered. Up until that point, I didn't really have any real aspirations. I don't think I really did after that, either. But one thing became very clear: more than any other endeavor to which I applied myself, computer programming proved itself to be my one enduring passion. All these years later, I still have those moments reminiscent of that first day. I'll see a beautiful piece of code, a website design, or an application, and I'll think, "How did they do that?" Any ideas I may have had about leaving software development will be blown away and my passion for software will be rekindled.
It's because I have to know. I can't walk away from these damned stupid boxes without being able to make them do amazing things.
There's a certain, childish delight in figuring out the solution to a problem, or finding a new way to do something. For me, it's like Christmas, and I want to share that joy with others. Sadly, a lot of folks don't understand it--especially if they're not in the same field. But anyone who's done this work, and ever had a EUREKA! moment knows exactly what I'm talking about.
Somewhere, right now, a budding young developer is experiencing his or her first time. They're being bitten by the bug. It's an infection that will take hold and set in for life. For most of us, it's a turbulent ride, filled with ups and downs, and we frequently consider leaving the field. For others, it's pure hell, and we leave it too quickly; for a lucky few, it's nirvana all the way through. I'm not sure I envy the lucky few; I rather like the way my challenges have tempered me over the years.
When you face challenges, think back on what it was about software that caught you in the first place. Think back to your first time. Then think about the many times you've been lured back to it by your own passion. Not because someone offered you money, or material goods, or power, or prestige; think back to those times that your personal passion for software kept you in the game. Then ask yourself why you feel so passionate about software. The answer for me was surprising: I'm not really doing it for anyone else, but because I have to know, and because I have to conquer the stupid box.
For all my noble aspirations, that's a humbling admission.
But that passion is still there. It keeps me in the game. And, in retrospect, it's likely why I feel so passionately about software quality. It's not enough that it works, it has to work well.
What was your first time like?
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