You ever open a file and wonder what kind of sociopath wrote this mess?
Yeah. It was you. Six months ago. On a Friday. Just before lunch.
This is what happens when we chase cleverness instead of clarity. When we treat code like a personal puzzle instead of a shared tool. When we forget that someone else - maybe less experienced, maybe on a deadline, maybe just future you - has to live with the mess we leave behind.
Code isn’t a riddle. It’s a map. And if yours looks like a maze, you're doing it wrong.
The Cult of Clever
Some devs write code like they’re entering it into a competition no one asked for. Terse, abstract, layered in magic. Congrats, genius - now no one can touch it without fear of breaking something.
Cleverness is fun. Until it’s 3am and you’re debugging the cleverness.
Readable code isn’t boring. It’s kind.
Comments Are Cheap. Confusion Is Expensive.
You don’t need to narrate your code line by line. But if there’s logic that isn’t obvious, explain it. Briefly. Clearly. Preferably in English.
Five seconds to write a comment. Forty-five minutes saved later. Do the math.
Naming Things Is Hard. Do It Anyway.
If your variable names only make sense in your head, congratulations - you’ve built a maze. data1, flag, tmp - none of these help anyone understand anything.
Good names don’t need documentation. Bad ones need a blood sacrifice.
Your Code Isn't Just Yours
This is the bit nobody likes to hear: your code isn’t for you. Not once it’s merged. It's for the team, the business, the next person on-call. Maybe someone new, maybe someone tired, maybe someone who’s just trying to fix a bug and move on with their life.
Writing code with empathy isn’t soft. It’s survival.
Stop Impressing. Start Communicating.
You can keep writing smart little puzzles if that’s your thing. But don’t be surprised when the next person curses your name.
Every line of code is a choice: You’re either helping someone get where they need to go - or you’re leaving them lost.
