Petros Amoiridis

Imagine you are playing a song on a guitar. The notes come out of your fingers. The mistakes are yours too. That is the point.

Coding always felt like that to me.

You sit with a problem. You turn it over. You start typing and the shape of the solution comes out through your hands. Sometimes it’s clumsy. Sometimes you delete half of it and start again. But it’s yours. The rhythm, the decisions, the little choices no one else would notice.

Now someone walks up mid-song and says, “Stop playing it yourself, or you’ll fall behind.”

The maker, the artist… hands off the fretboard. Those strings were your voice. Now, instead of playing, you describe the music and ask something else to strum it for you.

I get that it’s faster. I get that the output may even be better in some measurable way. But something is lost when you stop touching the strings. The feeling of building something with your hands. Even if “hands” just means a keyboard and a blinking cursor.

There is a strange grief in it. Not dramatic. Just quiet. Like walking past a guitar you used to play every day and realizing you have not picked it up in weeks.

I have felt this before. When the home computer era ended. The Amigas, the Ataris, the machines you turned on and they just waited for you to tell them what to do. The industry moved on and those of us who grew up typing BASIC into a blinking prompt were left holding a feeling we could not quite name. That world did not disappear because it was bad. It disappeared because something bigger came along.

I am not against the new tools. Moving on to better things has been the story of my programming life. I use the tools. They are genuinely useful. But I notice the distance they create between me and the thing I am making. I used to be in the code. Now I feel like I am standing next to it, watching.

Here is what I have decided, though. The instrument has changed. It has not disappeared. The way I express myself as a programmer. The care I put into naming things, the structure I choose, the way I think about the person who will read my code next. That part is still mine.

No tool can take that from me unless I let it.

The song is different now. But I can still play.

Here’s what I am doing

At Workbrew, I help our customers succeed, while working on docs, fixing bugs, and developing internal tools. At Amignosis, I pour my heart and skill into crafting slowly brewed software, one thoughtful line at a time. I am craftsman in a world of complexity and low-quality solutions. I am a shoemaker. I take the time to create simple, timeless software built to last. Check what I am doing now and talk to me.