Then you see the real world and you think it must be because people are stupid, the bosses are pointy-haired, they don't understand, they don't value elegance, they are greedy, they etc. etc. But once you spend enough time on your own projects, and they evolve and change over the years, they turn more and more into a mess, you rewrite, you prioritize, you abandon, you revive, and you notice that it goes much deeper than simply laziness. Real solutions depend on context, one caching algo is good when one medium is x times faster than another, but not when it's only y times faster. It makes sense to show a progress bar when downloading a file if the usual internet speed is X but not when it's Y. Over years and decades the context can shift, and even those things can change that were only silent assumptions of yours when you made the "perfect" program as a young'un, looking down on all the existing "messy" solutions that do a bunch of unnecessary cruft. It's an endless cycle...

I don't really agree with this. Yes, it gets outdated quickly and breaks often if you build it in such a way that it relies on many external services.

Stuff like relying on "number-is-odd" NPM package instead of copy-pasting the code or implementing it yourself. The more dependencies you have, the more likely it will break.

If your software works locally, without requiring an internet connection, it will work almost forever.

Now, if you want to keep developing the software and build it over a long period, the secret is to always keep all dependencies up-to-date. Is there a ExternalLibrary V2 just released? Instead of postponing the migration, update your code and migrate ASAP. The later you do it, the harder the migration will be.

This doesn't mean we shouldn't try to make it as good as we can, but rather that we must accept that the outcome will be flawed and that, despite our best intentions, it will show its sharp edges the next time we come to work on it.

Kublai Khan does not necessarily believe everything Marco Polo says when he describes the cities visited on his expeditions, but the emperor of the Tartars does continue listening to the young Venetian with greater attention and curiosity than he shows any other messenger or explorer of his. In the lives of emperors there is a moment which follows pride in the boundless extension of the territories we have conquered, and the melancholy and relief of knowing we shall soon give up any thought of knowing and understanding them. There is a sense of emptiness that comes over us at evening, with the odor of the elephants after the rain and the sandalwood ashes growing cold in the braziers, a dizziness that makes rivers and mountains tremble on the fallow curves of lhe planispheres where they are portrayed, and rolls up, one after the other, the despatches announcing to us the collapse of the last enemy troops, from defeat to defeat, and flakes the wax of the seals of obscure kings who beseech our armies' protection, offering in exchange annual tributes of precious metals, tanned hides, and tortoise shell. It is the desperate moment when we discover that this empire, which had seemed to us the sum of all wonders, is an endless, formless ruin, that corruption's gangrene has spread too far to be healed by our scepter, that the triumph over enemy sovereigns has made us the heirs of their long undoing. Only in Marco Polo's accounts was Kublai Khan able to discern, through the walls and towers destined to crumble, the tracery of a pattern so subtle it could escape the termites' gnawing.