On Simplicity

There's a common misconception that simplicity is easy. That stripping away complexity is a matter of removal, a subtraction exercise. In practice, the opposite is true. Simplicity requires a deep understanding of what matters and what doesn't.

The most elegant solutions are the ones that feel inevitable. Not clever—inevitable. They make you wonder why anyone would do it differently. This feeling isn't accidental. It comes from iterating until the unnecessary falls away and only the essential remains.

"Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away." — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

In software, this manifests as code that reads like prose. Functions that do one thing well. Interfaces that anticipate user intent. Systems that fail gracefully because their boundaries are clear.

The discipline of simplicity extends beyond code. It shapes how we communicate, how we document, how we think about problems. When we commit to simplicity, we commit to clarity—and clarity is kindness.

The Cost of Complexity

Every abstraction has a cost. Every layer of indirection is a tax on future understanding. We pay this tax whenever someone new joins the team, whenever we return to code after months away, whenever we debug at 2 AM.

The question isn't whether to pay this tax—some complexity is unavoidable. The question is whether we're paying it consciously, for something that truly matters.

Practice

Simplicity is a practice, not a destination. It requires constant vigilance against the creeping complexity that accumulates in every living system. It means saying no more often than yes. It means being willing to throw away work that doesn't serve the whole.

The reward is software that ages well. Code that remains comprehensible. Systems that can evolve without collapsing under their own weight.

That's worth the effort.