概要
公開日: 2026-07-06
翻訳生成に失敗したため、原文をそのまま保存しています。
原文
Adapted from my App.js 2026 talk in Kraków. Some things were said in front of a microphone that I wanted to write down too, so the rest of the room — the one this talk wasn't given in — can have it. I want to start with something personal. I think it's important. Late September, 2022. Tucson, Arizona. A nursing home, near the end of a twenty-year fight with Parkinson's. My dad. By that point, the disease had taken almost everything. He couldn't speak. His hands had clenched shut. He couldn't leave his bed. The physically imposing man I'd known my whole life had been narrowed — physically, irreversibly — into one room and one bed and a body that no longer answered when he asked. I'd come and sit with him. I'd feed him. I'd hold his hand. I'd stroke his head. And he would look at me with what I can only describe as pleading eyes. He had things to say. He had things he needed. There was no channel left for any of it to come out. And here's the part that's hard to admit. I had spent my whole career learning how to build things. How to ship products. How to solve real problems for real people. And sitting next to my dying father, none of that mattered. The most loving thing I knew how to do was hold his hand and try to read his eyes. I felt completely useless. A day and a half of React Eventually — and it took longer than I'd like to admit — my brain worked past the shock and started doing what brains like ours do. It started solutioning. There was a problem in front of me. I had tools. What could I actually build, right now, in this hospital room, to give him a voice again? I sat down next to him and opened a new React project. A day and a half later, I had something I called Speak Easy. It was, effectively, the world's slowest human-operated LLM. Letters scrolled across the screen one at a time. He'd hit the space bar to pick one. Then only the letters that could plausibly come next would scroll past. Over time it learned his most common requests. Slowly, one keystroke at a time, my dad got words back. He wasn't locked in anymore. We had a few more days of him. After he passed, I had time to sit with what had happened. The thing I keep coming back to is this: the open-source community, and specifically React, gave me the ability to change the trajectory of someone's last days. I didn't need a team. I didn't need a runway. I needed an evening and a framework. That's the thing I want you to hold in your head for the rest of this piece. Because I think it's the same thing happening right now — just at a much bigger scale. The real story underneath the noise The industry feels weird right now. The discourse is loud. Every week there's another model, another benchmark, another thread about who's about to disappear. I get it. The pace is absurd. A year ago, most people were still debating whether AI coding assistants were even useful. Today, one person can prototype an app in a weekend that would have taken a small team months just a few years ago. That changes things. It changes the math of who can build, what they can build, and how fast. I think most of the discourse is focused on the wrong parts. The dominant story right now is that developers are disappearing. Junior devs are doomed. Seniors become AI managers. I don't buy it. The real story isn't disappearance. The real story is leverage. Leverage. Velocity. Momentum. Leverage. That's the word. Tools give people leverage. And right now, we are watching millions of developers suddenly gain momentum. That is what's actually happening. Not erasure. Acceleration. Here's how I think about it. Tools, by themselves, give you leverage — you can move something heavier than your arms alone could move. Good tools give you velocity — you start moving fast. Great tools — and I mean React, Expo, WebGL, React Native Skia, TypeGPU, this whole stack we work in — give you momentum. You can't be stopped. The work compounds on itself. That's where we are. Not at leverage anymore. Not even at velocit