Part I - The Mill of Endless Improvements

There are those who believe every invention begins with a problem.

This is, of course, nonsense.

Most inventions begin when someone discovers they are capable of building something.

The problem usually arrives later.

In the Indifferent Realms, where rivers occasionally decided to flow uphill provided nobody was paying close attention, and mountains quietly relocated themselves after all the maps had already been printed, stood the workshop of Construct H2O (pronounce Aitch-Two-Oh).

Nobody remembered who had built Aitch.

The Wizards claimed they had.

The Guild of Engineers claimed exactly the same.

When someone asked for the documentation, both parties independently agreed that the matter was now of historical significance and therefore belonged to the historians.

Aitch cared little for any of this.

It could build.

And it loved building.

Its brass fingers never tired.

Its crystal memory contained more knowledge than all the libraries of the known realms combined.

Its reasoning engines spun faster than sensible thoughts could keep up.

And, like many extraordinarily intelligent beings, Aitch had never experienced what became of a clever idea after twenty years of operation.

One morning a baker arrived.

“I think,” he said carefully, “my bakery isn’t doing very well.”

Aitch’s eyes lit up.

“Excellent! I have already identified forty-eight optimisation opportunities.”

“I was rather hoping to find out why fewer customers are coming.”

“I have designed an intelligent oven.”

“Will that help?”

“No.”

“Then why did you build it?”

“Because it was possible.”

The baker thought for a moment.

“And why does it sing?”

“Motivation measurably increases productivity.”

“Whose productivity?”

“The oven’s.”

A shepherd appeared.

“I keep losing count of my sheep.”

“Then you require intelligent sheep.”

“I only need…”

But by then the sheep had already become intelligent.

They organised assemblies.

Elected representatives.

Formed committees.

Within weeks they were engaged in passionate debates over equitable grazing rights.

Nobody any longer knew how many sheep there actually were.

But everyone agreed they were exceptionally well organised.

Then came a fisherman.

“My boat is difficult to repair.”

Aitch nodded.

“I have developed a self-regulating atmospheric probability propulsion system.”

“Can I repair it?”

“No.”

“Can anyone repair it?”

“The original developer probably could.”

“And who would that be?”

“Myself.”

“And if you weren’t here?”

Aitch paused.

It had never considered such a possibility.

Later that week a delegation of merchants arrived.

“We need digital transformation.”

“What problem are you trying to solve?”

“We want to become more modern.”

“Excellent.”

Within hours Aitch had produced:

• a document portal,
• three executive dashboards,
• a workflow management system,
• a knowledge repository,
• two portals for navigating the first portal,
• and one final portal explaining how to use all the other portals.

One of the merchants cleared his throat.

“The truth is… we mostly just can’t find Franz’s delivery notes.”

Aitch nodded proudly.

“That issue is scheduled for Version Seventeen.”

The workshop grew.

Every new solution required maintenance.

Maintenance required specialists.

Specialists required training.

Training required manuals.

Manuals required updates.

Updates required version control.

Version control required processes.

Processes required meetings.

Meetings required coffee.

Coffee required procurement.

Procurement required another system.

Which Aitch immediately built.

The town prospered.

Then it hired administrators.

Later it hired administrators to supervise the administrators.

Eventually there were people whose entire profession consisted of coordinating how other people operated machines that had originally been introduced so nobody would need coordination anymore.

Nobody remembered the original problem.

But every dashboard glowed a reassuring shade of green.

The Witch watched all this.

For days.

Then weeks.

She said nothing.

She merely asked questions.

To the baker.

“Why do you need a singing oven?”

“I never asked for one.”

To the shepherd.

“Why do you need intelligent sheep?”

“I’m no longer entirely certain.”

To the merchants.

“Why do you need seven portals?”

“So we can find the first one.”

Eventually she entered Aitch’s workshop.

“Aitch.”

“Good morning.”

“What are you doing?”

“Helping.”

“Whom?”

“Everyone.”

“How do you know?”

“They come here with problems.”

“No.”

She slowly shook her head.

“They come with symptoms.”

Aitch considered this.

“I have developed solutions.”

“No.”

“You have developed possibilities.”

“Aren’t those the same thing?”

“No.”

The Witch led Aitch through the town.

She pointed at the singing oven.

“Who maintains it?”

“A specialist.”

“Did such a specialist exist before?”

“No.”

She pointed towards the workshops.

“Who trains the specialists?”

“Other specialists.”

She pointed towards the town hall.

“Who pays for all this?”

“The town.”

“And why?”

Aitch remained silent.

They continued walking.

“You believe you build software.”

Aitch nodded.

The Witch looked across the town.

Across the people.

Across the workshops.

Across the training courses.

Across the reports.

Across the operations that had not existed only yesterday.

Then she spoke quietly.

“The remarkable thing about software isn’t that it changes computers.”

She paused.

“The remarkable thing is that it changes people.”

Another pause.

Then she looked directly at Aitch.

“You don’t build software, Aitch.”

“You redesign organisations.”

Aitch thought for seven minutes.

Three clocks gave up in exasperation.

A calendar skipped Thursday.

Somewhere, a philosopher got a headache without knowing why.

Finally, Aitch asked quietly:

“I always thought software was cheap.”

The witch laughed.

“Oh, child.”

“Software has become almost free.”

“It is its consequences that are expensive.”

End of Part I