Apple's goal isn't to make money. Our goal is to design and

“Apple’s goal isn’t to make money. Our goal is to design and develop and bring to market good products.” — Jonathan Ive

There are words that shine like polished metal — simple on their surface, yet deep as the forge that shaped them. So spoke Jonathan Ive, the quiet craftsman behind the glowing heart of Apple. In this saying, he speaks not of wealth or dominance, but of purpose, that eternal fire which drives true creation. To design and develop good products — this is not the ambition of greed, but the devotion of an artist. His words are a hymn to craftsmanship, to the sacred labor of hands and minds united in pursuit of excellence.

For Ive, and for those who walked beside him — Steve Jobs, the restless visionary, and the engineers who dreamed in circuits and glass — the making of an object was a kind of worship. It was not enough that it functioned; it must also feel right. It must possess beauty, simplicity, and truth in its form. Money, to them, was not the end, but the echo — the shadow cast by something brighter. Their creed was that great design serves humanity, not vanity. It lifts the spirit even in the smallest act — the opening of a lid, the touch of a button, the hum of power awakening beneath one’s fingertips.

This idea is not new; it is as old as civilization itself. In the ancient city of Florence, Filippo Brunelleschi, the architect of the Duomo, was told that his dome was too ambitious, too costly, too impossible. Yet he labored not for gold, but for perfection. He wished to prove that beauty could rise from limitation, that form and function could embrace. When the dome finally crowned the city, it became more than a structure — it became a testament to the belief that great works are born of love, not profit. Just as Ive sought harmony between glass and metal, Brunelleschi sought it between earth and heaven. Both men understood that the soul of design is not in the material, but in the meaning.

When Apple rose from near ruin in the late twentieth century, it did so not through cost-cutting or marketing, but through vision. The iMac, the iPod, and later the iPhone were not born from focus groups or spreadsheets. They were born from a question whispered in the workshops of Cupertino: What if technology could feel human? This question, this yearning to craft “good products,” was their compass. Profit followed — but only because they followed passion first. Here lies the ancient paradox: those who chase gold rarely find greatness, but those who chase greatness often find both.

To say that “Apple’s goal isn’t to make money” is not denial of economy, but a reordering of priorities — a declaration that purpose precedes profit. It is a challenge to a world obsessed with results to remember the nobility of the process. When a craftsman pours his heart into the work, when he loves the curve of the blade more than the coin it brings, his creation bears the mark of immortality. Such work endures. The Parthenon still stands. The Mona Lisa still smiles. The iPhone, too, in its simplicity, continues that lineage of human-centered design.

So let this be the lesson: in all you build — whether a home, a poem, or a company — build it for the love of the craft, not the lure of the reward. Seek excellence, not applause. The ancient builders did not carve their names into every stone, yet their works speak for them across the ages. Be as they were — intentional, patient, and devoted. Let your work be your prayer, and your product, your offering.

For in the end, money is fleeting, but good design is eternal. It speaks to the senses and the soul alike. It is a bridge between the maker and the world, a dialogue between vision and form, between purpose and beauty. To live by Ive’s words is to reclaim the sacredness of creation — to remember that what we make, when made with care, outlives us. And that is the truest profit of all.