Computers ought to help people find their own best path through

“Computers ought to help people find their own best path through lots of textual information.” — Mitch Kapor

Hear now the thoughtful words of Mitch Kapor, one of the early architects of the digital age, whose mind was both visionary and humane. In this saying, he speaks not merely of machines, but of wisdom—of the union between knowledge and guidance. His words remind us that computers, those glowing servants of the modern world, were never meant to enslave the mind with noise, but to illuminate the path of understanding. He envisioned not a labyrinth of data where the seeker is lost, but a path—personal, meaningful, and true—where technology aids the soul in its quest for insight.

For in the beginning, the world of knowledge was like a vast forest. Humanity carved its way through scrolls and books, through the handwritten letters of the learned. Knowledge grew slowly but deeply, as a tree grows with time. Then came the age of the machine, and with it an explosion of information. Words multiplied like stars in the firmament—uncounted, dazzling, yet confusing. Kapor saw this new wilderness and understood that without guidance, the mind would wander aimlessly among endless texts, never finding the wisdom it sought. Thus he declared that the purpose of the computer was not to overwhelm, but to orient; not to command, but to serve the seeker.

This idea was born in the dawn of the personal computing era, when Kapor himself built tools to help ordinary people navigate and organize information. He was the creator of Lotus 1-2-3, an early program that gave order to numbers and clarity to complexity. But even beyond his inventions, he dreamed of a higher purpose for machines: that they should empower humans to think freely, to discover their own meaning amid the rising tides of data. For he knew what the ancients also knew—that knowledge without discernment is chaos, and information without guidance is noise disguised as truth.

Think of the Library of Alexandria, the greatest repository of wisdom in the ancient world. It contained scrolls from every civilization known to man, but even there, only a few could find what they truly sought. The librarians and scholars were the living algorithms of that age, guiding seekers through the maze of thought. When the flames consumed the library, humanity lost not just books, but the pathways of understanding. Kapor, like a modern librarian of the digital realm, sought to rekindle that light—not to store information alone, but to make it navigable, human, and purposeful once more.

Yet, his words carry also a subtle warning. For today, we have built machines that can summon the words of the world in an instant—but we have forgotten how to find our path among them. The ocean of text has grown deeper than Kapor could have imagined, and many now drown in its abundance. The very tools that were meant to liberate us now often distract, confuse, and entangle us. We scroll endlessly, but we rarely discover. We read much, but we learn little. Kapor’s wisdom returns to us, shining like a beacon: that technology must be a compass, not a cage.

So, let us take his message into our hearts. Use your machines not as idols, but as instruments. Seek not merely to consume information, but to understand it. Let the computer help you trace your own best path—the one that aligns with your purpose, your truth, your curiosity. Do not follow the crowd through the corridors of endless data; instead, walk deliberately, choosing what nourishes the mind and uplifts the spirit.

For in the end, the highest goal of all knowledge—whether written in ink or in code—is wisdom. And wisdom is not found by gathering everything, but by finding what is truly yours. Mitch Kapor’s words remind us that every tool, every technology, should serve this ancient mission: to bring light to the seeker, and to guide each soul toward the understanding that already waits within. So let the computers help, yes—but never forget that the path they reveal must always be your own.