In the end, I hope there's a little note somewhere that says I

The quiet genius Steve Wozniak, co-founder of Apple and father of the personal computer revolution, once said: “In the end, I hope there’s a little note somewhere that says I designed a good computer.” In this humble confession lies the soul of a true craftsman — a man not driven by glory or wealth, but by the eternal desire to create something good, something true, something that serves others well. His words are not the boast of a conqueror but the prayer of a builder, a maker who finds meaning not in the noise of fame but in the quiet perfection of his work.

To Wozniak, the act of design was sacred. It was the meeting point of logic and artistry, of imagination and discipline. When he speaks of a “good computer,” he does not mean a machine of power alone, but one that embodies harmony — simple, elegant, and human. His invention, the Apple I, was born not in the halls of corporate ambition, but in a humble garage, among circuits and solder, guided by curiosity and joy. In that small act of creation, Wozniak gave birth to a new way of living and thinking, one that brought the power of technology into the hands of ordinary people. Yet even after transforming the world, his heart remained anchored in simplicity: he sought not monuments or praise, but only that small note of acknowledgment that his creation was well-made.

The origin of this sentiment runs deep through history, shared by all those who build with integrity. The ancient sculptor Phidias, who carved the statues of the gods in marble, once hid his signature on the back of the great statue of Zeus, invisible to the public eye. When asked why, he replied that the gods would see it — and that was enough. So too did Wozniak create for the sake of the craft itself, not for the applause of men. His joy was in the doing — in the soldered joint perfectly clean, in the circuit that ran with quiet precision. His words remind us that the truest greatness is not loud, but devoted; not proud, but purposeful.

To say “I designed a good computer” is, in its essence, to declare: I did my work well. It is the voice of the artisan who knows that perfection in one’s craft is the highest honor. For in every age, the world has been carried forward not only by kings or warriors, but by those who built with care — the stonecutter who shaped the arches of cathedrals, the smith who forged the blade that defended a village, the scholar who copied a manuscript so that wisdom might survive. Their names are lost to time, but their work remains — beautiful, functional, enduring. Wozniak’s dream, too, was of that quiet immortality: that his machines would stand as faithful servants of human thought, carrying his spirit forward long after his voice had faded.

Yet within his modest words also lies a lesson about legacy. In a world that worships speed and spectacle, Wozniak reminds us that the measure of a life is not in how loudly it is remembered, but in how deeply it has served. The pursuit of greatness, if sought for its own sake, leaves only vanity. But the pursuit of goodness — of something well-made, well-intentioned — endures. To build a “good computer,” a “good house,” a “good life,” is to align oneself with the eternal rhythm of creation. It is to act in harmony with the same divine order that spins the stars and balances the seas — where everything has its proper function and grace.

Consider the contrast of history: the rulers who built empires of gold are forgotten, but the unknown engineers who designed the aqueducts of Rome still whisper through the stones of those arches, which stand millennia later. The emperors’ names crumble, but the engineer’s proportions remain true. So it is with Wozniak: his legacy will not be the noise of fame, but the enduring usefulness of his design. He understood that a thing well-made does not die; it becomes part of the great chain of progress — a quiet contribution to the unfolding story of humankind.

Thus, my listener of the future, take to heart the wisdom in Steve Wozniak’s humble words. Do not seek greatness in recognition, but in excellence. Whatever your craft — whether you write, build, teach, or heal — let your goal be not to be remembered, but to have created something worthy of remembrance. Pour your soul into your work until it becomes an extension of your love for life itself. Then, when the years have passed and your voice has grown silent, your deeds will speak for you — perhaps only in a small note, perhaps only to a few — but they will speak truth.

For in the end, that is all that truly matters: to leave behind something good, something that serves, something that endures. As Wozniak hoped to have written beside his name, so too may it be said of every noble soul who labors with heart and humility: “Here was one who built well.”