Money is just a way to keep score. The best people in any field

Host: The dusk settled over the city like a burnt-orange veil. The office building, tall and glass-skinned, reflected the fading sunlight in shards of amber and blue. Inside, the hum of computers mingled with the murmur of rain on the windows. Jack stood by a whiteboard, sleeves rolled, his jawline tight, eyes cold as he studied a column of numbers.

Across the room, Jeeny watched him, her hands wrapped around a paper cup of coffee, steam rising like breath from a weary soul. The air smelled of electricity, caffeine, and ambition.

Jack: “You ever notice, Jeeny, how money is just a way to keep score? That’s what Eric Raymond said. And he’s right. It’s not the game itself — just the scoreboard.”

Jeeny: “And yet the scoreboard seems to be all that matters here, doesn’t it?”

Host: Her voice was soft, but her words landed like stones. The rain intensified, streaking the glass with silver lines. Jack’s reflection in the window looked like a man split between light and shadow.

Jack: “Not to the best of us. The best — in tech, in art, in sports — they’re driven by passion. That’s what Raymond meant. Once you reach a certain level, money stops motivating you. It’s about mastery. The craft itself.”

Jeeny: “And yet the world keeps turning on money, Jack. The rent, the bills, the school loans — passion doesn’t feed you. Money still decides who gets to create and who gets to serve.”

Host: A neon sign flickered outside the window, its light bleeding into the room, casting the walls in a harsh, unnatural glow.

Jack: “You’re talking about necessity, not motivation. Money is the fuel; passion is the engine. Without it, no one reaches the top. Look at Einstein, Steve Jobs, Picasso — they didn’t wake up for the paycheck. They woke up for the idea.”

Jeeny: “That’s easy to say when you’re not hungry, Jack. Einstein had patrons. Jobs had investors. Picasso sold his soul to collectors before he was even famous. Passion may burn, but money buys the oxygen.”

Host: The lights dimmed automatically — a programmed evening shutdown. The office fell into a hollow silence, broken only by the soft buzz of a computer fan and the distant thunder.

Jack: “So what are you saying? That passion is just privilege?”

Jeeny: “In some ways, yes. The luxury to follow your passion — to fail, to explore, to create — is rare. The janitor who cleans this office at midnight has passion too. But his scoreboard is rent, not recognition.”

Jack: “But even he cares about doing a good job, doesn’t he? That’s the point — honor in craft. Raymond was a programmer. He knew that real hackers coded not for money, but for elegance — for the beauty of the solution. That’s what drives the world forward.”

Jeeny: “Then tell me, Jack — why do the most passionate people so often end up broke, burned, or forgotten? Van Gogh, Nikola Tesla, even Alan Turing — they loved their work, but society failed them. Passion without support is a flame that devours its keeper.”

Host: The thunder rolled, closer now, echoing through the steel bones of the building. Jack’s eyes narrowed, his fingers tapping on the table — fast, nervous, like a drummer counting seconds before the storm.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing tragedy, Jeeny. Those men were exceptions. Sacrifices, maybe, but their work lives on because of that passion. Money couldn’t have bought it.”

Jeeny: “No, but money could have saved them.”

Host: A pause. The sound of rain grew gentler, like the rhythm of a heartbeat slowing after a fight. Jeeny walked closer, placing her coffee on the table beside his laptop.

Jeeny: “You think money is a scoreboard, but it’s also a gate. It decides who gets to play the game. Passion is noble, Jack, but it’s not free.”

Jack: “You’re missing the point. The greats don’t wait for permission. They create in spite of the gate. Raymond was open-source — he gave his code away, and it changed the world. No gatekeepers, no contracts. Just passion.”

Jeeny: “And yet Google, Apple, Microsoft — all of them built empires on the backs of that open-source work. The passionate built the foundation; the rich built the palaces. Tell me again how the scoreboard doesn’t matter.”

Host: The room grew tense, the air heavy with electricity. Jack’s voice hardened, his tone measured — like a man trying to convince himself.

Jack: “So what, we should all just chase money? Kill the joy that makes the work worth doing?”

Jeeny: “No. But we should stop pretending that passion exists in a vacuum. Every dreamer you admire had someone paying the bills while they dreamed.”

Host: Lightning flashed, throwing their shadows across the walls like giants arguing with ghosts. Jeeny’s eyes gleamed with fire, Jack’s with defiance.

Jack: “Maybe that’s true, but money still doesn’t make you great. Talent, drive, obsession — that’s what builds legends. Money just records the aftermath.”

Jeeny: “And when the record is wrong? When the best musician dies in poverty, and the mediocre one sells out stadiums? What kind of scoreboard is that?”

Jack: “An imperfect one. But it’s still the only one we’ve got.”

Host: A long silence. The rain slowed to a mist, the city below glowing in blurred light. Jack’s shoulders slumped, his voice now a whisper, weary, human.

Jack: “You know… maybe it’s not about keeping score at all. Maybe it’s about how you play.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The game matters more than the score. That’s why the passionate keep playing, even when they lose.”

Host: She reached out, her hand resting on the edge of the table, close to his — not touching, but near enough that the distance meant something.

Jeeny: “You’re right, Jack. Money is the measure, not the meaning. But it’s also a mirror — it shows what the world values. If we want different scores, maybe we need different values.”

Jack: “And that starts with us.”

Host: The storm cleared, leaving the windows fogged, dripping with light. The office felt softer now — less like a battleground, more like a confession. Jack looked at Jeeny, a trace of a smile on his face, half surrender, half understanding.

Jack: “You ever think maybe the real score isn’t in numbers at all?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s in how much of your soul you leave in the work.”

Host: The city lights blurred into golden streaks beyond the glass, the rain turning them into living paintings. The clock ticked, but neither of them moved.

Host: And as the night deepened, one truth hung between them — that money may count, but passion creates. One builds the scoreboard; the other builds the game.

The camera would pull back, framing the two in a halo of neon and rain, silent, still, yet alive — players in a world where the score is temporary, but the play itself is eternal.