Our DNA is as a consumer company - for that individual customer

Host: The city night burned with a thousand electric veins, lights pulsing through the glass towers like neural signals in a digital organism. Down below, the rain fell—steady, cold, relentless—each drop catching reflections of a world built from circuits and craving.

Inside a rooftop bar, the air buzzed with music and neon haze. Screens glowed on every wall, whispering advertisements that promised connection, comfort, purpose. But in a far corner, away from the hum of transaction and laughter, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, framed by the city’s glow.

Jack’s suit jacket was draped across his chair, his grey eyes sharp yet distant, scanning the skyline as though decoding it. Jeeny stirred her drink, the ice clicking softly against the glass, her expression contemplative.

The air between them hummed with quiet tension—the kind that rises when ideals collide with the machinery of the modern world.

Jeeny: “Steve Jobs once said, ‘Our DNA is as a consumer company—for that individual customer who’s voting thumbs up or thumbs down. That’s who we think about. And we think our job is to take responsibility for the complete user experience. And if it’s not up to par, it’s our fault, plain and simply.’”

Jack: (leans forward, voice low, almost mechanical) “That’s the closest thing to religion in this century—consumer DNA. Not souls. Not ethics. Just satisfaction metrics.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, beating against the glass like static in a broken transmission. Jeeny’s eyes flickered toward him—soft, but resolute.

Jeeny: “You make it sound shallow. But there’s something honest about it, isn’t there? Taking responsibility for the whole experience—for what people feel. Isn’t that what art, or faith, or love does too?”

Jack: “Don’t romanticize corporate philosophy, Jeeny. Jobs wasn’t talking about empathy—he was talking about control. Seamless experience means absolute design dominance. Apple didn’t just build devices—they built desire. They didn’t sell tools; they sold identity. And we bought it.”

Host: Jack’s hand moved as he spoke, cutting through the air, tracing invisible circuits of argument. His voice sharpened, carrying the edge of conviction honed by disillusionment.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But they also believed in responsibility. When something failed, they said it was their fault. That’s rare, Jack. In a world where everyone blames the system, someone saying we own this—that matters.”

Jack: “Accountability for profit, Jeeny, not morality. When a company admits failure, it’s branding—part of the illusion of sincerity. Jobs wasn’t confessing sin; he was protecting loyalty.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people trusted him. Millions did. Because he believed in the experience, not just the product. That’s more than business—it’s philosophy. To make something so complete, so human, that it disappears into your life—that’s art, Jack.”

Host: The lights dimmed as a waiter passed, leaving a thin trail of cigarette smoke. The rain outside turned to mist, the city lights bleeding into one another, blurring lines between dream and design.

Jack: “Art? You call a glass rectangle art?”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Not the rectangle—the feeling it creates. When something fits so perfectly that it changes how you see the world, that’s art. And Jobs understood that.”

Jack: “He understood manipulation. Human emotion is the most profitable software. Make people feel seen, make them feel whole, and they’ll pay anything. It’s not innovation—it’s hypnosis.”

Jeeny: “But what’s the alternative? Cynicism? Refusing to care because caring can be commodified? Jobs may have built the illusion—but at least he believed in making it beautiful.”

Host: The word hung there—beautiful—like a fragile filament of light trembling between them. Jack’s jaw tightened; his fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, as if keeping time with a thought he couldn’t silence.

Jack: “Beauty doesn’t absolve responsibility. If they take ownership of experience, then they also take ownership of dependence. If the product becomes the person’s world, and that world breaks—whose fault is that?”

Jeeny: “He said it himself—it’s their fault, plain and simple. That’s the part you’re missing, Jack. He believed creators owe their users something beyond transaction. A kind of moral craftsmanship.”

Jack: “And you think corporations have morals?”

Jeeny: “No. But individuals within them can. Jobs wasn’t talking about shareholders—he was talking about creation as duty. To think about the person behind the screen. That’s human.”

Host: The music softened, replaced by the low hum of rain and the heartbeat of the city. Jeeny’s voice lowered, almost tender now, while Jack’s remained carved in skepticism, like two notes that could never resolve.

Jack: “And yet, the same devices we call masterpieces are the ones that isolate us. We connect, but never truly touch. We scroll, but never see. If user experience is their responsibility, then this loneliness—this numbness—belongs to them too.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it belongs to us. Maybe they handed us tools, and we forgot how to build meaning. You can’t blame a mirror for what it reflects.”

Host: A flash of lightning painted their faces in brief, silver relief—his marked by defeat, hers by defiance.

Jack: “That’s the thing about mirrors—they make you fall in love with your own reflection. That’s the genius and the curse of Apple, of Jobs. They didn’t sell technology—they sold self-adoration.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But they also reminded people that experience matters—that how something feels is as important as what it does. That’s not self-adoration, Jack. That’s the human condition.”

Host: The bar had emptied; the rain had quieted to a whisper. The neon sign outside flickered, its letters fading in and out like the heartbeat of a machine dreaming of being human.

Jack: (softer now) “You think we can still make things that matter? Things that heal instead of distract?”

Jeeny: “Only if we remember the ‘complete experience’ he talked about. Not just sleek design—but responsibility, empathy, awareness. Technology as an extension of conscience, not ego.”

Jack: “And if it’s not up to par—our fault, plain and simple.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Silence fell, heavy yet alive. The city shimmered below like a circuit board pulsing with infinite possibility. Jack looked at Jeeny—really looked—and something in his expression shifted, the faintest crack in his armor.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the truest legacy Jobs left. Not devices. Not wealth. But the idea that creation itself carries moral weight.”

Jeeny: “And that perfection isn’t the goal—integrity is.”

Host: A faint smile touched both their faces. Outside, the rain ceased entirely. The streets, slick with light, reflected the skyline—a perfect mirror, fractured yet luminous.

The city, in all its wired chaos, felt suddenly… human.

Host: As they sat in the quiet glow, two figures in the circuitry of a sleepless world, one truth hummed between them: that responsibility and beauty are not enemies, but twins—born of the same fragile desire to make something whole.

And somewhere, in the pulse of the digital night, the world exhaled—a small, silent act of faith that even in an age built by machines, there still beats a heart that remembers what it means to care.