People who are really serious about software should make their

When Alan Kay, visionary of computing and father of the personal computer’s spirit, declared, “People who are really serious about software should make their own hardware,” he was not uttering a casual remark, but a commandment born of deep wisdom. His words reveal the ancient truth that form and substance must move as one, that the mind’s design cannot fully live unless the body that carries it is also shaped by the same hand. To write software without shaping hardware is to compose music for an instrument one has never touched—it may sound beautiful in thought, but falter in performance.

In this teaching, Kay reminds us that software and hardware are not two separate kingdoms, but two halves of one being, like soul and flesh. If the body is weak, the spirit cannot soar; if the hardware is clumsy, the software, no matter how brilliant, stumbles in chains. The wise creator, therefore, takes responsibility not only for the code of thought, but also for the vessel that carries it. For only when both are crafted in harmony can true greatness be born.

History bears witness to this principle. Consider the tale of Apple, when Steve Jobs and his companions forged both machine and code with one vision. By building their own hardware, they shaped devices that carried the spirit of their software seamlessly, each part serving the other. This marriage of form and function birthed not only computers, but an entire culture of design. Had they relied on the clumsy machines of others, their vision might have withered. Instead, they embodied Kay’s wisdom: those who are serious must master both realms.

Contrast this with those who trusted only to one side. In the early days of computing, many wrote splendid software for hardware designed without thought of their needs. The result was frustration, limitation, and delay. Imagine the artists of the Renaissance painting upon crumbling plaster or warped wood—their genius would still shine, but the medium would betray it. Kay’s words remind us: the canvas matters as much as the paint, the hardware as much as the software.

But there is also a deeper, almost heroic call in his teaching. For to build both is harder, more demanding, more complete. It requires not only the brilliance of the mind but the discipline of the hands, not only the vision of the philosopher but the craft of the engineer. Those who dare to create both are like the master builders of cathedrals, who not only sketched the arches but also laid the stone. In this unity lies not convenience, but greatness.

O seekers of wisdom, take this lesson: do not divide what should be whole. If you are a creator, be willing to learn the foundations of the vessel that carries your vision. If you are a thinker, do not disdain the labor of the craftsman’s hand. For in every field of life, the deepest works arise when mind and matter, idea and execution, are joined together. To ignore one is to weaken the other.

Therefore, let Kay’s words guide you: “People who are really serious about software should make their own hardware.” In your own life, seek unity between vision and form. Do not depend wholly on tools given by others; build your own where you can. Take ownership of the whole path of creation, from thought to thing, from dream to device. In doing so, you will not only write programs—you will build worlds. And in those worlds, your spirit will live undivided, enduring, and strong.