The more we can make our developers famous, the better.

Host: The office was quiet after hours—only the low hum of computers and the soft pulse of blue screens lit the space. Rows of desks stretched out like a digital landscape, littered with empty coffee cups, headphones, and half-written code. The city lights outside flickered in reflection against the glass, as if the skyline itself were watching them work.

Jack stood by the window, his arms crossed, staring at the endless constellation of buildings. Jeeny sat at a nearby desk, her laptop still glowing with lines of code that looked like poetry in motion—mathematical, elegant, human.

She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the monitor’s soft light.
Jeeny: “David Baszucki once said, ‘The more we can make our developers famous, the better.’”

Her tone was curious, thoughtful. “What do you think of that, Jack? Do you think creators deserve fame?”

Jack gave a small, skeptical smile.
Jack: “Fame’s a virus, Jeeny. Once it infects a purpose, the purpose dies.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, soft and even, streaking the glass walls with thin silver lines. The sound was steady, rhythmic—a metronome for their conversation.

Jeeny: “You sound like a cynic again. But isn’t that what recognition really is? Just… light shining on the people who build things instead of those who merely talk about them?”

Jack: “Recognition, sure. Fame, no. Recognition celebrates work; fame consumes it.”

Host: The screen’s glow flickered across Jack’s sharp features—grey eyes intense, thoughtful, almost tired. He turned slightly toward Jeeny, his reflection merging with the night outside.

Jack: “Look at tech today. Developers, inventors, artists—they start out wanting to build. Then fame turns them into brands. Their work stops being about curiosity, and starts being about applause.”

Jeeny: “But applause is a kind of gratitude, isn’t it? Baszucki’s point was about empowerment. To make developers visible—to let kids see who built their worlds. Fame, when it’s honest, inspires.”

Jack: “Inspires, yes. But also distorts. You remember that quote from Borges? ‘Fame is a form of incomprehension.’ The more people see you, the less they understand what you actually did.”

Jeeny: “So what’s the alternative? Stay invisible forever?”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe the best creators are like architects—you don’t remember their names, just the space they built for you to live in.”

Host: Jeeny leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. The glow from her monitor traced her profile in soft blue. Outside, lightning flickered in the distance—brief, electric, fleeting.

Jeeny: “But that’s a contradiction, isn’t it? You talk about legacy, meaning, impact—and yet you want anonymity. How can you change the world if no one knows you built it?”

Jack: “The world doesn’t need to know me. It just needs to feel what I made.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful—and naïve.”

Jack: “Why naïve?”

Jeeny: “Because visibility is survival now. In this age, being unseen is the same as being erased. You can’t inspire the next generation if your name never echoes.”

Jack: “And yet every echo fades, Jeeny. Fame is temporary oxygen—it feels good, but it isn’t air.”

Host: The thunder rumbled faintly outside, the sound vibrating through the steel and glass. The city lights shimmered like scattered data—each one a signal, a code, a story being written somewhere in silence.

Jeeny: “I don’t think Baszucki meant fame as vanity, Jack. He meant celebration. Imagine kids growing up knowing the faces behind their favorite games, their favorite worlds. For once, the builders—not the marketers—become the heroes.”

Jack: “Heroes? Developers aren’t heroes. They’re architects of illusion.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t illusion the beginning of every dream? Even the universe started from invisible code.”

Host: Her voice softened, but it carried the weight of conviction—the way a believer sounds when speaking of faith. Jack’s expression faltered, torn between irony and admiration.

Jack: “You talk like creation is sacred.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Code, art, film, architecture—it’s all an act of faith. To build something out of nothing. That’s divinity in disguise.”

Jack: “Then what does fame have to do with divinity?”

Jeeny: “Nothing. But visibility has to do with justice. For centuries, creators have been buried beneath the shadows of those who profited off them. Maybe Baszucki’s right—it’s time to make the builders visible, not for glory, but for truth.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, drumming softly on the windows like an applause only they could hear. The glow of the monitors flickered between them—binary constellations illuminating two sides of the same belief.

Jack walked to her desk, leaning against its edge.
Jack: “So you want to make developers famous to balance the scales?”

Jeeny: “To remind the world that innovation has faces. That creativity isn’t magic—it’s human.”

Jack: “But humans are fragile, Jeeny. Fame magnifies them, then destroys them. Look at the artists of the past—their light was too bright, and it burned them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they didn’t burn—they illuminated. You just can’t tell the difference until the fire’s out.”

Host: The room fell quiet again, except for the low hum of the server racks in the corner—a mechanical heartbeat. The blue LED lights blinked like tiny eyes, watching, listening, recording.

Jack: “You know what scares me most?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That fame will make creators stop creating. That once they start being seen, they’ll stop seeing.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s our responsibility to make sure it doesn’t. Fame can be poison—but it can also be sunlight, if handled right. Maybe the trick isn’t to hide from it, but to use it like a mirror—to reflect the light back on the work.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. He reached for the mouse and turned her monitor toward himself. The code she’d written glowed across the screen—lines upon lines, symmetrical, graceful, alive.

Jack: “You wrote this?”

Jeeny: “We wrote it. Together.”

Jack smiled faintly.
Jack: “Then maybe that’s what fame should look like. Not faces, but fingerprints.”

Jeeny: “Yes. A world where we recognize not the person, but the pattern they leave behind.”

Host: The storm began to ease outside, the rain slowing to a delicate whisper. The city lights pulsed gently through the mist. Inside, the blue light dimmed, leaving the two of them in a kind of calm glow—between silence and electricity, between anonymity and recognition.

Jack looked out at the skyline again.
Jack: “Maybe Baszucki’s right after all. The more we make our developers famous, the better—but only if it teaches the world to see the invisible.”

Jeeny smiled.
Jeeny: “To see that creation itself is the celebrity.”

Host: The camera would pan slowly upward now, through the rain-specked glass, revealing the endless sprawl of the digital city—a thousand lights flickering like active neurons in the mind of a sleeping god.

Host: And in that electric stillness, Baszucki’s truth would hum quietly beneath it all:

That fame isn’t about faces,
but about recognition—
that every line of code, every idea, every creation
is a small spark of the infinite,
and that the world grows brighter
every time we name the hands that built it.