Why do I code? That's a question I’ve been pondering and have since been asking those around me.
Some said they code because they can. Others said it pays the bills. Many said they enjoy it, simply because it works.
Working software is, of course, the fundamental goal of software engineering. But in this age of accelerating AI advancement, a deeper, more existential question begins to emerge:
If the value of code is solely measured by its functionalism ie by its ability to run correctly; then what happens when AI can do that better, faster, and more reliably than we ever could?
Why will we still code then? Is there anything left to coding than its utilitarian purpose?
To seek an answer, I found myself looking not to other engineers, but to artists.
In the creative world, asking “Why do I create?” is a rite of passage, a soul-searching moment in the life of any serious artist. They often confront another hard truth:
Is art only valuable when there is an audience? Or is it enough that the creator finds meaning in it, even if no one ever will?
Consider the late periods of Impressionism, when visionary painters like Vincent van Gogh and Paul Gauguin were, in their lifetimes, largely dismissed, misunderstood and even ridiculed. They lived in hardship, mental turmoil, and obscurity.
Yet they created relentlessly.
Why?
Because what they made had intrinsic value to them. They were unwilling to compromise that, not for recognition or profit, not even for their own sanity, not even for their own survival.
In more modern times, artists like Allan Kaprow and Andy Goldsworthy embraced the ideology of “process over product.” Their works were often temporary or deliberately designed for eventual destruction. Their value was not in permanence, but in its ephemeral expression. Not in what they made, but in how they made it and how it made them feel.
I remember the first time I felt that visceral connection with coding.
It was high school. I was learning Visual Basic and just discovered the sheer awesomeness that is Win32 API library. My first meaningful “creation” was a crude yet mischievous keylogger, a hidden window application that can secretly capture every keystroke to a text file on our school's Windows XP machines, supposedly “protected” by an all powerful access control program called FoolProof.
On that faithful day, I fired up Visual Studio, compiled the code, clicked on "Start Debug" and call out to the teacher to come over to enter the admin password for FoolProof under the guise of needing to print something.
Moments later, I was staring at the log file, heart pounding with pure exhilaration. There it was: the unrivaled power and dominion over all school computers from that point onward.
That was the ultimate expression of rebellion and self-proclaimed hacktivism by a budding coder.
As I honed my skills and refined its mastery, the joy of coding also evolved.
I discovered the flow state, when one's mental state enters the zone where the noise quiets, doubt disappears, and the mind syncs with the machine. A stream of consciousness pours through my fingers, ideas and intentions transmuting into logic, commands and creation. Time blurs, focus sharpens.
It’s a sense of profound serenity and zen, Art in its purest form.
That's the beauty in those moments, when your latest creation feels like your greatest masterpiece, until the next one overtakes it, and the next there after.
The blissful fulfillment isn’t in reaching perfection, it's in the process thereof.
And that, I believe, is what AI cannot replace at a personal level, at least not yet. Maybe not ever.
Even though AI may inevitably write better, faster and more reliable code. Will it allows me to feel the thrill of discovery? The quiet euphoria of a solved problem? The tranquility of transcendental focus? The utmost pride in my creation?
So, why do I still code?
Because - I code, therefore I am.
#WhyWeCode #CodeForTheSoul #CodingIsArt #ProcessOverProduct #IThinkThereforeICode #MoreThanCode #ZenOfCoding #HumanInTheLoop #TheArtOfEngineering
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