In the technology industry, we're often focused on the next big thing—the latest framework, the newest platform, the most cutting-edge approach. But lately, I've been thinking about the opposite: what does it mean to build things that last? In a world where entire technology stacks can become obsolete in a matter of years, how do we create work that has staying power?
This question has become more pressing as I've watched projects I've worked on disappear into digital archives. Websites I spent months building are now broken links. Apps I helped create are no longer compatible with current operating systems. Code I wrote with care and attention has been refactored out of existence.
There's something melancholy about this digital impermanence, but also something instructive. It's forced me to think about what aspects of our work truly endure, and what it means to create value that transcends the specific technologies we use to create it.
I've come to believe that the things that last in technology aren't usually the technologies themselves, but the principles and patterns that inform them. The specific programming languages and frameworks change, but the underlying concepts of good design, clear communication, and thoughtful problem-solving remain constant.
Consider some of the most enduring pieces of technology we use. The internet protocols that power our daily digital interactions were designed decades ago, but they've lasted because they were built on sound principles: simplicity, robustness, and extensibility. They didn't try to solve every possible problem; they focused on solving a few problems really well.
This suggests a different approach to building lasting technology. Instead of trying to anticipate every future need or incorporate every current trend, we might focus on creating simple, robust solutions that can adapt to changing circumstances. We might prioritize clarity over cleverness, sustainability over rapid growth, and fundamental value over surface-level innovation.
But lasting impact in technology isn't just about technical architecture. It's also about the human systems we create around our technology. The documentation we write, the teams we build, the communities we foster—these elements often outlive the specific technologies they support.
I've seen this in open-source projects that have survived multiple complete rewrites because they maintained strong communities and clear values. The code changed, but the principles and the people remained. The technology evolved, but the mission endured.
This raises an interesting question: if we know that our specific technical choices will likely become obsolete, should we care less about them? I don't think so. I think we should care about them differently. Instead of trying to future-proof every technical decision, we can focus on making choices that teach us something valuable, that contribute to our understanding of good design, that help us become better at solving problems.
The process of building something well—of making thoughtful decisions, of considering edge cases, of writing clear code—develops skills and insights that transfer to future projects. The specific output might not last, but the learning does.
There's also something to be said for building with an awareness of impermanence. When we accept that our work will eventually become obsolete, we can make different choices about how we spend our time and energy. We might focus more on creating value for users today rather than trying to optimize for hypothetical future scenarios.
This doesn't mean we should ignore the future entirely. Good engineering still requires thinking about maintainability, scalability, and long-term consequences. But it does suggest that we might balance future-proofing with present-focused value creation.
Perhaps the most lasting things we can build in technology are the practices, principles, and relationships that make good work possible. The culture of careful thinking, the habits of clear communication, the commitment to solving real problems for real people—these elements can outlive any specific technology stack.
In an industry obsessed with disruption and innovation, there's something quietly radical about focusing on permanence and continuity. It's a reminder that not everything needs to be revolutionary to be valuable, and that some of the most important work happens at the intersection of technical skill and human understanding.
Building things that last in technology might not mean creating systems that never need to be updated or replaced. It might mean creating work that contributes to a continuous conversation about how technology can serve human flourishing, work that teaches us something about the relationship between technical possibility and human need.
The specific technologies we use today will almost certainly become obsolete. But the care with which we use them, the problems we choose to solve, and the communities we build around our work—these elements have the potential to create lasting value that transcends any particular technical implementation.