Bundler Wars


_Looking for the dystopic Science Fiction short of the same name?_ [^1]

[^1]:
    Maybe one day we'll shoot the [Krazam](https://www.youtube.com/krazam) sketch: _Bundler Wars_ is set in dystopic 2035. Our hero Ben has fallen way behind the times (like might-use-CoffeeScript behind the times (though he won't admit it)). He's broke and desperate for work.

    After finally securing a contract, he needs to gain access to a coveted Transpiler so he can produce the final bundle. But Transpilers are expensive (after all, they do have hundreds of cores) and are tightly regulated by the Eichman (the authoritarian coalition (futilely) trying to minimize the collateral damage of the Bundler Wars on the civilian population).

    Ben's only hope is to turn to the underground - to The Unlintables.

I wrote my first React library the other day.

I avoided it for as long as I could. But when initial work was completed, I had to face the facts: I needed to setup a JavaScript bundler.

Webpack is familiar. But I scan a number of other React libraries, and none of them are using Webpack. Is that because it's unfashionable or unfit? You can never tell with JavaScript.

So I decide on Rollup. Rollup uses a plugin system. Even though my setup feels very standard, it's unclear what precise combination of plugins I'll need to get this to work. A brute-force Google-Copy-Paste-Rebundle-Refresh-Delete-Repeat loop ensues.

Eventually, I discover it's not just about the combination of plugins - plugin _order_ matters. That's because, taking a peek under the hood, it would appear that Unspeakable Things are happening. I regret peeking. Close the hood.

Here's the thing: _No one is at fault_ here.

JavaScript is everything that is beautiful and frustrating about humanity. It is the people's language, yet not one we ever democratically elected. As with much of web technology, it evolved as a series of kludges, grand plans be damned. We [tried](https://dart.dev/) [to](https://clojurescript.org/) [stop](https://coffeescript.org/) [it](https://elm-lang.org/), but this was swimming the Colorado river upstream.

Maybe we should have paddled harder.

It is only in JavaScript that we can find ourselves staring down [this massive thread](https://github.com/facebook/react/issues/13991), the issue colloquially referred to as Issue One-Three-Nine-Nine-One:

<div style={{width: "100%", textAlign: "center"}}>
<img
src="/bundler-wars/the-thread.png"
alt="The Thread"
height={300}
style={{margin: "auto"}}
/>
</div>

In my new role as React Library Author, I have become quite familiar with Issue One-Three-Nine-Nine-One. I return to this thread so frequently, I'm afraid GitHub is going to throttle me for abuse.

The issue contains ~~242~~ 287 comments (and counting). Many comments are littered desperately with emojis, like ancient cairns marking solutions as either roads to prosperity or roads to doom.

Issue One-Three-Nine-Nine-One isn't working towards a solution. It's providing a marketplace, an open Bazaar where Finders from afar can peddle their solutions - and Seekers can desperately Copy-Paste-Rebundle-Refresh - _no, that wasn't it either._

<div style={{width: "100%", textAlign: "center"}}>
<img
src="/bundler-wars/bazaar.jpg"
alt="Ancient Bazaar"
height={400}
style={{margin: "auto"}}
/>
</div>

> _Solutions for webpack! Get ye solutions for webpack!_
>
> _Here lies the command ye seek! It uses an obscure tandem of `npm-link-shared` and `prestart` hooks. Don't ask questions, yer fine!_
>
> _This 30-minute blog post will ward off Double-React Syndrome for good!_

I feel like I've tried every solution, every salve. I feel hopeless, despondent.

@apieceofbart goes so far as to (very kindly) suggest:

> "It was obviously my mistake of using two copies of React but I agree that it would be great if the error message was better."

No, @apieceofbart, this is not your fault. It's not React's fault. It's not ECMA's fault or Eich's fault.

This is our fault. JavaScript is our problem.

I get it working. How? I'm not totally sure. While my initial steps were measured, I quickly deteriorated into a debug frenzy. Copying and pasting lines from blog posts found on page 5 of a Google Search. Swapping out bundlers - just to swap them back in. `rm -f`'ing `node_modules` so many times, I was certain that those blocks of my SSD were going to go permanently dark.

My solution is far from optimal. I have a separate repo for testing my library, but I can't get `npm link` to work. But if, with each change to my library, I (1) bump the version, (2) bundle it, (3) push it to npm, (4) bump the version in my test repo, (5) `yarn install` -- my app compiles and I can test my library.

This is not sustainable. But I guess it _is_ JavaScript, after all.

I feel dejected. I have a solution, but it's unfulfilling. I feel like a cheat, a fraud, a copypasta programmer who doesn't understand the duplo blocks he's piecing together. What craftsman remains so perplexed by his tools after over a decade of experience?

A tool is supposed to _feel good_ - sturdy, predictable, precise. A tool is supposed to make its wielder _feel powerful_. JavaScript and its maddening toolchain, from beginning to end, will find little ways to undermine you. To humiliate you.

As someone that has programmed JavaScript professionally since 2013, I am convinced we are under a collective delusion. This is what Stockholm Syndrome feels like on the inside.

---

_December 2020_: I broke free this year, at least partially. After years of Node back-ends, I switched to Elixir/Phoenix.

I've been on Elixir/Phoenix for 6+ months now, and yet the stack still makes me smile at least once per day. It is such a pleasure to have a thoughtful, well-designed, integrated developer experience from end-to-end.

I feel like a craftsman reunited with his tools again. With JavaScript relegated to just the front-end, I feel at peace.

Remember, dear reader, that you _do_ have a choice.

---

<div style={{ display: "grid", gridTemplateColumns: "auto 1fr", gridColumnGap: "20px", alignItems: "center"}}>
<img height={50} src="/sync-inc-logo.svg" alt="Sync Inc Logo" />
<p style={{fontStyle: "italics"}}>We're in the earliest of days building <a href="https://syncinc.so">Sync Inc</a>. Want to work on fun API and syncing infrastructure with an amazing team? <a href="mailto:anthony@syncinc.so">Email me</a>.</p>
</div>


Drake & Future


I can imagine Drake and I having a productive conversation over a couple of beers.

I’ve run through the sequence a few times. Try as I might, the conversation takes a little while to evolve past the interview format. I nervously default to the same tactics of a first date, perhaps rambling a bit about the bar I’ve chosen or the beer we’re drinking to establish an appearance of eclecticism. Drake shrugs off the beer factoid. Not his thing. Duh. Stupid me.

In every run through, Drake starts off slumped in his chair across the table. Looking a bit tired or bored. Barely managing to patronize me with responses. He pulls out his phone often, trailing off mid-sentence to field a text. After he shoves his phone back in his pocket, he stares into the distance for a moment and then eventually remembers I’m across the table.

But we chug along. In a few rehearsals, I’ve been able to successfully tease him out. I’d plunge deep into questions about the industry, identifying areas beneath the first few well-worn layers that finally hook the guy. When I do, he smiles — he smiles! — and he leans back and says “Funny you should ask that…” and then we’ve reached a comfortable cadence. My attention can finally relax, no longer frantically jumping around, prepping the next question ahead of him finishing his answer — _is that a good question? That’s kind of a dumb question. What else have you got? Shit he’s done talking. Take a sip. Take a sip_!

Drake and I leave together, he with his private driver and I with my Uber (I naturally opted for the black car this time). And despite how awkward our fistbump-handshake-hug goodbye is, we both leave feeling it was time well spent.

I can’t even _begin_ to entertain the idea that Future and I could progress a conversation beyond the weather. I’d be clutching at every three-syllable response, digging deeper and deeper into Atlanta’s weather patterns and seasonal trends. Before five minutes pass, Future will begin wondering if I setup our meeting (at an amateurishly early hour in a strip club I’d found on Yelp) for the sole purpose of collecting information for the farm I’m constructing just outside the city.

It is clear Future and I have nothing in common. I don’t recall ever paying for bottle service or even meaningfully being a part of one. This alone seems to eliminate about half of our possible conversation topics. My idea of misusing cough syrup is taking another dose _just inside_ the recommended window. I consider my \$10 Casio a suitable accessory.

So it’s likely no surprise that my first encounter with Future’s music didn’t go so well. _Who is this guy?_ I remember the video. Then up-and-coming (now-???) producers TNGHT present Future with what insiders would call a “dope ass beat.” Future proceeds to say nothing at all on top of it. I recall him reciting lots of holidays, as if reading from a nearby wall-mounted calendar for inspiration. I believe he shook his hands in a manner that would suggest popping two bottles of champagne somewhat unenthusiastically.

I still ask this question all the time — _Who is this guy_? Forgive me for thinking the man sounds a bit uninspired at times. He opens one of his verses on _What A Time To Be Alive_ by recalling his old pals that were present on a particular night, kind of like a senile grandpa trying to set the scene for a family reunion ten years ago: “Ah yes, I know Big Meech and J-mo — they were there. And I know OG India and Suga — they were there. Oh yeah, oh yeah.”

Labeling Drake and Future’s latest effort a collaboration at times feels like a stretch. It is a stark contrast to Jay-Z and Kanye’s _Watch The Throne_. That album was brimming with expensive production. Jay-Z and Kanye tag-teamed the beats, sometimes rapidly swapping verses other times building off of each other’s material. You could tell they thought it was a Big Deal and that you should think so too.

Drake and Future spent a few days in a studio with a kid with a hot hand and just cranked out song after song until they’d exhausted his inventory.

And I can’t stop listening to it.

We don’t see two stars collaborating to create something huge. We see them just* being* huge. The album is impressive if for nothing else, underscoring the cruising altitude both Drake and Future have reached. They don’t need much to be wildly entertaining.

The album is littered with bland lines. Ghostwriting allegations should crumble before the banality of “After this club, we just change locations.” But Drake and (especially) Future’s uncanny art is breathing life into the simplest ideas. Creating an ear worm from the most basic ingredients.

Future repeats lines like “Caught the wave I ain’t surfing / Caught the wave I ain’t surfing” as if deliberately installing them in your cortex. There might be multiple layers of meaning. But just as likely, there isn’t any meaning at all.


Goodbye, friends


With the sounds of a delicate piano piece playing in the background, I sit here in the orange glow of my dimly-lit room, drinking tea, unfollowing everyone that I know on Facebook.

James ▒▒▒▒▒? Yeah, I actually don’t really care about what he’s up to.

Unfollow.

Elaine ▒▒▒▒▒? Honestly, never heard of her.

Unfollow.

Charlie ▒▒▒▒▒, a guy I haven’t talked to in three years just posted to a group I’m not a part of about a birthday party I’m not invited to and couldn’t attend even if I was?

Unfollow.

The first few unfollows are a bit uneven. Drill down to a contextual menu, click “Unfollow.” You’re asked to confirm. A flicker of doubt injects pause–maybe it would be nice to keep tabs on this guy?

Eh, unfollow.

I reach a steady cadence. My mouse seamlessly glides to the targets. I’m now comfortable enough with the procedure that I’ve also worked my left hand into the choreography. It taps the “Enter” button before my browser even finishes painting the confirmation modal.

Unfollow, unfollow, unfollow, unfollow.

But Facebook does not intend to make this easy. It begins mounting a resistance, clawing desperately back at me.

“Are you sure you want to unfollow Edward?”

Yes.

“Ok, but look at these pictures of Katie with her dog! Aren’t they coo? Awww, look at that puppy!”

Unfollow.

“Well look at Stephanie! She’s going to Disneyland! You should wish her well, like these 39 other _real_ friends of hers! C’mon!”

Unfollow.

“Fine. What about your ex? Are you telling me you don’t want to keep tabs on your ex?”

Unfollow.

“You fool. Look here. Lookie here, we’ve got Eric. Your best friend. Go ahead. Unfollow him. I dare you.”

I pause. I mean if I keep a dozen people in my newsfeed, that would be pretty manageable, right?

“Totally. Keep a few dozen people in the feed, the people that really matter to you. You need to stay in the loop. Just the couple hundred that *really *matter.”

No. I’m going all or nothing.

Unfollow.

What began as a tactical exercise to fundamentally change the way I used the most ubiquitous tool amongst my generation shifted unexpectedly into what I could really only describe as a meditative experience. An individual from my past briefly enters my consciousness as my crosshairs roll down to their latest post. Click, click, tap and they’re gone. An instance of calm as another instrument is silenced amidst the cacophony of noise.

With its command of my social domain, Facebook would probably like to drag me out into a public square and denounce me as a terrible friend and a social recluse. In fact, I would be surprised if they haven’t already spent ample resources researching subtle ways to pressure or humiliate their users. Involvement is paramount to their business. Anything they can do to keep me involved–through enforcements both positive and negative–must be explored, and the engine at their disposal is my social network.

Tonight, I feel victorious. But the war is far from over.


Posts

Bundler Wars

Drake & Future

Goodbye, friends

Sketch comedy