When I started my career, I was a mercenary. I cared about the money and the puzzle. I didn’t give a damn about what the stuff I built was used for.
My first job was at SGI, and my first bit of tech helped design stuff at Labs that were so secret I couldn’t ask any questions. All I knew was that every question was, “I’m sorry we can’t tell you.”
My next job was at NetApp, where I built streaming media caches. The first use of those systems was for porn. The whole point of the internet at that time was porn. I used to find it amusing that I helped people see porn and enjoy porn.
Twenty-one years ago, porn was seen as – well – bad. And being a sex worker was seen as -bad-. And I’ve changed that point of view. But back then, I liked being part of the bad industry and being able to claim, like Albert Speer, my position is apolitical.
My mom would ask me what I did, and I would stare at her mischievously and tell her that I helped people.
My line was, “I am a professional. If the problem was how to build baby torture devices, and it was interesting, and the pay was good, I would do it.”
But somewhere, in the back of my head, the story of Albert Speer scared me. See, Albert Speer was the guy a whole generation of Europeans used to justify their silence and blindness in the face of the Holocaust. He was just a technocrat. A man that you could almost admire.
In my head, he was the guy who made the evil possible. He was the representative of the worst kind of human being, who was the professional without whom the madmen would never have been able to kill at scale.
One thing about growing up is that you can sometimes have two contradictory thoughts in your head until revelation happens.
In my case, it was a rebirth of my Christian faith. And a realization that being that professional was wrong. Those actions mattered.
But revelation and action take a long time.
And over time, I have started to make decisions about who I work for and where I work based on the principles of leadership and their willingness to take action on things I care about.
My Christian faith makes it impossible for me to expect Saints, but it also demands that I look for better leaders.
After I left NetApp, I went to Zynga. And there, I discovered Mark Pincus, who, despite all of his flaws, showed that being a principled leader was possible. I won’t forget his decision to insist that the Mafia Wars design team delete a creepy scene from Mafia Wars II. There were other decisions, but that one still sticks out.
And my personal success makes it possible to take risks that others can’t.
I don’t want to be Albert Speer.
Growing up, I couldn’t understand how people would worship that man. And the lesson I had learned was that you could have it all if you knew how to ignore the evil you helped create.
He was the consummate professional. And I could have it all if I were like him. I could be a technologist bereft of a moral compass and have it all.
But as I grew up, I became disgusted with myself for being like him, and I started to change.
In the back of my head, the fact that his reputation survived galled me. It meant that amoral professionals never got their due.
It’s with great satisfaction that the latest biographies of Albert Speer make it clear he was evil and should have been hanged. It’s with great relief that I see his reputation crumble, and the people who fell for him have their reputations crumble alongside him.
It’s 2020, and we technologists enable systems that create harm, like Facebook. Without us, Mr. Zuckerberg could not choose to allow hate to spew. Our systems allow him to make choices that are questionable at best, evil at worst.
And Mr. Zuckberg is not alone. There are others. Our personal morality can not be entirely divorced from our profession. Being a professional doesn’t absolve you from not knowing.
And if we think history will be kind, let’s remind ourselves of Albert Speer. History was not kind.
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