Boy, do I love the smell of a new release in the morning.
It might not be as poetic as napalm, but it’s definitely just as deadly. Nothing beats release day. Especially a chunky one, full of complexity, dependencies, and multidisciplinary work. Months of effort about to be pushed into the wild, exposed to real users, real judgement, real consequences.
Yep, call me crazy, but I love that feeling. I’ll go even further: it’s one of the main drivers of why I do this job. Fixing a tricky bug or untangling a complex problem gives a buzz that’s hard to replicate, sure. But release day? That’s a different kind of rush altogether.
It starts in the days before the deadline. If things have been done properly, you’re deep into internal testing, and the dominant emotion is… feeling stupid. A parade of small, obvious bugs emerges, and you can’t help but wonder how you missed something so basic after weeks—or months—of working on the same feature.
The answer is simple: perfection doesn’t exist.
Working on something for a long time makes you an expert, but it also makes you blind. You’ve stared at the same flows, the same screens, the same assumptions for so long that flaws fade into the background. Fresh eyes catch things instantly. That’s not failure,it’s human.
Over time, I’ve come to accept that no matter how solid the planning or how good the process, there will always be some last-minute chaos. That used to frustrate me. I thought it meant we’d planned poorly, that I hadn’t done a good enough job earlier. The truth is the opposite: the higher the bar, the more those final details matter. You won’t be fixing catastrophic issues—but you will be polishing, tweaking, nit-picking. And that’s part of the craft.
I’ve learned to appreciate that tension. At that point it’s no longer about individual achievement. It’s about the team. The shared push toward something that’s as close to “right” as you can reasonably get. It’s the closest thing I’ve felt to winning a team sport.
With experience, I’ve also learned to handle the madness better. Last-minute requests used to send me into panic mode. Now they energise me. I know that under pressure I can be at my best. I get focused, sharp, intentional. That’s when I make a difference, and I’ve learned to lean into it.
Release day itself is a blur. Meetings, calls, hotfixes, trade-offs, crossed fingers. You learn what truly matters and what doesn’t. You trust the people around you, each with their own expertise, and you watch everything slowly come together.
Then it goes live.
And suddenly, it’s out of your hands.
That’s when the part I like least begins: monitoring. Logs, dashboards, analytics. Staring at numbers, trying to convince yourself that every spike is normal and every flat line is fine. Interpreting every signal as meaningful. Slowly losing your mind.
Actually, that’s not my least favourite part.
What I like even less is the praise.
I know it comes from a good place. I know people are just being kind and recognising the work. I just don’t like being the centre of attention. Especially in team efforts. I’d much rather shine the spotlight on my teammates and keep moving.
Because my focus is never on what I’ve just shipped. It’s always on what’s next.
I’ve always judged myself as a developer by the next piece of work, not the last one. A sloppy implementation tomorrow isn’t forgiven because yesterday’s release went well. There’s no point dwelling on success—only learning from mistakes and applying it forward.
Until the next release.
Dreading it. Can’t wait for it.