Just One More Meeting Bro

Ah, the seven deadly archetypes of every engineering team. I've worked with all of these people, and I've been all these people—sometimes in the same sprint. My personal favorite is "The Silent Operator" who hasn't spoken since the company holiday party of 2019 but somehow commits the exact fix at 2 AM while everyone else is arguing in Slack. And don't get me started on "The System Rebuilder." Sure, event sourcing sounds amazing in theory—right up until you're explaining to the CEO why the shopping cart needs six months of refactoring. The real unicorn is someone who's none of these. If you find them, lock the door and hide their passport.

Ah, the legendary "Junior Vibe Coder" position! Because apparently writing code isn't enough anymore—you need to pass the vibe check too. Companies out here looking for developers who can both reverse a binary tree AND maintain immaculate vibes during a production outage at 3 AM. The best part? That one-week review time. Translation: "We'll ghost you for 7 days while we find someone with better vibes who'll work for less money." Remember when job titles made sense? Pepperidge Farm remembers.

Ah, the classic self-inflicted trolley problem! The code was working perfectly fine, but you just had to make it "cleaner" and "more elegant." Now you're frantically Slack messaging the team at 11 PM while production burns down. It's that special kind of self-destructive genius where you convince yourself that your unnecessary abstraction is somehow saving the codebase, right before you heroically break everything that was working. The philosophical trolley problem, but make it stupid - nobody was in danger until you decided to play code architect. Next time just write a comment and walk away. Trust me.

Ah, the classic story point inflation syndrome. Junior devs see a simple "add a button" task and suddenly it's a 5-point epic with database schema changes, UI redesigns, and three days of meetings. Meanwhile, senior devs are having Vietnam-style flashbacks to every sprint planning where they had to gently explain that changing a label color doesn't require refactoring the entire codebase. After eight years of watching this cycle repeat, you develop that exact facial expression—a mixture of horror, disbelief, and the crushing realization that you'll be staying late fixing the overengineered monstrosity they're about to create.

The eternal corporate time paradox strikes again. Junior dev's optimistic "Of course!" to a 6-month deadline sends the entire management chain into Harry Potter villain mode. The looks of horror aren't because they fear failure—they know exactly what's coming: 18 months of scope creep, burnout, and explaining to the CEO why "almost done" isn't actually done. The mentor's face says it all: "I tried to teach you estimation skills, but here we are." Meanwhile, the projector lady is already planning the PowerPoint for the inevitable project post-mortem.

The natural hierarchy of software development in its native habitat. Junior devs frantically climbing up the project staircase, desperately trying to make sense of the codebase they inherited. The senior dev stands back, knowing exactly which parts will collapse but choosing to watch the learning process unfold. Meanwhile, the Scrum Master casually enjoys his snack, completely oblivious to the impending disaster. He'll just add it as "technical debt" to next sprint's backlog and call it a day. The best part? No one knows who's actually responsible for this architectural nightmare, but the commit history has been carefully scrubbed of all evidence.