The fall of the guru who predicted the end of programming

The guru who predicted the end of programming and never proved he could code

There's a scene that sums up the week: a guy who for years presented himself as a senior developer at multinational corporations, who loudly announced that artificial intelligence would devour the industry, who described in detail how net salaries of 4,000 euros would vanish and remote work would become history, turns out to have never given a single verifiable technical detail. Not one Tailwind lesson. Not one architecture problem. Nothing. The community that crowned him the oracle of the labor apocalypse in software development has run into an uncomfortable possibility: the prophet may not have known what he was talking about.

The original thesis was powerful, and that's why it caught on. The story went that AI would collapse demand for programmers, that companies would hire a quarter of their workforce, that the less brilliant profiles would keep filling vocational training programs because they had no other choice, and that the industry's perks —salary, treatment, remote work— would go down the drain. All of it seasoned with a timeline prediction: the year the narrator finished his courses, after a decade of learning, the profession would die. Very convenient.

The detail that changed everything was the level of specificity. When someone brags about having been the senior who fixed the messy tasks, you can ask them about the last messy task. And that was the end of the story. There was no answer. Not one. Those who have actually worked in the industry point out that a real professional wouldn't say that coding a Tailwind class is faster than describing the style change in natural language two years after Copilot. That's not something someone who has been in the technical trenches would say; it's something someone who has read headlines would say.

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Why is he compared to a frustrated writer?

Because the pattern fits. The prose was verbose, the anecdotes were catchy, the predictions were calibrated to generate anxiety and clicks. But the technical knowledge ran out at the first layer. There's no depth on any concrete problem, no real case with tool names, versions or architecture decisions. Some argue the character was never a programmer and it was all a narrative construction; others, more charitable, concede that maybe he was a long time ago and simply recycled his experience into catastrophist content. In both scenarios, the result is the same: the oracle doesn't withstand scrutiny.

The conversation drifted toward a more interesting subject than the character himself: how easily a well-packaged story becomes shared truth. AI is indeed transforming the industry, nobody seriously disputes that. But from there to a supposed senior with no technical footprint dictating the future of employment is a stretch. The episode leaves an uncomfortable lesson about how authorities are built on the internet: through repetition, not credentials.

The side business nobody saw coming

While the discussion about the end of programming dominated headlines, in the same space someone was bragging about having been paid a hundred euros to fake a photo and place a woman next to a client. "My first paycheck for working," he wrote. The irony serves itself: the same ecosystem debating the disappearance of intellectual work was celebrating an AI photo-retouching job. Automation doesn't destroy jobs, it relocates them. Sometimes, to the neighborhood photoshop.

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The closing came from the material itself: the suspicion that the real person isn't even behind the account. That the guru is a mask, a writing exercise, an experiment. If so, the experiment worked too well. Fifteen replies later, the only certainty is that nobody has provided proof that the prophet knew how to program. And that doubt, in an industry that prides itself on technical meritocracy, is the most effective punishment of all.