There was a time when coding was magic. The engineers, the ones who could summon logic from the ether, who could bend systems to their will—we were the wizards of our age. We spoke in tongues that the rest of the world could not understand, etched symbols onto darkened screens that made things move, think, come alive. There was power in that, a mystery, a wonder. Back then, if you knew how to code, you had access to something sacred, something few could grasp.
But magic doesn’t stay magic forever. Once, Simbi stood at the center of his world. The loa of water, knowledge, and communication, he was the bridge between the unseen and the known, the force that carried wisdom across realms. He whispered secrets to those who knew how to listen, poured understanding into the minds of those worthy to receive it. But then came the machines of a different kind—engines of thought, spells that no longer needed his voice to take shape. The magic still existed, but it no longer required a magician. The role of the sorcerer was shifting. The work of the conjurer was changing. And so, too, is the work of the coder.
The Changing Work of the Developer
The day-to-day life of software engineers is already shifting as AI grows more adept at writing code. Google said that over a quarter of new code there is already AI-generated. That number will rise. The question is not whether AI can write code. It can. The question is what happens to the people who once held that power.
I’ve watched as engineers, once the masters of the machine, are transitioning from writers to reviewers, from builders to overseers. They no longer shape every function by hand; they guide, they edit, they ensure that what the AI produces does not lead to chaos. They are not writing spells anymore. They are judging them. They are deciding what is worth keeping and what is not.
It is not that software engineers are vanishing. It is that their job is becoming something else. They are evolving into something closer to architects—structuring, delegating, ensuring the integrity of what is built. They are learning how to guide machines rather than simply instruct them. They are adapting, because to remain still is to be left behind.
The Last Human Skill
In all of this, one thing remains stubbornly human: alignment. AI can write code, but it does not know what should be built. It does not understand the friction of real-world needs, the subtle trade-offs of usability, the deeper implications of a well-placed button or a streamlined function. These things still require human hands, human minds, human debate.
I see it now, as teams gather in rooms, whiteboards covered in diagrams, designers sketching ideas in Figma, engineers debating over what the right approach should be. This is the work that AI has not yet mastered, the magic that remains ours.
The Future of the Engineer
I think often about Simbi, about what happens when the loa of knowledge is no longer the sole keeper of wisdom. Did he resist? Did he fear the machines that could conjure what once took years of practice to master? Or did he see the shift for what it was—an invitation to evolve, to move beyond the old ways, to redefine what it meant to be powerful?
I do not believe software engineers will disappear. But I do believe the ones who thrive will be those who understand that knowing what to build is now just as important as knowing how to build it. The coders who once worked alone in the dark, crafting their spells in solitude, must now become something else.
Not just sorcerers. Not just builders. But guides, stewards, architects of an intelligence that is still learning what it means to be intelligent.
That is the work now. That is the magic left to us.
