What Software Developers Can Learn from Building an Analog Vehicle
Why simplicity, control, and purposeful design matter in both machines and code
If you set out today to build a vehicle with zero reliance on software, you’d quickly realize how deeply modern engineering has leaned on digital automation. No fuel injection, no ECU, no traction control—just mechanical linkages, vacuum pressure, and the raw physics of combustion and motion. Every system would have to be tangible, serviceable, and directly responsive to human input.
This isn’t just a thought experiment; it’s a framework for understanding the trade-offs between control and abstraction, resilience and fragility, simplicity and bloat—the same struggles that exist in software development today.
Direct Control vs. Layers of Abstraction
In a fully analog vehicle, the driver or rider is in complete control (fingers crossed 🤞). The throttle cable physically opens the carburetor. The clutch lever directly disengages the transmission. The braking force is entirely proportional to foot or hand pressure. There’s no invisible middleman making decisions about how much power should be delivered, how much braking force should be applied, or what parameters need adjusting.
This directness creates an unfiltered cause-and-effect relationship. You twist the throttle, and the bike responds instantly. There’s no lag, no interpretation, no unseen algorithm adjusting your input.
Contrast this with software. Every function call often passes through layers of abstraction—code relying on frameworks, frameworks relying on libraries, libraries relying on operating systems. The more layers, the harder it becomes to fully understand or control the system.
Debugging an analog mechanical system is straightforward: if a throttle sticks, you check the cable, clean the carb, or adjust the linkage. There’s no mystery. But in software, a single failure can be buried in dependencies, API calls, or obscure settings—turning a simple issue into a tangled mess.
Example:
If an API call fails, you’re not just dealing with a bad request. You’re debugging across multiple layers:
Is the API down?
Is there a network issue?
Is the request properly formatted?
Is an authentication token expired?
Is a third-party dependency interfering?
With each layer, the ability to diagnose and fix problems becomes harder. The more abstraction we add, the less control we have.
Over-Engineering vs. Purposeful Design
A well-designed analog vehicle is a study in purposeful engineering. Every part has a function, every component is necessary, and nothing is wasted. There’s no software to compensate for sloppy mechanical design. If a carburetor isn’t delivering the right fuel mixture, you don’t patch it with software—you refine its jets, optimize airflow, and improve fuel atomization.
Software development often falls into the trap of over-engineering. Instead of refining architecture, we keep adding complexity:
If a UI feels sluggish, we introduce more caching instead of optimizing queries.
If an application becomes unwieldy, we add another framework instead of simplifying the code.
If a system struggles with edge cases, we build AI-driven logic instead of questioning whether the complexity is necessary.
This is how bloat happens—both in software and in modern vehicles. A lightweight, beautifully balanced analog motorcycle delivers an unmatched riding experience, while an electronics-heavy machine often buries the mechanical connection beneath ride-by-wire, adjustable modes, and endless layers of computation.
Example:
Microservices can be a great architectural choice when used appropriately. But some teams go overboard, breaking applications into dozens or even hundreds of microservices when a well-structured monolith would have been simpler and more efficient. It’s the software equivalent of a motorcycle overloaded with tech—where even something as fundamental as throttle response is dictated by layers of software instead of direct mechanical input. And let me just say, I’ve experienced firsthand the disastrous results of this on my throttle-by-wire Shiver 750.
Built to Last vs. Built for Updates
Analog vehicles are inherently modular and repairable. Need a new carburetor? Swap it in. Clutch worn out? Replace the plates. The vehicle doesn’t become obsolete just because one part has aged. And as long as the physics are respected, components can often be swapped across manufacturers and brands without issue.
Software, however, is rarely built for longevity. Applications are tied to dependencies, frameworks, and architectures that eventually break. Cloud services deprecate APIs, programming languages fall out of favor, and tech debt accumulates. Instead of repairability, we get forced upgrades.
The best software follows the same philosophy as great mechanical engineering—building modular, maintainable systems where parts can be swapped or upgraded without breaking the whole system.
Example:
Consider Linux versus proprietary operating systems. A 20-year-old machine can (generally) still run a modern Linux distribution, while a proprietary OS forces hardware upgrades just to stay functional. That’s the difference between an analog vehicle that can always be rebuilt and a modern car locked behind manufacturer-controlled software updates. With Linux, we can swap modules in and out, compile custom code, and integrate what we need—just like tuning or upgrading mechanical components in a well-designed analog machine.
The Balance of Control and Assistance
None of this is to say software is bad—far from it. I’ve made a fair share of my living as a software engineer. Just as fuel injection, electronic ignitions, and active suspension bring real advantages to vehicles, well-designed software enhances performance, scalability, and user experience. The problem arises when software stops being a tool and starts making too many decisions on its own.
A well-tuned carburetor gives control to the rider. A well-written function gives control to the developer. Both should be designed for clarity, reliability, and maintainability.
A modern vehicle that lets the driver disable traction control and fully manage throttle response is like software that allows full transparency and control over its behavior. On the other hand, a vehicle that overrides driver input in the name of safety—even when unwanted—is like software that buries functionality behind excessive automation, making it difficult to debug, modify, or improve.
Lessons from the Analog World
If software developers approached their craft like engineers designing an analog vehicle, they’d prioritize:
Directness – Minimizing unnecessary abstraction and ensuring clear cause-and-effect relationships.
Purposeful Engineering – Designing for efficiency rather than compensating for poor architecture with layers of complexity.
Modularity – Ensuring that individual components are replaceable and maintainable.
Longevity – Writing code that lasts, rather than depending on constant updates to remain functional.
User Control – Allowing developers and users to fully understand and manipulate the system rather than hiding decisions behind automation.
I’m Not Saying We Should Go Back to the Old Days, But…
Not every system needs to be fully analog, just as not every vehicle needs to be software-free. But the best engineering—whether in vehicles or software—understands that simplicity, resilience, and direct control are worth preserving.
As software-defined systems take over, we have to ask: Are we making things better, or just more complicated? Because at some point, complexity reaches a tipping point where it no longer adds value—it just adds failure points.
The best technology, like the best vehicles, isn’t defined by how much you can add. It’s defined by how much you don’t need to add.
#softwaredevelopment #analogengineering #builttolast #simplicitymatters #engineeringphilosophy #designethos #designbloat