The Scourge of Free Software

Once upon a time, there was a smart programmer who found himself running into the same problem time after time. Knowing that this would continue, he took the time to build a universal, robust solution to his problem. When it was done, he looked at it and thought, "I'll bet other developers run into this problem, too. I know what I'll do: I'll release this software so that others can benefit from it!" Years later, he would say, "It was the worst business mistake of my life."

It started off well enough. The programmer -- let's call him Alex -- wrote a blog entry about the software, slapped an open source license on it, and released it into the wild. Wild, indeed.

Others began to find out about it. They downloaded it and like it. It turned out that they had the same problems Alex had -- almost. But their problems were a little different, so they naturally turned to Alex for help. Alex was pleased. His software was gaining traction and the congratulatory emails and appreciative comments on his blog buoyed his enthusiasm. Release 2.0 came a few months later, addressing the concerns and requests raised by his public.

More people began to use Alex's software. "This is great!" they told him. "Only, you know what would be nice?" And they helpfully gave him ideas to improve the software. Of course, Alex had to keep up with the normal "I downloaded this. Now, how the heck do I use it?" and "Why don't you have better documentation?" and "Why doesn't your software work with the latest version of XXX?"

Alex was a busy man. His boss at work was concerned that supporting this wonderful software was eating into Alex's work hours. Alex tried to explain the wonderful benefits of open source software. Yes, he might be spending some time to support it, but he (and his company) were the beneficiaries of others, like him, who made their software freely available. Free, that is, as in free beer.

His wife was used to Alex having to take time after dinner to answer the flood of emails and blog comments of anxious developers who had grown to rely on his software, but were encountering problems that Alex had never run into nor anticipated. He felt a responsibility to them: they were counting on him. So he toiled into the night, making patches, answering emails and comments.

He felt vaguely guilty: he knew the documentation wasn't much, but try as he might, he found it very difficult to make much headway. "I'm a programmer, damn it, not a writer," he would mutter and, trundling off to bed, his documentation remained far from finished.

His software grew more and more popular. And the emails and comments became both more numerous and more anxious. "I really need to make this work in this situation," many of them would say and then explain the particular situation that they were struggling with. But Alex was a one-man operation, doing "support" on his lunch hour and after work (including the weekends). There just didn't seem to be enough time.

"Alex is a jerk," one of his commenters announced. "He doesn't care about anybody but himself." Alex was flabbergasted. Did these people have any idea how much time he put into this project -- both in the initial development and now in its support? And it was free. And open. People were supposed to alter it to fit their own needs. But if they did, they didn't share it with him, and he was left to an increasingly unhappy user base.

Then one day, a very bad day, Alex's boss fired him. "All your time is spent supporting this software. Well, if that's what you want to do, you're going to have to find someone else to pay you. You're fired!"

Alex trundled home, upset and confused. He was only trying to help other people. "Lucy, I'm home!" he announced, but there was only silence. On the kitchen table was a note. "Dear Alex, I'm sorry, but I can't take it any more. You care more about that software thingy than you do about me or the kids." Kids? Then Alex remembered seeing small people in his house. Had it really been that long since he'd played with them? And exactly how many of them were there, again?

Seeing that his wife (her name was actually "Linda") had moved out, he made his way out to the patio with a cold beer. A warm, shaggy dog walked up to him. "Good ol' Duke," he said, reaching to pet the family pet. But "Duke" (his name was actually "Dutch") didn't recognize the stranger who seemed to be reaching for his head and he, sensibly enough, bit him. This was turning out to be a very bad day.

He spent the rest of the day drinking perhaps a bit too much and fell asleep later in the afternoon. Alex might well have slept through the night, but the noise awoke him. The noise, it turned out, was a crowd of developers outside his house. It was late and from the light of the torches they carried, he could see many angry faces. The pitchforks pounded up and down to the rhythm of the users' chants, "Give us Alex!"

Panicked, Alex went for the phone, but his iPhone was dead (he had made four calls that day) and Alex was alone with an angry mob to his front and a vicious canine to the rear. And that's when it happened. A vision. Alex was bathed in a warm golden light and a glowing Visitor whose face he could not make out called to him.

"Alex, Alex" the Visitor said. "Son, you gots problems."

"Tell me about it!" Alex said. "I don't understand. All I tried to do was help people."

"Alex, did you ever think about maybe, you know, charging MONEY for your software? That way, you could afford to take the time to properly document it, give incentives to others to help you maintain and improve it -- that sort of thing?"

"No, of course not!" Alex replied. "That would be evil. Everyone knows software should be free. What am I -- Microsoft?"

"Well, how's this working out for you?" the Visitor asked, gesturing to the crowd that had grown to the point where police were now directing traffic (though, oddly enough, not helping Alex). Local TV stations' trucks had set up shop and were interviewing crowd members.

"Not so well," Alex said, in response to his Visitor. "I don't get it. I was being good. I didn't charge anybody. I spent all those hours helping. And now, my users hate me, my wife has left, and my dog, Duke, bit me. What's the solution?"

"M-O-N-E-Y," the Visitor said. "Seriously. It would have kept you from these problems. And your users would have been happy to pay so that you could keep improving and supporting it."

"Tell me, Spirit of Christmas Yet To Come," Alex said, confusing the Visitor with a role from an old movie he had seen several times as a child, "Can I get out of this mess? Will Tiny Tim be OK?"

"Who?" asked the Visitor, puzzled. "I don't know from Tiny Tim, but my advice -- and hey, it's worth what you pay for it (ha ha) -- would be to monetize your product so you can give it -- and its users -- the attention they need."

"Thank you," Alex said, and, gathering his courage, he opened the front door to his house and spoke to the assembled multitude. He detailed his plan to begin charging a fee for the software. Perhaps, he told them, he would even have different levels of support based on the fees charged. Then he waited to hear their response.

And waited.

"You're a freakin' genius, you are, Alex!" one of them cried.

"We love you, man," said another.

"God bless us, everyone!" said a smaller voice.

And with that, Alex learned about the terrible scourge of free software. And things turned out well. Alex's wife, Linda, came home with the children (there turned out to be three of them). Alex's boss called to offer him his old job back. But Alex had done what the Visitor referred to as "income projections" and told his old boss to shove it. Dutch (the dog) got used to being called "Duke" and the family lived and prospered happily ever after.

The End.