Buy Back the Coverage
I had already published the warning: if a model only judges what a scanner shortlisted, a site the scanner fails to flag is a false negative nobody ever sees. A wrong flag costs a cheap check and gets caught.
I had already published the warning: if a model only judges what a scanner shortlisted, a site the scanner fails to flag is a false negative nobody ever sees. A wrong flag costs a cheap check and gets caught.
I had a harness measuring whether a set of skills helped a cheap model. It came back negative: no lift worth the tokens. I believed it.
A good rule set grows. Mine has grown — tested against a whole corpus of real PRs and code — into something too big to hand a model all at once, and that's the scale problem Rules Are the Alpha ends on.
The reviewer is the visible product: it reads a diff, applies a rule corpus tested against real PRs and code, and ships the findings worth a person's attention.
My code reviewer does far more work than it ships. Scouts cast a wide net — anything that might be a violation.
I built an eval to tell me whether my agent's skills were earning their place. For a while it said they weren't — clean, green, confident.
A newer engineer left a note on my pull request: this array should be readonly. He was right.
Two reviewers, the same commit — a fat change, a few thousand lines. One was a deep reviewer I own, running a portfolio of judgment rules tested across a whole corpus of real PRs and code.
Read that definition again. It's one of the most widely-cited code-review standards telling reviewers how to flag a small issue: say the author should fix it — then, in the same breath, that they needn't bother.
In the Second World War, the Statistical Research Group was asked where to add armour on bombers, and handed the damage data from the planes that came back — most shot up on the wings, fuselage, and tail.
A model handed me a clean answer once. Well structured, sure of itself, and wrong — and nothing in how it was written gave that away. It read the same when it was guessing as when it knew.
I asked the agent to review a diff. Two skills woke up and started fighting over whose job it was. And the skill I'd built a week earlier for exactly this review? It never stirred.
You wrote a skill. It's good. Now you want it to lean on another skill — call it, require it, ship the two together so installing yours pulls in the one it depends on. So you go looking for a dependencies field.
Here's the pitch, and it's a good one. Vibe-coded slop is only the symptom; the disease underneath is context debt — the steady loss of what the code means and how its parts connect.
I was building a code-review tool. Nothing fancy — read the diff, flag what's wrong, the job I do by hand a dozen times a week. Partway in I stopped on a question bigger than the tool.
A while back, I stopped reading the AI's end-of-task summaries and started watching the diffs. They came through faster than I could have typed them. I wasn't reading them line by line — I was watching the shapes go by.
Sixteen experienced developers finished 19% slower with AI and believed they were 20% faster. The feeling of a fast session tracks fluency, not distance.