Recent finds

I have not been very diligent about keeping up with this blog lately. In part this is because my online activities have been focused on building up a bibliography of scholarship on the history of technology and gender. Although it is not confined to information technology specifically, it does thoroughly cover the available literature on gender and computing. You can find the printable PDF version here, but I am hosting the source material as a shared Github repository in the hopes that this will make the resource more useful to other scholars.

There are a few recent works in the history of computer programming that are worth highlighting, however.

The first is a new book by Gerard Alberts called Computerpioniers: het begin van het computertijdperk in Nederland (University of Amsterdam Press, 2017).  As you might infer from the title, it is written in Dutch.  The title roughly translates into English as Computer Pioneers: The beginning of the computer age in the Netherlands.  I unfortunately do not read Dutch, but I know Gerard and his work and have talked about this history on many occasions. This is an important and original contribution to our field.  Buy a copy if only as an encouragement to the publisher to issue a translation!

The second is a very recent article by Ksenia Tatarchenko entitled “The Computer Does Not Believe in Tears”: Soviet Programming, Professionalization, and the Gendering of Authority, which was published in Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History.  Alas, for those of you who are not professional academics, this will likely be hidden behind a paywall.  But pay attention to Tatarchenko and her work.  Her work on the history of Soviet computing is just stellar, and part of an exciting reinvigoration of that field.

In fact, speaking of Soviet computing, Ben Peter’s 2016 book How Not to Network a Nation: The Uneasy History of the Soviet Internet was just awarded the 2017 Vucinich Book Prize for “the most important contribution to Russian, Eurasian, and East European studies in any discipline of the humanities or social sciences.”  This is a well-deserved award for an excellent book, and it is particularly nice to see research in the history of computing getting recognized by the broader historical community!

Finally, Jeffrey Yost has published a book that is so fresh that my copy has not yet been delivered.  It is called Making IT Work: A History of the Computer Services Industry (MIT Press, 2017).  I am so excited about this book, which takes an even broader view of the history of computer work than The Computer Boys, and encompasses consulting services, data processing, programming, and systems integration, among other topics.  My understanding is that it covers a longer time period as well, from the 1950s to the present.


Goodbye, Mr. Bond…


When I teach the history of Silicon Valley, I open my lecture with a clip from the 1973 James Bond film Live and Let Die.  My point it not to talk about Bond, but rather his wristwatch — a Pulsar LED, one of the first of our mobile digital devices.  Understanding the unique moment in history when digital watches still seemed like a pretty neat idea is key to understanding the strange and powerful economics of the semiconductor industry.

In recognition of the passing today of Roger Moore, here is an excerpt from Computer: A History of the Information Machine that I wrote about the history of the digital watch:

In the 1973 film Live and Let Die, the stylish secret agent James Bond traded his signature wristwatch, a Rolex Submariner, for the latest in high-tech gadgetry, a Hamilton Pulsar digital watch. Unlike a traditional timepiece, the Pulsar did not represent time using the sweep of an hour-and-minute hand; instead, it displayed time digitally, using a recently developed innovation in microelectronics called the light-emitting diode, or LED. In the early 1970s, the glowing red lights of an LED display represented the cutting edge of integrated circuit technology, and digital watches were such a luxury item that, at $2100 for the 18-karat gold edition, they cost more even than an equivalent Rolex. The original Pulsar had actually been developed a few years early for the Stanley Kubrick film 2001: A Space Odyssey, and, for a time, access to this technology was limited to the domain of science fiction and international espionage.

Within just a few years, however, the cost (and sex appeal) of a digital watch had diminished to almost nothing. By 1976 Texas Instruments was offering a digital watch for just $20 and, within a year, had reduced the price again by half. By 1979 Pulsar had lost $6 million dollars,  had been sold twice, and had reverted back to producing more profitable analogue timepieces. By the end of the 1970s, the cost of the components required to construct a digital watch had fallen so low that it was almost impossible to sell the finished product for any significant profit. The formerly space-age technology had become a cheap commodity good—as well as something of a cliché.

The meteoric rise and fall of the digital watch illustrates a larger pattern in the unusual economics of microelectronics manufacturing. The so-called planar process for manufacturing integrated circuits, developed at Fairchild Semiconductor and perfected by companies like Intel and Advanced Micro Devices (AMD), required a substantial initial investment in expertise and equipment, but after that the cost of production dropped rapidly. In short, the cost of building the very first of these new integrated circuit technologies was enormous, but every unit manufactured after that became increasingly inexpensive.

The massive economies of scale inherent in semiconductor manufacture—combined with rapid improvements in the complexity and capabilities of integrated circuits, intense competition within the industry, and the widespread availability of new forms of venture capital—created the conditions in which rapid technological innovation was not only possible but essential. In order to continue to profit from their investment in chip design and fabrication, semiconductor firms had to create new and ever-increasing demand for their products. The personal computer, video game console, digital camera, and cellphone are all direct products of the revolution in miniature that occurred in the late 1960s and early 1970s. But while this revolution in miniature would ultimately also revolutionize the computer industry, it is important to recognize that it did not begin with the computer industry. The two key developments in computing associated with this revolution—the minicomputer and the microprocessor—were parallel strands unconnected with the established centers of electronic digital computing.

Programmed Inequality

Just a quick note about a notable new book: my friend and fellow historian of computing Marie Hicks has just published her study of computerization in Britain in the 1960s and 1970s.  The book focuses on the British government’s systematic neglect of its largest technical workforce — namely women — and the negative consequences this had for not only the British computer industry but also the nation as a whole.

You can expect a more thorough review shortly.  In the meantime, order the book!

Geeks and Autism

At some point I will write a more detailed review, but Jordynn Jack’s book Autism and Gender: From Refrigerator Mothers to Computer Geeks (University of Illinois Press, 2014) contains a thoughtful and rigorous study of the purported relationship between computer culture and  Asperger’s Syndrome.   Her primary focus is on popular media diagnoses of celebrated Silicon Valley entrepreneurs like Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg, but her larger argument about role of anecdotal evidence in framing Asperger’s as a “geek syndrome” is very relevant to the historical argument I make in both The Computer Boys book and my  “Beards, Sandals, and Other Signs of Rugged Individualism” article.  I wish that I had been aware of her discussion of the relationship between Simon Baron-Cohen’s work on Extreme Male Behavior and narratives about technology when I was doing my research.  Although I am sure that Jordynn Jack would not define her book in terms history of technology, I hope that my fellow historians discover it.  In my mind it is one of the most important contributions to our understanding of contemporary technology culture that I have read in a long while.

The Multiple Meanings of a Flowchart

Although I have not been posting much to this site recently, I have been busy working on my research.  Most of my attention has been on a new book project tentatively entitled Dirty Bits: An Environmental History of Computing.  This is a project that explores the intersection of the digital economy and the material world, from the geopolitics of minerals (lithium, cobalt, etc.) to e-waste disposal to the energy and water requirements associated with the misleadingly named “Cloud.”

But I have been continuing to work on the history of computer programming as well.  My most recent article is on the history of flowcharts, which were (and to a certain extent, still are) an essential element of the process of programming.  For the most of past century, learning to flowchart a problem was the first step in learning to program a computer.  And yet flowcharts were rarely useful as the “blueprints” of software architecture that they were often claimed to be.   Their function was much more complicated and ambiguous —although none the less useful.

In the latest issue of the journal Information & Culture, I explore the “Multiple Meanings of the Flowchart”. For those of you without access to the Project Muse academic database, you can find an earlier draft version of the paper for free online here.

Here is a brief excerpt from the introduction:


In the September 1963 issue of the data processing journal *Datamation* there appeared a curious little four-page supplement entitled “The Programmer’s Coloring Book.” This rare but delightful bit of period computer industry whimsy is full of self-deprecating (and extremely “in”) cartoons about working life of computer programmers. For example, “See the program bug. He is our friend!! Color him swell. He gives us job security.” Some of these jokes are a little dated, but most hold up surprisingly well.

One of the most insightful and revealing of “The Programmer’s Coloring Book” cartoons is also one of the most minimalistic. The drawing is of a simple program flowchart accompanied by a short and seemingly straightforward caption: “This is a flowchart. It is usually wrong.”


In case you don’t get the joke, here is some context: by the early 1960s, the flowchart was well-established as an essential element of any large-scale software development project. Originally introduced into computing by John von Neumann in the mid-1940s, flowcharts were a schematic representation of the logical structure of a computer program. The idea was that an analyst would examine a problem, design an algorithmic solution, and outline that algorithm in the form of a flowchart diagram. A programmer (or “coder”) would then translate that flowchart into the machine language understood by the computer. The expectation was that the flowchart would serve as the design schematic for the program code ( in the literature from this period flowcharts were widely referred to as the “programmer’s blueprint”) with the assumption was that once this “blueprint” had been developed, “the actual coding of the computer program is rather routine.”

For contemporary audiences, the centrality of the flowchart to software development would have been self-evident. Every programmer in this period would have learned how to flowchart. In the same year that the “Programmer’s Coloring Book” was published, the American Standards Association had approved a standardized flowchart symbol vocabulary.  Shortly thereafter, the inclusion of flowcharting instruction in introductory programming courses had been mandated by the Association for Computing Machinery’s influential Curriculum ’68 guidelines. A 1969 IBM introduction to data processing referred to flowcharts as “an all-purpose tool” for software development and noted that “the programmer uses flowcharting in and through every part of his task.” By the early 1970s, the conventional wisdom was that “developing a program flowchart is a necessary first step in the preparation of a computer program.”

But every programmer in this period also knew that although drawing and maintaining an accurate flowchart was what programmers were *supposed* to do, this is rarely what happened in actual practice. Most programmers preferred not to bother with a flowchart, or produced their flowcharts only after they were done writing code. Many flowcharts were only superficial sketches to begin with, and were rarely updated to reflect the changing reality of a rapidly evolving software system.[@Yohe1974] Many programmers loathed and resented having to draw (and redraw) flowcharts, and the majority did not. Frederick Brooks, in his classic text on software engineering, dismissed the flowchart as an “obsolete nuisance,” “a curse,” and a “space hogging exercise in drafting.” Wayne LeBlanc lamented that despite the best efforts of programmers to “communicate the logic of routines in a more understandable form than computer language by writing flowcharts,” many flowcharts “more closely resemble confusing road maps than the easily understood pictorial representations they should be.”  Donald Knuth argued that not only were flowcharts time-consuming to create and expensive to maintain, but that they were generally rendered obsolete almost immediately. In any active software development effort, he argued, “any resemblance between our flow charts and the present program is purely coincidental.”[@Knuth:1963fg]

All of these critiques are, of course, the basis of the humor in the *Datamation* cartoon: as every programmer knew well, although in theory the flowchart was meant to serve as a design document, in practice they often served only as post-facto justification. Frederick Brooks denied that he had ever known “an experienced programmer who routinely made detailed flow charts before beginning to write programs,” suggesting that “where organization standards require flow charts, these are almost invariably done after the fact.” And in fact, one of the first commercial software packages, Applied Data Research’s Autoflow, was designed specifically to reverse-engineer a flowchart “specification” from already-written program code. In other words, the implementation of many software systems actually preceded their own design! This indeed is a wonderful joke, or at the very least, a paradox. As Marty Goetz, the inventor of Autoflow recalled “like most strong programmers, I never flowcharted; I just wrote the program.” For Goetz, among others, the flowchart was nothing more than a collective fiction: a requirement driven by the managerial need for control, having nothing to do with the actual design or construction of software. The construction of the flowchart could thus be safely left to the machine, since no-one was really interested in reading them in the first place. Indeed, the expert consensus on flowcharts seemed to accord with the popular wisdom captured by the “Programmer’s Coloring Book”: there were such things as flowcharts, and they were generally wrong.


Computers, Programmers, and the Politics of Technical Expertise