To Learn, Learn to Be Wrong
Part of a "Software Engineering Enchiridion"
(Image: One of the few things that are never wrong: Books and Pastries from my favourite local baker: To The Rise)
Some people would rather lose their job, their friends, and their credibility than utter the words, “I was wrong.”
“If anyone tells you that a certain person speaks ill of you, do not make excuses… answer: ‘He was ignorant of my other faults, else he would not have mentioned these alone.’” — Epictetus
In software, that affliction is everywhere. Developers cling to clever hacks like holy scripture. Architects defend design decisions as if they were defending the walls of Troy. Managers double down on bad bets because admitting error feels like admitting weakness. But here’s the thing: your need to be right is keeping you broke in every way that matters.
Epictetus once said: “If anyone tells you that a certain person speaks ill of you, do not make excuses… answer: ‘He was ignorant of my other faults, else he would not have mentioned these alone.’” That's not just talking about gossip. That's humility. About the freedom that comes from admitting fault without flinching.
Being wrong is not failure. It’s tuition. Debugging is not humiliation—it’s information. It's a sign to start digging. You dig, you uncover, you learn what past-you got wrong. If you can’t stomach being wrong, you can’t code. And if you can’t admit it, you can’t lead.
A developer can say the code was broken. I fixed it. I was wrong before. I am less wrong now. Plain. No ornaments. No excuses.
Self-righteous certainty is the great enemy of inquiry. To clutch at “rightness” like a miser clutching coins is to impoverish yourself, because only by spending wrongness do we purchase wisdom.
Being Wrong in Context
In code reviews, don’t argue yourself hoarse over some nit that the other engineer has clearly spotted. Say: “You’re right, that was sloppy. Thanks for catching it.” Move on.
In retrospectives, don’t bury your mistakes under the sand of vague process talk. Dig them up, point at them, and say: “That was me. Here’s what I’ll do differently.”
People don’t lose respect when you admit fault. They gain trust, because you’ve proved you’re human, honest, and not addicted to your own ego.
The Alternative?
The alternative is not pretty. You break production on a Friday night. The logs all point to your change. You deny it. You blame the network. You blame the test suite. You blame Mercury in retrograde. Eventually, the truth comes out. Everyone knows you lied. You’ve just burned more trust than the outage itself.
Now picture the other path: you break production. You say, “That was me. I’ll fix it. Here’s what I’ll change to stop it happening again.” The outage is still painful, but now your colleagues trust you more than before. You turned a mistake into capital. That’s the compound interest of humility.
Being Comfortable with Being Wrong is a Super Power
There are pitfalls. Don’t confuse humility with weakness. Don’t over-apologize without change. Don’t mistake stubbornness for principle. Principles matter, but most of what we defend so ferociously are not principles—they’re preferences dressed up in moral costume.
Check yourself. Did you admit your mistake out loud? Did you act differently afterwards? Did you thank the person who corrected you? If not, you’re still paying the cost of your affliction to being right.
Software is wrongness refined into usefulness. Every feature, every fix, every test is built on the rubble of past errors. To deny wrongness is to deny the very process you work in.
So here’s the hard truth: you will be wrong, often and gloriously so. The only real choice is whether you’ll waste that wrongness by hiding it, or invest it by learning from it.
Be wrong, quickly and openly. Treat it as compost. Fertile ground. Because in the end, the code runs, the bug is fixed, the system ships. What matters is whether you grew—or just stood there, clutching your pride, while the world moved on without you.
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