Understanding Dijkstra's Mozart programming style

Answer 1

Well, we can't all be as good as Mozart, can we? Perhaps Beethoven programming is easier.

Answer 2

A classic story from Usenet, about a true programming Mozart.

Real Programmers write in Fortran.

Maybe they do now, in this decadent era of Lite beer, hand calculators and "user-friendly" software but back in the Good Old Days, when the term "software" sounded funny and Real Computers were made out of drums and vacuum tubes, Real Programmers wrote in machine code. Not Fortran. Not RATFOR. Not, even, assembly language. Machine Code. Raw, unadorned, inscrutable hexadecimal numbers. Directly.

Lest a whole new generation of programmers grow up in ignorance of this glorious past, I feel duty-bound to describe, as best I can through the generation gap, how a Real Programmer wrote code. I'll call him Mel, because that was his name.

I first met Mel when I went to work for Royal McBee Computer Corp., a now-defunct subsidiary of the typewriter company. The firm manufactured the LGP-30, a small, cheap (by the standards of the day) drum-memory computer, and had just started to manufacture the RPC-4000, a much-improved, bigger, better, faster -- drum-memory computer. Cores cost too much, and weren't here to stay, anyway. (That's why you haven't heard of the company, or the computer.)

I had been hired to write a Fortran compiler for this new marvel and Mel was my guide to its wonders. Mel didn't approve of compilers.

"If a program can't rewrite its own code," he asked, "what good is it?"

Mel had written, in hexadecimal, the most popular computer program the company owned. It ran on the LGP-30 and played blackjack with potential customers at computer shows. Its effect was always dramatic. The LGP-30 booth was packed at every show, and the IBM salesmen stood around talking to each other. Whether or not this actually sold computers was a question we never discussed.

Mel's job was to re-write the blackjack program for the RPC-4000. (Port? What does that mean?) The new computer had a one-plus-one addressing scheme, in which each machine instruction, in addition to the operation code and the address of the needed operand, had a second address that indicated where, on the revolving drum, the next instruction was located. In modern parlance, every single instruction was followed by a GO TO! Put that in Pascal's pipe and smoke it.

Mel loved the RPC-4000 because he could optimize his code: that is, locate instructions on the drum so that just as one finished its job, the next would be just arriving at the "read head" and available for immediate execution. There was a program to do that job, an "optimizing assembler", but Mel refused to use it.

"You never know where it's going to put things", he explained, "so you'd have to use separate constants".

It was a long time before I understood that remark. Since Mel knew the numerical value of every operation code, and assigned his own drum addresses, every instruction he wrote could also be considered a numerical constant. He could pick up an earlier "add" instruction, say, and multiply by it, if it had the right numeric value. His code was not easy for someone else to modify.

I compared Mel's hand-optimized programs with the same code massaged by the optimizing assembler program, and Mel's always ran faster. That was because the "top-down" method of program design hadn't been invented yet, and Mel wouldn't have used it anyway. He wrote the innermost parts of his program loops first, so they would get first choice of the optimum address locations on the drum. The optimizing assembler wasn't smart enough to do it that way.

Mel never wrote time-delay loops, either, even when the balky Flexowriter required a delay between output characters to work right. He just located instructions on the drum so each successive one was just past the read head when it was needed; the drum had to execute another complete revolution to find the next instruction. He coined an unforgettable term for this procedure. Although "optimum" is an absolute term, like "unique", it became common verbal practice to make it relative: "not quite optimum" or "less optimum" or "not very optimum". Mel called the maximum time-delay locations the "most pessimum".

After he finished the blackjack program and got it to run, ("Even the initializer is optimized", he said proudly) he got a Change Request from the sales department. The program used an elegant (optimized) random number generator to shuffle the "cards" and deal from the "deck", and some of the salesmen felt it was too fair, since sometimes the customers lost. They wanted Mel to modify the program so, at the setting of a sense switch on the console, they could change the odds and let the customer win.

Mel balked. He felt this was patently dishonest, which it was, and that it impinged on his personal integrity as a programmer, which it did, so he refused to do it. The Head Salesman talked to Mel, as did the Big Boss and, at the boss's urging, a few Fellow Programmers. Mel finally gave in and wrote the code, but he got the test backwards, and, when the sense switch was turned on, the program would cheat, winning every time. Mel was delighted with this, claiming his subconscious was uncontrollably ethical, and adamantly refused to fix it.

After Mel had left the company for greener pa$ture$, the Big Boss asked me to look at the code and see if I could find the test and reverse it. Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed to look. Tracking Mel's code was a real adventure.

I have often felt that programming is an art form, whose real value can only be appreciated by another versed in the same arcane art; there are lovely gems and brilliant coups hidden from human view and admiration, sometimes forever, by the very nature of the process. You can learn a lot about an individual just by reading through his code, even in hexadecimal. Mel was, I think, an unsung genius.

Perhaps my greatest shock came when I found an innocent loop that had no test in it. No test. None. Common sense said it had to be a closed loop, where the program would circle, forever, endlessly. Program control passed right through it, however, and safely out the other side. It took me two weeks to figure it out.

The RPC-4000 computer had a really modern facility called an index register. It allowed the programmer to write a program loop that used an indexed instruction inside; each time through, the number in the index register was added to the address of that instruction, so it would refer to the next datum in a series. He had only to increment the index register each time through. Mel never used it.

Instead, he would pull the instruction into a machine register, add one to its address, and store it back. He would then execute the modified instruction right from the register. The loop was written so this additional execution time was taken into account -- just as this instruction finished, the next one was right under the drum's read head, ready to go. But the loop had no test in it.

The vital clue came when I noticed the index register bit, the bit that lay between the address and the operation code in the instruction word, was turned on-- yet Mel never used the index register, leaving it zero all the time. When the light went on it nearly blinded me.

He had located the data he was working on near the top of memory -- the largest locations the instructions could address -- so, after the last datum was handled, incrementing the instruction address would make it overflow. The carry would add one to the operation code, changing it to the next one in the instruction set: a jump instruction. Sure enough, the next program instruction was in address location zero, and the program went happily on its way.

I haven't kept in touch with Mel, so I don't know if he ever gave in to the flood of change that has washed over programming techniques since those long-gone days. I like to think he didn't. In any event, I was impressed enough that I quit looking for the offending test, telling the Big Boss I couldn't find it. He didn't seem surprised.

When I left the company, the blackjack program would still cheat if you turned on the right sense switch, and I think that's how it should be. I didn't feel comfortable hacking up the code of a Real Programmer.

Answer 3

If Apple adopted "Mozart" programming, there would be no Mac OS X or iTunes today.

If Google adopted "Mozart" programming, there would be no Gmail or Google Reader.

If SO developers adopted "Mozart" programming, there would be no SO today.

If Microsoft adopted "Mozart" programming, there would be no Windows today (well, I think that would be good).

So the answer is simply NO. Nothing is perfect, and nothing is ever meant to be perfect, and that includes software.

Answer 4

The Mozart programming style is a complete myth (everybody has to edit and modify their initial efforts), and although "Mozart" is essentially a metaphor in this example, it's worth noting that Mozart was substantially a myth himself.

Mozart was a supposed magical child prodigy who composed his first sonata at 4 (he was actually 6, and it sucked - you won't ever hear it performed anywhere). It's rarely mentioned, of course, that his father was considered Europe's greatest music teacher, and that he forced all of his children to practice playing and composition for hours each day as soon as they could pick up an instrument or a pen.

Mozart himself was careful to perpetuate the illusion that his music emerged whole from his mind by destroying most of his drafts, although enough survive to show that he was an editor like everyone else. Beethoven was just more honest about the process (maybe because he was deaf and couldn't tell if anyone was sneaking up on him anyway).

I won't even mention the theory that Mozart got his melodies from listening to songbirds. Or the fact that he created a system that used dice to randomly generate music (which is actually pretty cool, but might also explain how much of Mozart's music appeared to come from nowhere).

The moral of the story is: don't believe the hype. Programming is work, followed by more work to fix the mistakes you made the first time around, followed by more work to fix the mistakes you made the second time around, and so on and so forth until you die.

Answer 5

Progress in computing is worth a sacrifice in glory or genius here and there.

Answer 6

I think it's possible to appear to employ Mozart programming. I know of one company, Blizzard, that doesn't release a software product until they're good and ready. This doesn't mean that Diablo 3 will spring whole and complete from someone's mind in one session of dazzlingly brilliant coding. It does mean that that's how it will appear to the rest of us. Blizzard will test the heck out of their game internally, not showing it to the rest of the world until they've got all the kinks worked out. Most companies don't take this approach, preferring instead to release software when it's good enough to solve a problem, then fix bugs and add features as they come up. This approach works (to varying degrees) for most companies.

Answer 7

It doesn't scale.

I can figure out a line of code in my head, a routine, and even a small program. But a medium program? There are probably some guys that can do it, but how many, and how much do they cost? And should they really write the next payroll program? That's like wasting Mozart on muzak.

Now, try to imagine a team of Mozarts. Just for a few seconds.

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Still it is a powerful instrument. If you can figure out a whole line in your head, do it. If you can figure out a small routine with all its funny cases, do it.

On the surface, it avoids going back to the drawing board because you didn't think of one edge case that requires a completely different interface altogether.

The deeper meaning (head fake?) can be explained by learning another human language. For a long time you thinking which words represent your thoughts, and how to order them into a valid sentence - that transcription costs a lot of foreground cycles.
One day you will notice the liberating feeling that you just talk. It may feel like "thinking in a foregin language", or as if "the words come naturally". You will sometimes stumble, looking for a particular word or idiom, but most of the time translation runs in the vast ressources of the "subconcious CPU".

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The "high goal" is developing a mental model of the solution that is (mostly) independent of the implementation language, to separate solution of a problem from transcribing the problem. Transcription is easy, repetetive and easily trained, and abstract solutions can be reused.

I have no idea how this could be taught, but "figuring out as much as possible before you start to write it" sounds like good programming practice towards that goal.

Answer 8

I think the Mozart story confuses what gets shipped versus how it is developed. Beethoven did not beta-test his symphonies on the public. (It would be interesting to see how much he changed any of the scores after the first public performance.)

I also don't think that Dijkstra was insisting that it all be done in your head. After all, he wrote books on disciplined programming that involved working it out on paper, and to the same extent that he wanted to see mathematical-quality discipline, have you noticed how much paper and chalk board mathematicians may consume while working on a problem?

I favor Simucal's response, but I think the Mozart-Beethoven metaphor should be discarded. That shoe-horns Dijkstra's insistence on discipline and understanding into a corner where it really doesn't belong.

Additional Remarks:

The TV popularization is not so hot, and it confuses some things about musical composition and what a composer is doing and what a programmer is doing. In Dijkstra's own words, from his 1972 Turing Award Lecture: "We must not forget that it is not our business to make programs; it is our business to design classes of computations that will display a desired behavior." A composer may be out to discover the desired behavior.

Also, in Dijkstra's notion that version 1.0 should be the final version, we too easily confuse how desired behavior and functionality evolve over time. I believe he oversimplifies in thinking that all future versions are because the first one was not thought out and done rigorously and reliably.

Even without time-to-market urgency, I think we now understand much better that important kinds of software evolve along with the users experience with it and the utilitarian purpose they have for it. Obvious counter-examples are games (also consider how theatrical motion pictures are developed). Do you think Beethoven could have written Symphony No. 9 without all of his preceding experience and exploration? Do you think the audience could have heard it for what it was? Should he have waited until he had the perfect Sonata? I'm sure Dijkstra doesn't propose this, but I do think he goes too far with Mozart-Beethoven to make his point.

In addition, consider chess-playing software. The new versions are not because the previous ones didn't play correctly. It is about exploiting advances in chess-playing heuristics and the available computer power. For this and many other situations, the idea that version 1.0 be the final version is off base. I understand that he is rightfully objecting to the release of known-to-be unreliable and maybe impaired software with deficiencies to be made up in maintenance and future releases. But the Mozartian counter-argument doesn't hold up for me.

So, did Dijkstra continue to drive the first automobile he purchased, or clones of exactly that automobile? Maybe there is planned obsolescence, but a lot of it has to do with improvements and reliability that could not have possibly been available or even considered in previous generations of automotive technology.

I am a big Dijkstra fan, but I think the Mozart-Beethoven thing is way too simplistic as well as inappropriate. I am a big Beethoven fan too.

Answer 9

I think the idea is to plan ahead. You need to at least have some kind of outline of what you are trying to do and how you plan to get there. If you just sit down at the keyboard and hope "the muse" will lead you to where your program needs to go, the results are liable to be rather uneven, and it will take you much longer to get there.

This is true with any kind of writing. Very few authors just sit down at a typewriter with no ideas and start banging away until a bestselling novel is produced. Heck, my father-in-law (a high school English teacher) actually writes outlines for his letters.