A few years ago, I sat in a postmortem that I still think about. We’d had a production incident where a routine deploy had quietly shipped with the wrong configuration, and it took us longer to notice and roll back than anyone was comfortable admitting. But when we traced the root cause, almost none of it was the feature code. It was the scaffolding around it: a Kubernetes manifest no longer matched our cluster, a CI pipeline whose green checkmark didn’t actually verify the thing we assumed it did, and a secrets-management step that three different services each did three different ways. The code itself had been fine for a week. Everything around the code is what failed us.
I have seen some version of that retro at nearly every company I’ve worked at over the last 15 years across a large IT services firm, a medical-device maker, a healthcare-technology company, a cloud-migration startup, and now a large SaaS platform. The names and the tech stacks changed. The pattern didn’t. Smart engineers spending a startling share of their week not on the problem they were hired to solve, but on the accidental complexity of shipping it.
For a long time, I assumed the answer was better documentation, or a stricter DevOps culture, or just hiring people who were more comfortable with YAML. I was wrong on all three counts. What actually changed my mind was reframing the problem entirely: the friction wasn’t a knowledge gap or a discipline gap. It was a product gap. Nobody owned the developer’s experience of shipping software the way a product manager owns a customer’s experience of using an app. And the discipline that closes that gap now has a name: platform engineering, which Gartner describes as having “emerged in response to this increasing cognitive load resulting from the complexity of modern software tools and architectures.” Gartner isn’t shy about how fast it’s spreading, either: the firm predicts that “by 2026, 80% of large software engineering organizations will establish platform engineering teams,” up from 45% in 2022. If that number is even close to right, the interesting question is no longer whether to build a platform team but whether you’ll build a good one.
The moment “DevOps” quietly stopped scaling
I want to be careful here, because “DevOps is dead” is a lazy headline and I don’t believe it. The principles behind DevOps include shared ownership, automation, and tight feedback loops. These are as right today as they were when the movement started.
What broke, in my experience, was the operating model. The original promise was “you build it, you run it.” Every team owns its own deployment, its own observability, its own on call. That works beautifully when you have a handful of teams and a shared oral tradition. It falls apart when you have 50 teams, because now you have 50 slightly different ways of doing the same undifferentiated work. 50 ways to define a service. 50 subtly wrong Kubernetes configurations. 50 on-call rotations paging fifty engineers about the same class of problem at 3 a.m.
The cognitive load of “run it yourself” grew faster than most teams could absorb. That framing of cognitive load as the thing you’re actually optimizing for comes from “Team Topologies,” a book that reshaped how I think about org design more than any purely technical text I’ve read. Its fourth principle is blunt about the limit: “Teams can only handle so much complexity before breaking down,” and “competent teams become ineffective when leaders keep adding to their plate without taking anything away.” That last line described my own teams so precisely it stung. “Team Topologies” also gave me the vocabulary I’d been missing. It names four fundamental team types, and it defines a platform team as “a grouping of other team types that provide a compelling internal product to accelerate delivery by stream-aligned teams”. Read that definition again: a compelling internal product. Not a shared-services desk, not a Terraform repo with a wiki. A product. That single word is the whole argument.
Treating the platform as a product changes everything
Here’s the shift that took me embarrassingly long to internalize: if the platform is a product, then developers are its customers, and you don’t get to tell your customers they’re holding it wrong.
That one reframing has downstream consequences that surprised me.
The first is that adoption has to be earned, not mandated. Early in my time working on internal tooling, I helped build a platform capability that we were quite proud of, and then we did what infrastructure teams love to do: we announced it, and assumed people would come. They didn’t. Teams routed around it, because the golden path we’d paved was, frankly, gravel. The lesson landed hard. A platform that developers have to be forced onto is not a platform, it’s a tax. When we went back and rebuilt it so that the paved path was genuinely the easiest path. This is the same instinct behind Backstage, the developer portal that was built at Spotify and is now a CNCF project; its own pitch is that it “restores order to your microservices and infrastructure” so product teams can ship quickly. Order you have to opt into isn’t order. The tool wins when choosing it is the lazy option.
The second consequence is that “self-service” has to mean what it says. It’s an overused word, so I hold it to the CNCF’s definition from its platforms white paper: “A platform should be self-serviceable. Users must be able to request and receive capabilities autonomously and automatically.” Autonomously and automatically. If a developer has to file a ticket and wait on my team to provision a database, I haven’t built a platform instead I’ve built a slower version of the help desk. The same white paper states the north star plainly: “An essential goal of a platform is to reduce the cognitive load on product teams.” I’ve started using that sentence as a litmus test. For any capability we’re tempted to add, I ask whether it removes load from a product team or quietly adds some. A surprising number of well-meaning platform features fail that test.
The third consequence is that you have to measure the platform the way you’d measure any product and resist measuring the things that only flatter the platform team. “How many clusters are we running” is an output my team cares about and nobody else does. The metrics that matter describe the developer’s lived experience, and the most durable set I know of comes from DORA, the long-running research program into software delivery performance. Its metrics have evolved from the original “four keys” have grown to five. The core throughput measures still ask exactly the right questions: change lead time (“the amount of time it takes for a change to go from committed to version control to deployed in production”), deployment frequency, and failed deployment recovery time, balanced against a change fail rate. I’ve found those double as a remarkably honest scorecard for a platform team, precisely because they refuse to reward busywork. You cannot game your way to a good lead time by shipping more internal tools nobody uses.
The fourth consequence is the hardest culturally: a platform product needs a roadmap, user research, and the willingness to say no. I’ve watched platform efforts collapse into a junk drawer of one-off requests, each reasonable on its own, that together add up to an incoherent pile of tools nobody can hold in their head. Saying no to a well-intentioned request is a product-management skill, and platform teams that never develop it end up rebuilding the very sprawl they were created to eliminate. The best platform leads I’ve worked with spend as much time talking to their internal users as any consumer-facing PM does.
What I’d tell my younger self
If I could go back to that retro years ago, I’d say a few things to the version of me who thought this was a documentation problem.
Start with the paved road, not the platform. You don’t need to build an internal developer portal in quarter one. You need to find the single most painful, most repeated piece of undifferentiated work is the distance between “here is my container” and “it is running safely in production”. Earn the next piece of scope by delivering that one well. Platforms that begin as grand architectures tend to die as grand architectures; the ones that survive start as one genuinely useful paved road that people choose on their own.
Resist the urge to abstract away everything. The goal of a good platform is not to hide Kubernetes so completely that no one understands what’s happening beneath them; that just trades one kind of fragility for another. The goal is to remove the toil while leaving the understanding intact. When the abstraction leaks you want engineers who can reason about what’s underneath, not a room full of people who only ever knew the buttons. I’ve paid for both mistakes: platforms too thin to help, and platforms so thick that an incident turned into an archaeology dig.
And treat “developer experience” as a first-class business metric, not a morale nicety. Every hour an engineer spends fighting the delivery pipeline is an hour not spent on the thing your customers actually pay you for. When I frame platform investment that way to leadership as reclaiming a meaningful fraction of my most expensive people’s time that’s when the conversation stops being about cost and starts being about leverage. It is genuinely one of the highest-return investments an engineering organization can make, and it almost never shows up as a line item that looks like one.
The platform team is not the group that keeps the lights on. It’s the group that decides how fast everyone else can move. Once I started treating it as the most important product my organization ships internally, almost every other decision got easier. I just wish it hadn’t taken me a missed release and a room full of frustrated engineers to see it.
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