I mean, I can tell you right now why I'm not using it circa 2020, nor do I expect I shall in future. For sure, it's clever and it's elegant, a brilliant hack - but it's not durable, and in my line of work that counts for more.

On the one hand, as you note, this can't scale horizontally without the load balancer knowing where to route a request based on the fnid, which means my load balancer now has to know things it shouldn't - and that knowledge has to be persisted somewhere, or every session dies with the load balancer.

On the other hand, even if I teach nginx to do that and hang a database or something off it so that it can, with all the headaches that entails - this still can't scale horizontally, because when one of my containers dies for any reason - evicted, reaped, crashed, oomkilled because somebody who doesn't like me figured out how to construct a request that allocates pathologically before I figured out how to prevent it, any number of other causes - every session it had dies with it, because all that state is internal to the runtime instance and can't be offloaded anywhere else.

So now my cattle are pets again, which I don't want, because from a reliability standpoint shooting a sick cow and replacing it with a fresh one turns out to be very much preferable to having to do surgery on a sick or dying pet. Which I will have to do, because, again, all the persisted state is wrapped up tight inside a given pod's JS runtime, so I can't find out anything I didn't know ahead of time to log without figuring out how to attach a debugger and inspect the guts of state. Which, yes, is doable - but it's far from trivial, the way Lisps make it, and if the pod dies before I can find out what's wrong or before I'm done in the debugger, I've got a lot less to autopsy than a conventional approach would give me. And that's no less a problem than the rest of it.

Yes, granted, the sort of software you describe is incredibly elegant, a beautifully faceted gem. It's the sort of thing to which as a child I aspired. But as it turns out, here thirty years on, I'm not a jeweler, and the sort of machine my team and I build has precious little need for that sort of beauty - and less still for the brittleness that comes with it. Durability counts for much more, because if our machines break and stay broken long enough, the cost is measured in thousands or millions of dollars.

That's not hyperbole, either! Early one morning last November, I ran two SQL queries, off the top of my head, in the space of two thirds of a minute. When all was eventually said and done, the real value of each of those forty seconds, in terms of revenue saved, worked out to about $35,000 - about $1.4 million, all told, or seven hundred thousand dollars per line of SQL. And not one of the people who gave us all that money ever even knew anything had been wrong.

Granted that a couple of unprecedented SQL queries like the ones I describe, written on nothing but raw reflex and years of being elbow deep in the grease and guts of that machine and others like it, constitute a large and blunt hammer indeed. But - because we built that machine, as well as we knew how, to be durable and maintainable above all else - in a moment which demanded a hammer and where to swing it, both were instantly to hand. In a system built as you describe, all gleaming impenetrable surfaces between me and the problem that needed solving right then, how could I have hoped to do so well?

Only through genius, I think. And don't get me wrong! Genius is a wonderful thing. I wish I had any of it, but I don't. All I know how to be is an engineer. It's taken me a long time to see the beauty in that, but I think I'm finally getting a handle on it, these days. It's a rougher sort of beauty than that to which I once aspired, that I freely concede, and the art that's in it is very much akin to something my grandfathers, both machinists and one a damned fine engineer in his own right, would have recognized and I hope might have respected, had they lived to see it.

Do you know, one of those grandfathers developed a part that went on to be used in every Space Shuttle orbiter that ever flew? It wasn't a large part or a terribly critical one. You wouldn't think much of it, to look at it. But he was the man who designed it, drew it out, and drew it forth from a sheet metal brake and a Bridgeport mill. He was the man who taught other men how to make more of them. And he was a man who knew how to pick up a hammer and swing it, when the moment called for one. He was possessed of no more genius than am I, and his work had no more place in it for the beauty of perfectly cut gemstones than does mine. But he was a smart man, and a knowledgeable man, and not least he was a dogged man. And because he was all those things, my legacy includes a very small, but very real, part in one of the most tangible expressions of aspiration to greater, grander things that our species has ever yet produced. Sure, the Space Shuttle was in every sense a dog, a hangar queen's hangar queen. But, by God, it flew anyway. It 'slipped the surly bonds of Earth, and touched the face of God' - and next time, we'll do better, however long it takes us. And, thanks to my grandfather's skill and effort, that's part of who and what I am - and there's a part of me in that, as well.

No gemstone that, for sure! It has its own kind of beauty, nonetheless - the kind that leaves me feeling no lack in my paucity of genius, so long as I have an engineer's skill to know when and how to swing a hammer, and an engineer's good sense to leave myself a place to land it. If that was ever in doubt, I think it can only have been so until that morning last November, when I saved ten years' worth of my own pay in the space of forty seconds and two perfect swings of exactly the right hammer.

There's a place for the beauty of gemstones, no doubt - for one thing, in seeing to it this very long comment of mine isn't lost to the vagaries of a closure cache. And I appreciate that, for sure! It'd be a shame to have wasted the effort, to say nothing of any small value that may cling to these words.

But there's a place for the beauty of hammers, too.