Definition of Done: From Marriage to Mars

“Are you done, honey? We’re running late,” I call out.

“Yes, I’m done!” my wife calls back from our bathroom.

Ah, the sweet, deceptive comfort of those words. Any married man knows this scenario all too well. You hear “I’m done” and think, Great, let’s go! But seasoned husbands know better. “Done” is a flexible concept. I’ve heard it and walked into the bedroom to find my wife half-dressed, shoes nowhere in sight. In her mind, “done” meant she was nearly done. Or maybe just mentally done with the process. And even when we finally make it out the door, we’re barely around the corner before I hear, “Oh shit.” That’s the universal signal for something left behind. A gift, an ID, her phone, you name it.

It’s funny how this everyday scenario ties back to something I’ve encountered in software development: the Definition of Done. Developers don’t just say “it’s done” and walk away (well, they shouldn’t). Done could mean it’s been coded, but has it been tested? Documented? Reviewed? Deployed? Every team needs to agree on what “done” actually means. And let me tell you, in marriage, there is no such alignment. The Definition of Done in my house is an evolving, undefined concept. And maybe that’s just how it’s supposed to be.

From Software to Science Fiction

But this isn’t just about being late for dinner or software best practices. It’s about how definitions—or the lack thereof—shape our understanding of everything, even science fiction. That brings me to another definition: wisdom.

Socrates once said, “The beginning of wisdom is the definition of terms.” Without clear definitions, we’re talking past each other. And science fiction is no exception.

When I was younger, my definition of science fiction was dominated by Star Wars and Star Trek. Space battles, alien empires, lightsabers, warp drives—the works. But it felt too distant, too far removed from anything real. Fun, sure, but not engaging on a deeper level. Ironically, my first brush with hardcore sci-fi was Buck Rogers. I was maybe six, and I watched it for one reason: I had a crush on Wilma and that early fascination with a character was my accidental entry into science fiction.

But real interest didn’t spark until The Matrix hit theaters in 1999. Suddenly, sci-fi wasn’t just space operas—it was philosophy wrapped in digital code. Questions like What is real? and What if we’re living in a simulation? hit me hard. That was science fiction I could sink my teeth into. It wasn’t about galaxies far away—it was about us. About here. About now.

The Sci-Fi That Stuck

I gravitate toward science fiction that stays grounded on Earth or at least within the realm of possibility. Films like Ex Machina, exploring artificial intelligence and human consciousness, or stories about robotics and AI ethics. Sure, I enjoy Terminator for the action, but what really pulls me in are stories that poke at real-world “what ifs.”

And now, with advancements in AI and the race toward artificial superintelligence, science fiction feels less like fiction and more like a glimpse of tomorrow. Musk is trying to get us to Mars. Neuralink is blurring the lines between biology and technology. The singularity isn’t just sci-fi jargon anymore—it’s a conversation we’re actively having.

This brings me to The Expanse, a series I initially dismissed after one episode. It didn’t hook me. Fast forward a few years, and I heard astrophysicist Adam Frank recommend it during a podcast. He argued that The Expanse portrayed alien life in a way that felt authentic—something utterly unlike us. That intrigued me. I gave it another shot and discovered the protomolecule, a superintelligent alien substance capable of interacting at a molecular level. It wasn’t little green men or humanoid aliens. It was something far more alien than we usually imagine.

Frank’s point stuck: alien life probably won’t resemble us at all. It might be microbial, molecular, or even something beyond our comprehension. And isn’t that the current theory about how life began on Earth? That a meteorite carrying microorganisms—panspermia—crashed here and kickstarted life? Maybe life out there is still microscopic, communicating on quantum levels we can’t yet detect.

Microbes, Mushrooms, and Definitions

Speaking of definitions, here’s a fun fact that blew my mind. For the longest time, we categorized life as either plants or animals. It wasn’t until much later that we recognized fungi as an entirely separate kingdom. Fungi! How did we miss that? And when you realize that the combined biomass of microorganisms on Earth outweighs all plants and animals combined, it makes you wonder: what else are we missing?

Maybe alien life is more like fungi than flesh. Maybe it’s molecular intelligence, like in The Expanse, or microscopic life quietly thriving in ways we can’t perceive. Definitions matter, but so does our ability to revise them when new evidence appears.

Buckle Up for the Next 25 Years

Think about how far we’ve come since 1900. Two world wars, the rise and fall of empires, the internet, smartphones, AI. And now, we’re staring down a future filled with even more rapid change. The next 25 years could be a blur of breakthroughs: space travel, human-machine integration, and maybe even first contact—though not with the aliens we expect.

So, as my AI co-pilot often says, buckle up. But this time, it’s not just for a metaphorical ride. In the world of science fiction becoming science fact, it might be time to engage hyperdrive and hold on.

Let’s see where the next definition of “done” takes us.