To me, it feels like a raw, unfiltered conversation with technology—where code isn’t just something you write and execute but something you shape and negotiate with in the moment. It reminds me of DJing or vinyl scratching, where the act of creation is as important as the final output, and every adjustment is part of the performance.

There’s something rebellious about it, too. Most coding environments push precision, control, and pre-planned logic, but live coding thrives on unpredictability, improvisation, and even failure. The screen isn’t just a workspace—it’s a canvas, a stage, an instrument. The audience isn’t just watching; they’re witnessing thought unfold in real time. It challenges the idea that programming has to be hidden, polished, or even “correct.” Instead, it embraces the process, the trial and error, the glitches that become part of the art.

For me, live coding is exciting because it breaks down the usual walls between artist and machine, between logic and emotion. It’s proof that code isn’t just functional—it can be expressive, performative, even poetic. It makes technology feel more human, more alive.