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At Uber, design source of truth was a big problem for design and engineering teams. No one knew what the app truly looked like. So every week, a group of designers would sit in a meeting room and check that engineers had correctly implemented the Figma designs. Now coding...

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Anam Hira

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At Uber a big problem for design teams and engineering teams was design source of truth. No one knew what the app truly looked like, so weekly a bunch of designers would get into a meeting room and check that the engineers correctly implemented the figma designs that they made Now with coding agents throughput of changes has increased an order of magnitude and it has become impossible to manually keep up. Here we used the Revyl CLI to create a flow of every state in the Uber design, by navigating our mobile use agent on an cloud iOS simulator. This is something that would have taken a team of designers tens of hours to recreate manually; All done in less than an hour asynchronously with a simple prompt. Enable your team to know what your users are actually seeing and empower coding agents to give your users a delightful experience without any blindspots Get started with our new free trial and create a map for your own app 🗺️
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At Uber a big problem for design teams and engineering teams was design source of truth. No one knew what the app truly looked like, so weekly a bunch of designers would get into a meeting room and check that the engineers correctly implemented the figma designs that they made Now with coding agents throughput of changes has increased an order of magnitude and it has become impossible to manually keep up. Here we used the Revyl CLI to create a flow of every state in the Uber design, by navigating our mobile use agent on an cloud iOS simulator. This is something that would have taken a team of designers tens of hours to recreate manually; All done in less than an hour asynchronously with a simple prompt. Enable your team to know what your users are actually seeing and empower coding agents to give your users a delightful experience without any blindspots Get started with our new free trial and create a map for your own app 🗺️

Anam Hira

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nobody at your company knows what your app actually looks like. designers ship figma. engineers ship code. PM ships a roadmap. none of them match. we built atlas to fix this. point it at any iOS app, get back a complete map of every screen and every path through it. this is doordash.
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nobody at your company knows what your app actually looks like. designers ship figma. engineers ship code. PM ships a roadmap. none of them match. we built atlas to fix this. point it at any iOS app, get back a complete map of every screen and every path through it. this is doordash.

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Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.
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Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.

SiriusB

15,437 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

1/ Gemini 2.5 is here, and it’s our most intelligent AI model ever. Our first 2.5 model, Gemini 2.5 Pro Experimental is a state-of-the-art thinking model, leading in a wide range of benchmarks – with impressive improvements in enhanced reasoning and coding and now #1 on Arena by a significant margin. With a model this intelligent, we wanted to get it to people as quickly as possible. Find it on Google AI Studio and in the Google Gemini for Gemini Advanced users now – and in Vertex in the coming weeks. This is the start of a new era of thinking models – and we can’t wait to see where things go from here.
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1/ Gemini 2.5 is here, and it’s our most intelligent AI model ever. Our first 2.5 model, Gemini 2.5 Pro Experimental is a state-of-the-art thinking model, leading in a wide range of benchmarks – with impressive improvements in enhanced reasoning and coding and now #1 on Arena by a significant margin. With a model this intelligent, we wanted to get it to people as quickly as possible. Find it on Google AI Studio and in the Google Gemini for Gemini Advanced users now – and in Vertex in the coming weeks. This is the start of a new era of thinking models – and we can’t wait to see where things go from here.

Sundar Pichai

864,102 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

Really excited about our launch of Superagent today! Powered by the latest AI models, agents have reached a breakthrough moment where they can do incredible work, with high ease of use--without requiring complicated tuning, prompting, or configuration. Superagent represents the freeform agent that can research anything (and soon your own company's context) and output an incredible, interactive webpage. It's like having your own personal NYTimes-quality data viz/web team building bespoke pages for you. This is the perfect complement to the structured system of operations for the AI era that Airtable has become, and we will be launching more integrations between the two products in the near future. Think: launch Superagent tasks from within Airtable records or Airtable Omni, or have Superagent output/edit/read data into Airtable bases! Excited for this new frontier of breakthrough agents, and applying our product and design philosophy of making powerful capabilities intuitive and accessible-what we did for app building with Airtable, we're now doing for agents with Superagents.
0:19

Really excited about our launch of Superagent today! Powered by the latest AI models, agents have reached a breakthrough moment where they can do incredible work, with high ease of use--without requiring complicated tuning, prompting, or configuration. Superagent represents the freeform agent that can research anything (and soon your own company's context) and output an incredible, interactive webpage. It's like having your own personal NYTimes-quality data viz/web team building bespoke pages for you. This is the perfect complement to the structured system of operations for the AI era that Airtable has become, and we will be launching more integrations between the two products in the near future. Think: launch Superagent tasks from within Airtable records or Airtable Omni, or have Superagent output/edit/read data into Airtable bases! Excited for this new frontier of breakthrough agents, and applying our product and design philosophy of making powerful capabilities intuitive and accessible-what we did for app building with Airtable, we're now doing for agents with Superagents.

Howie Liu

10,125 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

Your app does a thousand things under the hood you never got to see. Until now. Every network call. Every frame drop. Every byte of SQLite touched and mutated. You, your team, your agents. Nobody flies blind anymore.
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Your app does a thousand things under the hood you never got to see. Until now. Every network call. Every frame drop. Every byte of SQLite touched and mutated. You, your team, your agents. Nobody flies blind anymore.

hayden

56,829 Aufrufe • vor 23 Tagen

Huge update.. I joined Cognition I’m so incredibly proud of what we built at PromptLayer. Although it feels a little surreal, I know the team is left in amazing hands. I’ll be staying on as an advisor and can’t wait to see where they take it. We started PromptLayer four years ago, and we practically coined the term “prompt engineering”. ChatGPT had come out weeks prior. Nobody knew exactly how LLMs would evolve, but we did know it will completely change the way we build. We were the first developer platform for this new type of builder. Cognition feels like an extension of this vision. Devin is how this new builder will imagine, invent, and create. We're entering the age of software abundance, to steal a term from Scott Wu Everything is Coding Agents. It’s the single biggest problem in AI. Cognition is one of the fastest growing companies ever. But I think the team is what really sold it for me- it's packed with so many former founders Excited to share more soon...
0:19

Huge update.. I joined Cognition I’m so incredibly proud of what we built at PromptLayer. Although it feels a little surreal, I know the team is left in amazing hands. I’ll be staying on as an advisor and can’t wait to see where they take it. We started PromptLayer four years ago, and we practically coined the term “prompt engineering”. ChatGPT had come out weeks prior. Nobody knew exactly how LLMs would evolve, but we did know it will completely change the way we build. We were the first developer platform for this new type of builder. Cognition feels like an extension of this vision. Devin is how this new builder will imagine, invent, and create. We're entering the age of software abundance, to steal a term from Scott Wu Everything is Coding Agents. It’s the single biggest problem in AI. Cognition is one of the fastest growing companies ever. But I think the team is what really sold it for me- it's packed with so many former founders Excited to share more soon...

Jared Zoneraich

291,591 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat

An interesting issue with Tesla Robotaxi where it took us to a Starbucks, but the Google data had the incorrect location. At drop off we were 0.2 miles from the Starbucks, so we had a short walk. Is there a way the Tesla AI team could add functionality in the app so riders can update map info to correct errors or inaccuracies on the underlying map data and then this propagates to the fleet? Being able to do this with a pin drop on the map instead of having to use an address might make this very easy and user friendly! Or, as a bigger ask, would it be possible for the car to be able to use visual images on its own to look for a Starbucks sign and on the fly, get us closer and update the map data on its own?
0:13

An interesting issue with Tesla Robotaxi where it took us to a Starbucks, but the Google data had the incorrect location. At drop off we were 0.2 miles from the Starbucks, so we had a short walk. Is there a way the Tesla AI team could add functionality in the app so riders can update map info to correct errors or inaccuracies on the underlying map data and then this propagates to the fleet? Being able to do this with a pin drop on the map instead of having to use an address might make this very easy and user friendly! Or, as a bigger ask, would it be possible for the car to be able to use visual images on its own to look for a Starbucks sign and on the fly, get us closer and update the map data on its own?

Joe Tegtmeyer 🚀 🤠🛸😎

80,352 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

I know you want a design team, and actually the best one - without the hassle of hiring or long-term commitments? That’s exactly what Kree8 is. Just book a Call, and let’s Kree8 it. 👇 We work like your in-house design team. You send in a task - one at a time or two simultaneously (your call), and we get it done. No chasing. No delays. Just clean, high-quality design delivered when you need it.
0:12

I know you want a design team, and actually the best one - without the hassle of hiring or long-term commitments? That’s exactly what Kree8 is. Just book a Call, and let’s Kree8 it. 👇 We work like your in-house design team. You send in a task - one at a time or two simultaneously (your call), and we get it done. No chasing. No delays. Just clean, high-quality design delivered when you need it.

Jay Dwivedi

253,988 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

Our best designer almost got rejected by our own hiring team. Her portfolio was mid. None of the buttons on her site worked. But her test task was so good we hired her on the spot. She now leads the graphic design team at Shown and her videos get millions of views a month. We're hiring motion designers and graphic designers at Shown Media. You just do a paid trial, if it's good we hire you on the spot.
0:15

Our best designer almost got rejected by our own hiring team. Her portfolio was mid. None of the buttons on her site worked. But her test task was so good we hired her on the spot. She now leads the graphic design team at Shown and her videos get millions of views a month. We're hiring motion designers and graphic designers at Shown Media. You just do a paid trial, if it's good we hire you on the spot.

Mitchell

30,319 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat

HTML Artifacts are a big part of how I work with agents now. Artifacts can be more than just static files. When combined with agents, they can take action or help you take action. This unlocks all kinds of interesting ways to work with agents. This is clearly the future. Check out this writing and scheduler artifact I built in a few minutes. It uses a bit of HTML and JS. All the data is in markdown (Obsidian vaults), so the agent can access and modify it at any time. No DB needed. No sophisticated functionalities. The agent decides all that for me based on the skills, context, and memory it has access to. The best part about this simple stack is that all the important information stays with me. This has allowed me to build a recursive self-improving system and automations that can better tap into coding agents like Codex or Claude Code. I could have paid or built an entire app for scheduling posts, and there are so many of them out there. But I don't need to. I've realized a simple artifact does the job. And the simplicity of it is actually an advantage. Very little maintenance for very high returns on personalization, time, and efficiency. The other benefit of this is that I can add features as I please. That level of personalization feels magical, and we should all be pursuing more of it. All of this just keeps compounding. Of course, this example is just about writing. But I have similar artifacts for research, design, experimentation, evaluation, and so much more. And no, I didn't actually publish the post example I shared in the clip. It was just for demonstration purposes. I actually spend more time than this when writing together with agents. Lastly, having built my own agent orchestrator tool has made me realize that simplifying the tool stack is a superpower. If you are curious about how all this works, I will do a live session next week:
0:16

HTML Artifacts are a big part of how I work with agents now. Artifacts can be more than just static files. When combined with agents, they can take action or help you take action. This unlocks all kinds of interesting ways to work with agents. This is clearly the future. Check out this writing and scheduler artifact I built in a few minutes. It uses a bit of HTML and JS. All the data is in markdown (Obsidian vaults), so the agent can access and modify it at any time. No DB needed. No sophisticated functionalities. The agent decides all that for me based on the skills, context, and memory it has access to. The best part about this simple stack is that all the important information stays with me. This has allowed me to build a recursive self-improving system and automations that can better tap into coding agents like Codex or Claude Code. I could have paid or built an entire app for scheduling posts, and there are so many of them out there. But I don't need to. I've realized a simple artifact does the job. And the simplicity of it is actually an advantage. Very little maintenance for very high returns on personalization, time, and efficiency. The other benefit of this is that I can add features as I please. That level of personalization feels magical, and we should all be pursuing more of it. All of this just keeps compounding. Of course, this example is just about writing. But I have similar artifacts for research, design, experimentation, evaluation, and so much more. And no, I didn't actually publish the post example I shared in the clip. It was just for demonstration purposes. I actually spend more time than this when writing together with agents. Lastly, having built my own agent orchestrator tool has made me realize that simplifying the tool stack is a superpower. If you are curious about how all this works, I will do a live session next week:

elvis

18,374 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat