If you’ve peeked at a code file – or seen a stressed coder doing it – you’ll spot tiny lines beginning with // or /…/. Those are notes – people quietly talking across the tech.
Imagine they’re like sticky notes slapped right into a cookbook
| // stir vigorously so it doesn’t explode again |
This little line wasn’t meant for machines – it was left behind for whoever came next. Think of it like someone stepping into your kitchen, spotting a pot simmering, eyes landing on a note that reads, “Stir Vigorously.” They know what’s supposed to be happening, and if those things aren’t happening, now they have a clue where to start to fix it.
Code lives in a social world.
We act like coding is done in isolation, yet anybody who’s struggled with setting up Python realizes tech lives within a chaotic, breathing world full of humans: oders sending messages late at night, chat posts packed with tips or arguments, GitHub problems tagged “needs chat,” whole groups made up of hackers, people who learn, fans, or those who question things.
Code comments are rhetorical. They tell, convince, give warnings, strike deals – maybe even toss in an apology now and then.
(“// TODO: fix this later, sorry future dev”).
Code isn’t born outta nowhere – someone’s always behind it, shaped by their background, beliefs, blind spots, along with real concerns over who tech actually serves. Researchers such as Banks, alongside Nakamura, or McPherson, together with Hicks, point out that tech influences race, gender, past events, and who gets in – and those things also affect tech. Consider this:
- Who gets invited to the table where tools are designed?
- Whose experiences become the “default user”?
- What kinds of knowledge are assumed when you open an app or platform?
What we build carries the mark of its creators. tech’s never truly impartial.
Code Is Rhetorical Action (Yes, Really)
Kenneth Burke saw rhetoric as using signs to make things happen – basically, words that do work. Writing code? You’re doing the same thing – it’s making marks that spark reactions in
Picture the home page of your go-to social media platform. See how the “Log In” option jumps out – large, bright, impossible to miss? Meanwhile, “Continue as Guest” hides in small print, faded, almost apologetic. This isn’t an accident – it’s design talking.
Your actions aren’t only guided by words – hidden rules, step-by-step logic, or how things are built play a role too.
Ian Bogost labels this idea procedural rhetoric – the way systems use steps, logic, or code to make a point. Not even CAPTCHA escapes it; those “pick all images with crosswalks” prompts aren’t neutral: they nudge you into helping train machines, all while selling it as safety checks.
If Code Shapes Us, We Should Understand It Better
This is Brock’s big argument:
If apps are shaping how we talk, act, pick up skills, or choose what to do, we’ve gotta study them – not just click around mindlessly.
Here’s when rhetorical code analysis steps in. It’s not really changing literature grads into coders. It’s about offering folks – coders, writers, regular people – tools to wonder:
- What’s happening in this code?
- How come it ended up like this?
- Who is it talking to?
- What guesses does it take about how things are?
- What is its impact on our decisions?
Picture Firefox not merely as an app, but as a ten-year conversation among coders and users, expressed through programming. That’s what rhetorical breakdown feels like, only swapping usual methods for new ones.
So, What Is Code Really?
| //It isn’t merely directions. //It’s conversation //It’s collaboration //It’s culture. //It’s rhetoric. |
It’s the hidden way we talk online – often chaotic, funny, or smart – that quietly guides most of what we do in digital spaces.
Even if you code for a living, study language, or simply hate that pesky ‘Update Available’ pop-up, you’ll notice things differently once you start viewing software through a rhetorical lens. After all, behind every line of code is a human trying to communicate something.
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