The modern software universe is a cathedral built on volunteer labor. Not metaphorically…. literally. Every cloud service, every smartphone, every laptop, every web app, every AI pipeline, every “enterprise solution” with a glossy sales deck is quietly leaning on code written by people who were never paid for the value they created.
And the more I think about it, the more surreal it feels.
Apple ships a BSD‑derived operating system wrapped in brushed aluminum and marketing poetry, but the bones of macOS — the shell, the networking stack, the userland tools — were shaped by open‑source developers who never saw a dime from Cupertino. Microsoft, the company that once treated Linux like a contagion, now runs half of Azure on Linux machines and bundles OpenSSH, curl, zlib, and a dozen other open‑source components directly into Windows.
Google built its empire on Linux servers, Python tooling, and a constellation of open‑source libraries that power everything from search indexing to Android’s undercarriage. Amazon’s entire cloud business — the most profitable part of the company — sits on top of Linux, Apache, PostgreSQL, Redis, and a thousand other projects maintained by people who don’t work for Amazon and never will. Even Meta, with all its internal engineering muscle, relies on open‑source cryptography, compression libraries, and container tooling to keep its global infrastructure from collapsing under its own weight.
And yet, despite this universal dependence, the people who built the foundation are often living ordinary lives, working day jobs, maintaining critical software in the margins of their evenings. The Bash maintainer, Chet Ramey, should be a millionaire. The OpenSSL team should have been funded long before Heartbleed forced the world to notice them. The creator of SQLite — a database used in billions of devices — should have generational wealth. The curl maintainer, whose library is embedded in everything from cars to smart TVs to cloud APIs, should never have to worry about retirement.
But that’s not how the system works. Instead, trillion‑dollar companies extract value from open source the way cities draw water from aquifers: silently, constantly, and without paying the people who keep the wells from running dry.
That’s why I keep coming back to the idea of a global Open Source Endowment — a permanent, structural funding mechanism that treats open source like the infrastructure it is. If roads, bridges, and power grids deserve public investment, then so do the libraries, shells, compilers, and protocols that keep the digital world from collapsing into a heap of broken dependencies.
- Imagine Apple contributing a fraction of its services revenue each year, not because it wants to buy anything, but because it knows Darwin, clang, rsync, and half the shell environment it ships are built on open‑source DNA.
- Imagine Microsoft contributing because Windows now includes GNU tools, WSL, and a dependency chain that stretches all the way back to projects maintained by one or two people.
- Imagine Google contributing because Kubernetes, TensorFlow, Chrome, and Android all sit atop a mountain of open‑source work they didn’t create. Imagine Amazon contributing because AWS is, at its core, a commercial wrapper around Linux, Apache, and a universe of open‑source components.
- Imagine Meta contributing because its entire backend — from load balancers to compression to encryption — is stitched together from open‑source libraries maintained by strangers.
The endowment would be seeded by these companies, matched by governments who rely on the same software for public services, and invested like a university fund. The principal would remain untouched; only the returns would flow back into the ecosystem. And the distribution wouldn’t be political or arbitrary. It would be calculated automatically by a global dependency scanner that maps how widely and deeply each project is used.
- If Apple ships your code on every iPhone, you get paid.
- If Microsoft bundles your library into Windows, you get paid.
- If AWS uses your project to power a cloud service, you get paid.
No favoritism. No corporate capture. Just math.
But the part that matters most — the part that gives the whole thing a soul — is The Ramey Clause. Named for Chet Ramey, because if anyone deserves to have a clause named after them, it’s the man who maintained the shell that runs the world. The Ramey Clause ensures that wealth flows not only to current maintainers but also to the founders, the pioneers, the people who wrote the code that became the bedrock of everything else.
Under this clause, the original creators of foundational projects receive lifetime stipends, and if they’re no longer alive, their estates receive it instead. It’s reparative without being punitive. It’s generous without being naive. It’s a recognition that the world we live in was built by people who were never compensated for the value they created.
Think about how different the world would look if this had existed twenty years ago. The OpenSSL team wouldn’t have been scraping by on donations when the world discovered Heartbleed. The Bash maintainer wouldn’t have been maintaining the command line for the entire planet as a side gig. The creator of SQLite wouldn’t have had to release his work into the public domain just to avoid licensing headaches. The maintainers of zlib, libpng, and dozens of other “boring” but essential libraries wouldn’t have been quietly carrying the weight of the internet on their backs.
And companies like Apple, Microsoft, Google, Amazon, and Meta would have been contributing to the ecosystem that made their success possible, not as charity, but as a cost of doing business.
The Ramey Clause rewrites the story. It says that the people who built the world deserve to share in the prosperity that followed. It says that open source is not a hobbyist playground but a global public good. It says that the commons is worth investing in — not because it’s fragile, but because it’s powerful. Because it’s ours. Because it always has been.
Scored with Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.
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