Since I started indie development, there was one thing I had always feared: "The day I break something with an update." Adding features makes me happy, but the moment I press the publish button, my heart always skips a beat. I tell myself that I've tested it so it should be fine, yet somewhere in my mind I'm still thinking "what if." That "what if" became reality in the spring of this year. Today, I want to write about that day as honestly as I can. Not so much as a failure story, but rather what that experience taught me.
The Incantation of "It'll Probably Be Fine"
That day's update wasn't a major change. I tidied up the data handling process a bit and fixed a few display-related bugs—what you'd call a "mundane improvement release." There were no big new features; if anything, it should have been more user-friendly.
I tested it properly. I tried several patterns myself, checked the appearance. I quietly pressed the publish button on a weekday afternoon and posted a brief "Updated!" on X. The response was modest, but that's always the case. I didn't worry about it and moved on to other work.
Evening—A Notification Arrived
The problem happened that evening.
A message had come through the app's contact form. "Data stopped displaying correctly starting today," with a screenshot attached.
The moment I saw the screen, my stomach sank. Before I could even think "oh no," I felt my body tense up. Calming down and examining the screenshot, it was definitely displaying strangely. Looking at the date, it was clear this had started right after I released the update.
Staring at the Screen in Panic
For a few seconds after reading the inquiry, I couldn't move. The feeling of "I need to fix this immediately" and "what went wrong?" hit me at the same time, leaving me paralyzed—that familiar sensation of not knowing where to start.
I took a deep breath and opened the app myself. I tried to reproduce the same situation... and I could. It really was broken. While organizing my thoughts about which parts were related to today's changes, I went through them one by one.
The Moment I Found the Cause
After about thirty minutes of investigation, I found it. In the process I thought I'd tidied up, there was a section that only malfunctioned under specific conditions. When I tested it myself, I simply hadn't happened to hit that condition.
When I said "Ah, I see," the feeling that overwhelmed me was embarrassment more than anger. A mix of shame at my own oversight and apology to the users who were using it. But this wasn't the time to feel down, so I pushed forward with the fix.
Writing the Reply Was the Hardest Part
The actual fix didn't take long once I knew what was wrong. I corrected the problematic section, checked it again, and released the fixed version. Looking at the clock, a little over an hour had passed since the initial message.
But to be honest, writing the reply was much harder than the fix itself.
An apology message is tricky to write. If it's too polite, it seems like an excuse. If it's too short, it doesn't feel sincere. My feeling of "I'm truly sorry" is genuine, but when I put it into words, it somehow feels thin.
What I Wrote and What I Didn't
The reply I ultimately sent was simple. I thanked them for reporting it, acknowledged that I had introduced a bug in today's update, stated that it was now fixed, and apologized for the inconvenience. I wrote it all as straightforwardly as I could.
I didn't make excuses. I didn't mention that my testing was insufficient. I didn't think such things were necessary—they weren't asked for, and even if they were, they wouldn't help. I simply apologized, told them it was fixed, and added that I hoped they'd continue using it.
After pressing send, my breathing felt a little easier.
Since I sent it at night, the reply came the next morning.
"Thank you, it's working now! I was surprised since I use it every day, but I really appreciate the quick response."
...When I read it, the first thing that struck me was the phrase "I use it every day."
Someone uses this app every day.
It might seem obvious, but when you're doing indie development, it's surprisingly hard to know if something is actually being used. You can see numbers like access counts and downloads, but you rarely feel the reality of "being part of someone's daily life." Yet with this message, I felt it clearly for the first time.
What Breaking It Revealed
Releasing a bug was definitely a failure. But I don't think I would have received this message if that failure hadn't happened.
The fact that they sent an inquiry means they were committed to continuing to use the app. When something went wrong, instead of "I'll stop using it," they thought "I'll let them know." I only truly understood how precious that was at that moment.
My desire to eliminate bugs hasn't changed. But the fact that "someone is using it" might not have been something I'd consciously think about if bugs never appeared. On the day I broke something, I learned it was actually being used. It was ironic somehow, but also strangely precious.
What "Making It Alone" Means
In indie development, everything after release is solo too. Design, implementation, testing, and when bugs appear, the response—all of it. In a team, you could consult with someone or divide the work, but doing it alone means everything falls on you.
That's scary, and developers talk about it often. When something goes wrong, only you can respond. That pressure accumulates a little with each release, leading to the feeling of "what if I break something again?"
But that day, when I received the message from the user, responded, and got back "it's fixed," I felt something beyond fear. Having responsibility means you're creating something meaningful. That realization truly sank in for the first time.
Speed of Response Versus the Attitude of Facing It
When they wrote "I really appreciate the quick response," I'll be honest—I felt a bit conflicted. Because I still had the thought "it was quick, but I shouldn't have broken it in the first place."
But now I can think about it a bit more gently. Being able to respond properly when problems arise might be more important than releasing perfectly, especially for something that continues long-term. Indie development isn't a one-time thing; it's something that goes on. What stayed with me was not the speed, but the fact that "I didn't run away."
Since then, I've been taking a bit more time before updates. It won't prevent everything, but I've created my own confirmation process and run through it all before publishing. There might be similar incidents again someday. But I feel a little more confident about how I'd handle it.
Also, I made the contact form more prominent. I wanted people to reach out more easily if something happened. Not just for bug reports, but also to make it easier to receive feedback like "I'd love this feature."
When I think back to that day, my stomach still hurts a little. But receiving that one message has become one of those moments that makes me think "I'm glad I'm doing indie development."
On the day I broke something, I was able to truly connect. Maybe that was enough.
You reading this might have had a similar experience. Or you might have one in the future. If you do, I hope you remember "there was someone who got through a day like this." If so, this article will have been worth writing.
Let's keep going together.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Indie developer. Making iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
