After starting personal development for a while, Lily carried a certain kind of anxiety. She would create an app and release it, then create something else and release it. With each release, she'd think "this time for sure," but the response never quite came. The more she released, the more the feeling of "is this really okay?" grew.
"Release more," is a phrase you often hear in the developer community. Lily certainly believed it too. But during the period when she was releasing blindly, it felt no different from "continuously buying lottery tickets." She was running on nothing but a vague expectation that if she released enough, eventually something would hit.
This article is about how, after going through that period, Lily gradually came to understand the real meaning of "releasing more." To be honest, she's still in the middle of it. But she's noticed a few things, and she's writing this hoping it might help others who are similarly running forward.
When Lily first started personal development, "releasing more" for her meant simply increasing the number of releases. When an idea came to mind, she'd build it. Quality was secondary; the priority was to release first. She read on social media that "for indie developers, speed is everything," and she took it at face value.
In fact, in the first six months, she released 5 or 6 products. Mini-apps, tools, small web services. All created with the motivation of "it might be convenient to have." Right after release, she'd post on X, get some impressions, and that would be it. Then she'd start on the next one.
In the midst of this repetition, Lily gradually developed a certain feeling. A sense of obligation to "create." It wasn't that it wasn't fun. But before she knew it, the anxiety of "I must release more" came first, and the reason she was creating became a bit blurred.
One day, she suddenly lined up all the things she'd made and looked at them. Five, six, seven... as she lined them up, she noticed something unexpected. Some had gotten good responses, others hadn't. Some had been fun to make, others had stalled partway through. There, she could see a faint pattern.
For example, "things she'd actually wanted to use" all had a different intensity while making them. Her hands wouldn't stop. And with those kinds of things, when she released them, she'd get reactions from "people with similar problems to mine." Conversely, things she'd made because "this kind of thing is trending" or "there seems to be demand for it" felt cold the moment they were completed.
By releasing in volume, she could see this difference. With just one or two, she might have dismissed it as "just a coincidence." But when seven were lined up, it was no longer something she could call chance.
When she was operating with the image of "releasing more to find a hit," Lily was always in the mindset of drawing lottery tickets. There was a correct idea somewhere out there, and she was trying to hit it. The reason she kept missing was simply that she hadn't reached the winning idea yet, she thought.
But what she actually learned from releasing in volume was that a "hit" wasn't a predetermined correct answer waiting somewhere. It was more like something that grew from within her as she kept creating.
She thinks of it like continuously sketching in a sketchbook. The 50th page is definitely different from the first page. The lines have changed, the hesitation has decreased, what "she likes" has become clearer. She doesn't "discover" a hit; she "cultivates" it within the volume. One day, this clicked for her.
Looking back at the period of mass production, Lily honestly thinks there were several products that "failed." Things no one used, things she abandoned halfway through, things that look rough and embarrassing now.
But what she learned from them definitely flowed into later products. The UI problem that didn't work back then, she tried a different approach with in the next work. The experience from that failed product of "this kind of user didn't respond to this" became a judgment axis when making the next thing.
Failed products don't exist in isolation, is Lily's current feeling. They're all connected. The experience from products that disappeared became the skeleton of the next product. So she tries not to think "that product that didn't hit was a waste." Whether it was a waste depends on how she uses it afterward, she feels.
When you keep releasing in volume, you feel things being polished in places separate from technology.
One is the "sense of completion." The judgment of "this is releasable" versus "this isn't yet" has gradually become more accurate. At first, it was a vague standard of "I feel like it's done, so I'll release it," but now there's a sense growing within her of "the minimum line where someone can actually use this."
Another is "speed." As her hands learn more, the start of the next project gets faster. There are more parts she doesn't have to rethink from scratch each time. This is a change that's hard to see, but there was a clear difference between the 5th and 10th projects.
And perhaps the biggest was "clarifying her tastes." What kind of things does she enjoy making? What kind of users does she want to use them? That, which was vague at first, became clearer in outline as she released more. She thinks this was the biggest harvest.
Actually, Lily was very scared of releasing at first. There was the feeling of "someone will see it," "what if I get criticized," "what if people think it's unusable," and sometimes she'd hesitate to make things public even after completing them.
But after releasing several times, she noticed something. In most cases, nothing happens in the world. A storm of criticism doesn't come, nor is it praised enthusiastically; it's quietly received and gradually used (or not used). That's all.
By repeating this experience of "nothing happens," the hurdle to releasing lowered. A sense of security that releasing won't kill her, so to speak. Releasing became less like a special ritual and more like just sending something. Once that happened, the speed of creation naturally increased. The attachment to perfection loosened a bit, and she could move with the feeling of "let me hand it over first."
Now, Lily understands the phrase "release more" like this: ——the work of gradually drawing your own map through repeated trials.
Not to search for a hit, but as a means to know who she is, what she wants to create, and who she wants to reach, she releases in volume. That's how it's changed.
So even now, she releases imperfect things. Because she knows that if she thinks "I should polish this more," she loses sight of the exit ahead. Even if it's small, release it, see the response, use it for the next one. By repeating that, her own unique "sense of what hits" gradually grows.
If you're releasing in volume right now but feel like nothing's changing, try pausing for a moment and lining up what you've made so far. Which was fun? Which did you put heat into? Which did your hands not stop while making? There, you'll see a faint outline of yourself.
The hit isn't out there; it's gradually growing within you. Releasing more is, Lily thinks, a way to hear that voice.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Indie developer. Creating iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
