From Ceremony to Substance: Why I Care About Contracts

Opening

My view of contracts changed in one hard week. I used to treat them as ceremony at the end of real work. I now treat them as the work: the place where we make reality explicit so people can act with confidence. I care about contracts because clarity protects agency and makes integrity practical.

Before: ceremony and sausage-making

For years, contracts felt like performance—like a graduation: robes, stage, photos. The work was already done. The signing was just the walk across the stage. I also thought of it as sausage‑making I didn’t care to see—only that it looked good on the way out. I skimmed for headline terms, signed, and got back to building.

That view held until pressure tested it. Promises made at a whiteboard didn’t match what was on paper. Scope slid. Incentives diverged. I still believed in good faith, but I treated the contract as a symbol of it, not the tool that sustains it when things get loud.

The death‑march project

A large rollout in Japan tipped over into a death march. Iced coffee cans stacked on desks. Nights ran late. People sprinted for the last train. I lived within walking distance, so I stayed and often worked past midnight. We were chasing an unrealistic deadline and delivered by the skin of our teeth.

Go‑live, then hell week

The software went live in an office spanning two floors. It was immediately used “in anger” by boisterous, overcaffeinated gym bros wearing minimum $10k watches. The week was bugs, hot fixes, and noisy adjustment. It was messy.

The boardroom

There was no calendar event. On the walk back from a pee break, I was intercepted and ushered into a boardroom. Inside were my supervisor and the Head of HR. There was a piece of paper and a pen. My supervisor’s voice shook.

“Due to a shift in company direction… [long pause] you are considered [long pause]… redundant.”

My first inner reaction was excitement at leaving “this work hell.” Then I reset. I asked to understand the next step.

The pressure

HR slid the paper across the table and said, “You must sign.” The document was written in formal kanji beyond my level. I asked questions. Regardless of the question, I got the same two lines:

“You are lucky we are giving you a package.”

“You must sign.”

The stand and the exit

I said, “I don’t ‘need’ to sign anything… you can’t force me to sign.” For me, saying that out loud was uncharacteristic; I was naive and trusting by default. HR repeated the same two lines. I declined to sign on the spot. The meeting ended. I was told to leave. At the door they took my pass: “This is company property, and you are no longer permitted in private areas.”

The overnight dive

I went home and did a massive deep dive into Japanese law. All night, I read the Japanese Labor Code, cases, and forums. It made sense. It rhymed with decades of programming: definitions, constraints, procedures. I wasn’t trying to become a lawyer overnight. I was building literacy so I could ask precise questions and know what I did not know.

The return

The next day I met the HR director with prepared talking points. I laid out what I believed their document did, what it could not do under law, and where I needed clarity. I argued my points, aware of where they were weak. HR dismantled them, methodically and well. I accepted the terms, somewhat begrudgingly, because I knew the score.

Here is the important part: I accepted because I had clarity over the ins and outs. I was upset that HR did not help me reach that clarity. In the room, it felt like they were angling to take advantage of my ignorance. I disagreed with their characterization of “lucky.” What I received was required to make the dismissal legal.

What changed

That week forced me to understand the forces at play. I felt boxed in, but I shed naiveté. I stopped treating signatures as ceremony and started treating contracts as the first operational artifact. I read for who is bound, what is expected, when obligations trigger, and how exit works under stress.

I also recognized why the work resonated with me. I love code for its clarity and integrity. Law, at its best, shares those qualities. In both, you define terms, constrain behavior, and specify procedures so systems behave as promised. When those pieces are clear, people can perform without improvising under pressure.

Why I care now

Opacity creates pressure. “Sign now” is a request to outsource judgment. Even well‑intentioned teams slide into that posture when deadlines bite. In my case, repetition replaced explanation. The effect was to compress time and expand ambiguity.

Clarity does the opposite. When the document matches the work, people can say a clean yes or a clean no. They can accept consequences knowingly. They can escalate respectfully when facts change. Contracts then enable trust instead of substituting for it.

Purpose

That week shaped my purpose: to bring clarity and facilitate integrity in dealings between people. Clarity so consent is informed. Integrity so performance tracks the promise. When those are present, ceremony matches substance.

At Amicus, we call it Claritas et Integritas—clarity and integrity. That is the work.