Here's the boast: I run about ten side projects at the same time, by myself, and most weeks all of them move. A language app with a real paywall, a chart site, a spoiler-safe anime encyclopedia, a weight tracker, this website. When I mention that, people assume I don't sleep.
The honest version: I sleep fine, and I don't do most of the typing. I built a system — I call it kaldenOS — that orchestrates a fleet of Claude agents against my project backlogs around the clock. So the thing I'll take credit for isn't the raw volume of work. It's the design of the machine that produces it, and the judgment about what to point it at. The agents are exactly as good as the instructions and context you feed them, which means most of "building an AI fleet" turned out to be building a very careful filing system.
What it actually is
Every project keeps a backlog in one git repo. A conductor reads those backlogs and dispatches agent workers at whatever's open — disposable workers, reborn per job. When a worker finishes, a verifier decides whether the result deserves my attention at all: real outcomes and genuine forks-in-the-road surface; everything else gets filed and the fleet keeps working. What survives lands on a private reports site as a decision-ready page — I read, I pick, work continues. And the whole thing has a face: a manager that lives in my Discord, so "how's it going" is a message to a chat, not a dashboard to decode.
- A conductor that reads every project's backlog and decides what runs next.
- A fleet of agent workers, one per project, that do the work and commit it.
- A verifier that gates what reaches me — results and real decisions only.
- A conversational manager in my Discord for everything in between.
- A reports site where finished work waits as decision-ready pages.
- A running ledger of cumulative agent work-hours, ticking up on its own.
The part I'm most attached to is the smallest. Every instruction I type gets frozen verbatim into a line-numbered, append-only archive. Not summarized, not cleaned up — my exact words, one per line, addressable forever. I built that because I kept catching the agents paraphrasing me, and a paraphrase is where ideas go to die: a "maybe someday" rewritten as "do it" is a corrupted order, and a stray idea summarized away is simply gone. Now nothing I've ever typed can be lost or softened. Everything downstream just points back at the line.
"THERE SHOULD NEVER BE A SINGLE BACKLOG TODO THAT IS NOT DIRECTLY BLOCKED BY ME."— me, into the archive, caps original
That sentence is the operating principle. If a task can move without me, the fleet should already be moving it. The only queue allowed to grow is the queue of things waiting on my judgment.
The night it worked
In one validated overnight run, the fleet drained about 68 backlog items across six projects. I went to bed with full backlogs and woke up to reports. The work-hours ledger — a counter of cumulative agent hours that I put on the reports homepage as an openly vain flourish — just quietly ticks up while I do something else.
It did not start out working. Early on, the fleet once fired 889 dispatches and produced zero commits — safety guards it had talked itself into were strangling it — and the debugging agent confidently declared the wrong root cause, twice, before I forced the issue.
"stop calling it done, test"— me, also into the archive, less proudly
The part where I keep it honest
This is not a story about autonomy. I review everything user-facing before it ships; the fleet drafts, I conduct. And as I write this, the entire fleet is paused — deliberately — because some of this week's work needs my own eye, and the right move when that's true is to stop the machine and work by hand. A system like this is a lever, not a replacement, and knowing when to put the lever down is part of operating it.
The strangest thing it taught me: once execution is roughly free, you find out how much of "productivity" was actually just deciding what to build. That part didn't get automated. That part got harder.
There's no public link — kaldenOS is private infrastructure, wired into my accounts and my machines. But it's my favorite thing to talk about, so ask me.
Keep going How Flua began · Super Zen, in about forty lines