It’s 10:42 a.m. Slack suddenly pings like popcorn.
Someone just merged something they shouldn’t have. Your stomach drops, because you know—the blast radius is already expanding.
Not a literal explosion. Just that invisible pressure shift after a decision detonates.
That half-second where the air changes and everyone in the room knows something just went off. That split-second between action and impact. The place where intention and consequence finally shake hands.
Fireball
In video games and tabletop role-playing games, there’s a term that describes damage—or effects—that hit more than one target at once.
Maybe it’s a fireball spell. Boom. Scorched earth within a neat little 10-foot radius.
That’s called Area of Effect. Or AoE.
Blast
AoE is something I try to pay attention to—especially at work. Because everything we do has a blast radius. Some actions hit like a flicker. Others? Fallout.
You make a small UX tweak—what else does it ripple through? Old flows? Future plans? You adopt a new library—who inherits that decision six months from now? You send a Slack message—what tone are you setting? Who’s impacted by the wording?
Every move has an AoE.
Some are barely noticeable. A quick ping. A gentle cc. A message “just for awareness.”
Others shake the ground. A feature launch that redefines your roadmap. A decision that reshapes how people work. Game-changing actions with world-building consequences.
Once you become aware of AoE, you start to see it everywhere. Every Slack message feels like a landmine trigger.
Trip Wire
There’s a frustratingly thin line between being aware of AoE—and being consumed by it.
A fishing-line-sized tripwire. Almost invisible. You don’t see it until you’re two inches away.
Once tripped, your mind spins. You start seeing every butterfly wing as hurricanes in every direction—every decision branching into infinite parallel universes. Each one whispering what could go wrong. And suddenly, you freeze. Paralyzed by consequence. Terrified of making the wrong move.
I’ve been on all sides of it. I’ve been scorched by someone’s accidental blast radius. I’ve been lifted by a team’s intentional one. And I’ve caught myself mid-step—tripwire snapped, spiraling into:
“Oh crap… what now?”
(Breathe. Focus. Breathe. Focus.)
(Ringing Sounds...)
That’s when I zoom out.
I look at my Overworld. I locate the mess. I draw some circles. I sketch what I can. I write it down.
Because here’s what I’ve learned:
There’s no blast you can’t recover from. So far anyway... (And thank goodness for that.)
The challenge isn’t to ignore AoE. And it’s not to fear it. It’s to become aware of it. To acknowledge the ripple—without drowning in it. To turn the down the dial and filter out the noise. To choose one of the many multi-verse paths to take.
To sequence your next moves after the boom goes off.
Fire and Ice
Every now and again, in some meeting, I’ll literally ask:
“What’s the blast radius of this change?”
Sometimes followed by:
“What’s the damage we can do?”
Not in a doom-and-gloom kind of way. But because that framing shifts how people think.
It cuts through the jargon. It adds urgency and consequence. It invites people to actually think about worst-case scenarios and side effects—not just rattle off the usual “Who are our cross-functional partners?” It’s a richer, faster, more honest way to examine impact. Fueled by explosive imagery. (And, sure—probably too many video games and movies.)
AoE isn’t just about damage. It’s also about potential. AoE is great when it can be used for good.
If we ship this doc, how much confusion can we wipe out? If we migrate this system, how much legacy code can we torch? If we send this message, how many teams can we align so that they stop speaking in circles?
Sometimes AoE is a fireball. But sometimes, it’s a healing spell. A max-level Party Heal for the misaligned, the confused, the tired, the anxious. A radiant pulse of life and light.
Radius
AoE isn’t about fear. It’s about range.
Sometimes we get so afraid of the blast, we forget: The same radius that can scorch—can also heal. The point isn’t to tiptoe through your work, afraid of making waves. It’s to be precise with the fire. To wield it with care. To make sure the blast reaches the places it’s meant to reach.
Because every action has a radius. Who gets warmed when you walk into a room? Who flinches when you fire off a “quick note”? Who catches shrapnel from decisions you didn’t think were decisions?
We all have one. Even silence has a range.
You won’t always predict the fallout. You can’t stop every spark. But you can design your aftershock.
Because AoE isn’t about limiting your impact. It’s about knowing you have one—and choosing what to do with it.