Nobody is coming to pick you

A young woodworker in Riyadh makes small tables from offcuts in a corner of his father's garage. A generation ago, his route would have been obvious and narrow. Get taken on by a well-known workshop. Get noticed by a showroom buyer. Get a nod from someone important enough that the nod itself opened doors.

The path was well marked. You did what you were told, you waited, and if you were lucky, someone chose you.

Most of those choosers still exist. They simply matter far less. The buyer who once decided what an entire city saw now sees the same feeds everyone else does, and often finds the next maker there.

That sounds like freedom, and it is. It also removes the comfort of being told. Nobody tells him which table to make next, nobody grades it, and nobody promises that good work will be rewarded on any timetable. He posts a short clip of a joint coming together. A few hundred strangers watch. Two ask the price. One buys.

From inside, it does not feel like a system. It feels crowded, noisy and uncertain, with hundreds of other makers posting into the same evening, and no way to know which effort counts.

The trade he has been handed is this. Instead of waiting to be chosen once, he gets to contribute, in public, on his own terms. Then he gets to do it again tomorrow, a little better, to a few more people who now know his name.

There is no gate to get through any more. There is just the next table, and the chance to show it.