There’s always a bit of fanfare when a doc begins with:
“This is a living document.”
It sounds thoughtful. Inclusive. Alive. Usually met with nods: “About time someone wrote this down.”
But then what?
Most “living documents” die. Not with drama—just decay. Most are dead on arrival.
Because what makes a doc living isn’t the proclamation. It’s the practice. It’s not the label, but the labour. The systems. The caretaking.
That means:
- Someone remembers it exists
- Someone notices when it drifts
- Someone makes the time to fix it
That’s the work. That’s the system. And most of the time, that system… is just people. People noticing. And doing something about it.
Outdated
Docs go out of date. That’s not a flaw.
(It’s also not a reason to avoid writing things down.)
It just… is.
A doc is a snapshot. A moment in time, captured. Things change. Docs don’t—unless someone changes them.
So instead of punishing ourselves for the drift, we build a rhythm for revival. For upkeep.
Updating
Keeping a doc alive doesn’t require a heroic rewrite. It’s usually much simpler than that. It’s like noticing something’s off—and doing something small about it.
Like:
- Picking up a can of soup that fell off the grocery shelf
- Letting the barista know the restroom’s out of order
- Tucking in a loose chair before you leave a meeting room
You notice because you’re in it. You’re in the grocery store—and spot the soup can in the middle of the aisle. You’re trying to stand something up: an API, a library, a service.
You find a doc, follow the steps… and hit a wall. Something’s changed. The doc is wrong. So you dig. Check Slack. Ask ChatGPT. Scan the official docs. Eventually, you figure it out.
Now what? Update the doc you found.
- Fix the line.
- Replace the screenshot.
- Add the new step.
If you can’t edit it, that’s fine. Leave a comment. Post the fix where others can find it. Not just “this is wrong”—but here’s what’s right.
Update the doc. Put the can back on the shelf. And on going.
Responsibility
Is it everyone’s responsibility?
Yes.
But what about that saying—“If it’s everyone’s job, it’s no one’s”?
Sure.
Or maybe that’s just something we tell ourselves.
A story we use to justify inaction—because we’re unsure, or uncomfortable, or feel like it’s not our place to update a doc we didn’t write.
And there lies the real issue.
The problem isn’t that responsibility is distributed. It’s that care gets diluted—by nervousness, uncertainty, or just the everyday busyness of work.
Yes, every doc should have an owner—an individual or a team. But that doesn’t mean others can’t step in while the owners are busy.
Tend to the garden. Keep the thing going.
You don’t need to save the world. Just update the screenshot. Put the can back on the shelf.
And keep shopping.
Quiet work
As you walk the aisles of your (metaphorical) document grocery store, you start to notice a few things.
Some aisles are well-worn—scuffed floors from constant foot traffic leading to popular items. Patina. Other shelves? Covered in dust. Expired… 2020?! Yikes. Definitely out of date.
A half-written brain dump. Two sections still marked “TBD.” No one’s touched it in five years. Maybe it’s time to let it go.
What makes a doc living isn’t the loud opener. It’s the quiet work of the people who keep it alive—or retire it when it’s no longer useful. Not because it failed, but because it fulfilled its purpose.
As long as there are systems in place— the awareness to notice, the autonomy to act— the doc will keep on living. Because the things that stay alive—docs, tools, rituals, teams— aren’t self-sustaining. They’re sustained. They’re cared for.
No ceremony required. No need to announce that it was alive at all.