Let me tell you about this wild story from that Veritasium video—it's one of those things that makes you realize how fragile the whole internet really is, even though it feels so solid most days.Way back, open-source software got its start with folks like Richard Stallman setting up the Free Software Foundation in the mid-80s. The whole idea was simple and powerful: software should be free in the sense that anyone can run it, study how it works, change it, and share those changes. Then Linus Torvalds kicked off the Linux kernel in 1991, and together with the GNU tools, it became this complete, free operating system that just kept growing.
These days, Linux is everywhere. It runs supercomputers, cloud servers, phones, you name it. Most of the internet's backbone depends on it. People always say "with enough eyeballs, all bugs are shallow"—meaning the crowd of volunteers looking at the code should catch problems fast. And usually, that works pretty well.
But here's the real vulnerability: so much of this world rests on tiny projects maintained by one or two people, often volunteers burning out from the pressure, doing it for free because they believe in the mission.
Take XZ Utils, this compression tool that's baked into almost every Linux system. Lasse Collin had been maintaining it since around 2005, quietly keeping things running. He got overwhelmed, though—too much work, too little help. Then along comes this contributor named Jia Tan, offering a hand, fixing bugs, being super helpful. Over time, Jia builds trust, gets more access, and eventually takes over as the main maintainer.
What nobody knew was that Jia Tan was planting something sinister. They slipped in a backdoor, hidden cleverly inside binary test files that nobody would normally scrutinize. The goal? To target OpenSSH—the tool we all use to securely log into remote servers. It's basically the front door for keeping the internet's machines safe and managed. If that backdoor worked, anyone with the secret key could bypass authentication, get root access, and take full control of affected servers. We're talking potentially millions of systems worldwide, quietly compromised without anyone noticing.
The code was so sneaky—hidden in plain sight, using advanced tricks—that it almost made it into major distributions. But then, pure luck and sharp eyes saved the day. A Microsoft engineer named Andres Freund was testing some servers and noticed connections were running a bit slower than usual. Not a huge red flag, but enough to make him curious. He dug in, traced it back, and uncovered the whole thing. He sounded the alarm, and the community jumped in to fix it before the bad versions spread far.
Now, who was Jia Tan really? The persona had no real history before showing up, used sock puppets to push Lasse out, and pulled off this patient, multi-year operation with serious technical sophistication. Most folks in the know figure it points to a nation-state actor—someone with resources and time to play the long game. We still don't know exactly who, but it wasn't some random hacker.
The bigger takeaway hits hard: our digital world runs on the goodwill and unpaid work of dedicated people maintaining critical pieces of infrastructure. When one person burns out, the whole chain gets weak. This near-miss made everyone stop and think about how we support those volunteers better, how we watch the supply chain more closely, because one clever infiltration almost changed everything.
It's a reminder that even the strongest systems have quiet, human weak spots—and sometimes, one curious person paying attention is what keeps the lights on for the rest of us.
These days, Linux is everywhere. It runs supercomputers, cloud servers, phones, you name it. Most of the internet's backbone depends on it. People always say "with enough eyeballs, all bugs are shallow"—meaning the crowd of volunteers looking at the code should catch problems fast. And usually, that works pretty well.
But here's the real vulnerability: so much of this world rests on tiny projects maintained by one or two people, often volunteers burning out from the pressure, doing it for free because they believe in the mission.
Take XZ Utils, this compression tool that's baked into almost every Linux system. Lasse Collin had been maintaining it since around 2005, quietly keeping things running. He got overwhelmed, though—too much work, too little help. Then along comes this contributor named Jia Tan, offering a hand, fixing bugs, being super helpful. Over time, Jia builds trust, gets more access, and eventually takes over as the main maintainer.
What nobody knew was that Jia Tan was planting something sinister. They slipped in a backdoor, hidden cleverly inside binary test files that nobody would normally scrutinize. The goal? To target OpenSSH—the tool we all use to securely log into remote servers. It's basically the front door for keeping the internet's machines safe and managed. If that backdoor worked, anyone with the secret key could bypass authentication, get root access, and take full control of affected servers. We're talking potentially millions of systems worldwide, quietly compromised without anyone noticing.
The code was so sneaky—hidden in plain sight, using advanced tricks—that it almost made it into major distributions. But then, pure luck and sharp eyes saved the day. A Microsoft engineer named Andres Freund was testing some servers and noticed connections were running a bit slower than usual. Not a huge red flag, but enough to make him curious. He dug in, traced it back, and uncovered the whole thing. He sounded the alarm, and the community jumped in to fix it before the bad versions spread far.
Now, who was Jia Tan really? The persona had no real history before showing up, used sock puppets to push Lasse out, and pulled off this patient, multi-year operation with serious technical sophistication. Most folks in the know figure it points to a nation-state actor—someone with resources and time to play the long game. We still don't know exactly who, but it wasn't some random hacker.
The bigger takeaway hits hard: our digital world runs on the goodwill and unpaid work of dedicated people maintaining critical pieces of infrastructure. When one person burns out, the whole chain gets weak. This near-miss made everyone stop and think about how we support those volunteers better, how we watch the supply chain more closely, because one clever infiltration almost changed everything.
It's a reminder that even the strongest systems have quiet, human weak spots—and sometimes, one curious person paying attention is what keeps the lights on for the rest of us.
