I Pulled Nine Years of My Own Dev.to Data. The Numbers Were Not What I Expected.

There is an API. It will tell you things about your writing that the dashboard will not.

I have been publishing on Dev.to since April 2017. There is a four-year hole in the middle where I posted almost nothing, and then a return in March 2026 that has produced eighty-six posts in six months.

That shape turns out to be useful. Two distinct bodies of work, on the same account, separated by a gap long enough that the platform itself changed underneath them. A natural experiment I did not set out to run.

What I wanted was simple: a chart of follower growth with my article publication dates overlaid, to see whether particular posts moved the line. What I got instead was a fairly uncomfortable education in which of my numbers mean anything.

The API made all of it possible, and almost nobody seems to use it.

Yes, There Is an API

Base URL is https://dev.to/api`. You generate a key at **Settings → Extensions → DEV Community API Keys**. Most read endpoints for your own data want that key in anapi-key` header.

There is one detail that will silently ruin your afternoon:

headers = {
    "api-key": key,
    # Omit this and you get v0 responses. No error. No warning.
    "accept": "application/vnd.forem.api-v1+json",
    "user-agent": "my-analytics-script/1.0",
}

Without the accept header you are served the older v0 serializer. Nothing fails. The shapes are just quietly different, and you will spend twenty minutes wondering why a documented field is missing.

Trick One: The Default Page Size Is Not the Maximum

The followers endpoint is documented as returning 80 per page. I have a little over eighteen thousand followers, which is 227 round trips.

The v1 pagination range actually runs to 1000. The 80 is a default, not a ceiling:

batch = client.get(
    f"{API_ROOT}/followers/users",
    params={"page": page, "per_page": 1000},
).json()

Nineteen requests instead of 227. Thirty-one seconds instead of however long 227 polite requests would have taken.

A Forem instance can cap per_page lower through an environment variable, so do not hardcode the assumption. Ask for the maximum, then learn the real stride from what comes back:

if page == 1 and len(batch) < requested:
    # Either the server capped us or that is the entire list.
    # Either way, this is the real page size.
    page_size = len(batch)

Rate limiting is real and it is not gentle. Back off on 429, sleep between pages, and checkpoint your merged results to disk every few pages. A long first pull that dies on page 190 should not discard the previous 189.

Trick Two: Follower Dates Reconstruct History You Never Recorded

This is the single most useful thing in the API and it is easy to miss.

/api/followers/users returns a created_at on every follower: the date that person started following you. You do not need to snapshot your follower count daily and wait six months to accumulate a time series. One pull reconstructs the entire curve retroactively, back to your first follower.

from collections import Counter
from datetime import date, timedelta

dates = sorted(
    date.fromisoformat(f["created_at"][:10]) for f in followers
)
cumulative = list(range(1, len(dates) + 1))  # the growth curve, free

weekly = Counter(d - timedelta(days=d.weekday()) for d in dates)

Line chart of cumulative Dev.to followers from 2017 to 2026. The line is nearly flat until March 2026, then rises steeply to about 18,000 by September. Dotted vertical markers show article publication dates. A dashed second line excluding auto-generated usernames tracks noticeably lower

There is a catch worth stating plainly, because it took me a moment to see it. You only receive people who currently follow you. Anyone who followed and later unfollowed has vanished from the dataset. So the curve is “current followers by acquisition date,” not your follower count as it stood on any given day. It increases monotonically by construction and can never show you a decline that actually happened.

For working out which posts drove acquisition, fine. For anything about retention, actively misleading.

Trick Three: The Analytics Endpoints Exist and Are Barely Documented

There is a whole analytics family that most third-party tooling ignores:

/api/analytics/totals               lifetime views, reactions, comments
/api/analytics/historical           daily series over a date range
/api/analytics/past_day             hourly, last 24 hours
/api/analytics/referrers            where the traffic came from
/api/analytics/follower_engagement  follower growth over time
/api/analytics/dashboard            totals + history + top posts, bundled

All accept article_id to scope to a single post. Two things to know.

The responses nest. They are not flat integers:

{"page_views": {"total": 246454, "average_read_time_in_seconds": 306}}

And the historical data degrades as you go back. For my 2017 posts the endpoint returns weekly buckets rather than daily rows, and in aggregate accounts for only about 15% of those posts’ lifetime views. For 2019 it covers 95%. For 2026, 100%.

That matters more than it sounds. I computed a “half-life” for each post, meaning days from publication until it had earned half its views to date. My first attempt confidently reported that several 2017 posts had half-lives around 3,000 days. They do not. The endpoint simply does not remember most of what those posts earned, and dividing a remembered fraction produces a precise, authoritative, meaningless number.

The fix is a coverage gate:

lifetime = article["page_views_count"]
tracked = sum(daily_series.values())

# A series accounting for 15% of a post's views will still yield a
# confident half-life. It will be an artifact of what the endpoint
# retained, not of how the post aged.
if lifetime and tracked < lifetime * 0.8:
    continue

Eighty-two of my 130 posts survive that gate. The median half-life among them is four days.

Line chart showing cumulative percentage of views earned against days since publication, for twelve posts. Most curves rise almost vertically in the first few days and then flatten. A dotted horizontal line marks the fifty percent level, which most curves cross within a week.

Trick Four: Some Metadata Is in the Markdown, Not the JSON

I write multi-part series. None of my posts came back with a collection_id, which is the field you would reach for to group them.

The series are right there in the Dev.to UI. The article serializer just does not include the field.

But /api/articles/me/published returns body_markdown, front matter and all, and the series name is sitting in it:

FRONT_MATTER_SERIES = re.compile(r"^series:\s*(.+?)\s*$", re.M)

def series_name(article):
    body = article.get("body_markdown") or ""
    if not body.lstrip().startswith("---"):
        return None
    parts = body.split("---", 2)
    if len(parts) < 3:
        return None
    match = FRONT_MATTER_SERIES.search(parts[1])
    return match.group(1).strip().strip("\"'") if match else None

General lesson: when a field you expect is absent from the JSON, check whether the source document came back too. It often did.

Line chart plotting lifetime views against part number for five article series. Every line except one descends from part one to part three, losing roughly half to two thirds of its readers.

Trick Five: Comments Arrive Pre-Threaded

/api/comments?a_id={id} returns comments as a tree, with each comment’s replies nested in children. The structure is doing analytical work for free, and flattening it while preserving depth takes about eight lines:

def flatten(nodes, depth=0):
    out = []
    for node in nodes or []:
        out.append({
            "depth": depth,
            "username": (node.get("user") or {}).get("username"),
            "created_at": node.get("created_at"),
            "text": strip_html(node.get("body_html")),
        })
        out.extend(flatten(node.get("children") or [], depth + 1))
    return out

Depth is the metric that matters. Comment count cannot distinguish eight people each saying “great article” from two people arguing with you for four rounds. Maximum thread depth can. One of my posts has a thread 35 levels deep. That is not a comment section, it is a sustained argument, and no count-based metric would have told me it happened.

Scatter plot with comment count on the horizontal axis and maximum thread depth on the vertical. Most points cluster low and left. A few outliers sit high on the vertical axis, indicating deep back-and-forth threads rather than many separate comments.

There is no endpoint for creating comments, incidentally. Replying still requires the browser. Probably deliberate.

What the Data Actually Said

Here is where the exercise stopped being a programming problem.

My follower count is not a readership number. I gained roughly 18,000 followers in 2026. My 2026 posts have 14,300 total views between them. You cannot acquire eighteen thousand followers from fourteen thousand views. The daily rate sits at a median of 136 with no meaningful response to whether I published anything, and about 37% of the usernames carry auto-generated-looking hex or numeric tails. That is reciprocal-follow farming, it is endemic, and it has nothing to do with me. It does mean the chart I originally set out to build could never have answered the question I was asking.

My most-viewed work is nine years old and no longer being read. My 2017 output was MicroPython, NodeMCU, and MongoDB tutorials. Forty-four posts from 2017 to 2019 pulled 32,474 views. Eighty-six posts in 2026 have pulled 14,300. But the daily series tells the other half: my 5,472-view NodeMCU post has had zero views in the last ninety days. Nineteen of my 130 posts are at zero for the quarter. Lifetime counters never decrease, which makes an archive look alive long after it has stopped breathing.

The engagement numbers invert completely. Those big old tutorials run about 2 reactions per thousand views. My 2026 essays run 56 to 72, with one at 71.6 reactions and 63.8 comments per thousand. Across the eras: 44 old posts drew 26 comments total. 86 new posts have drawn 606.

Scatter plot with lifetime views on a logarithmic horizontal axis and reactions per thousand views on the vertical. Older high-traffic posts sit far right and near the bottom. Newer low-traffic posts sit left and high. Red markers indicate posts with no views in the last ninety days.

So one body of work got found and skimmed. The other gets read and argued with. They are different products, and I had been evaluating both with the same number.

Four percent of my traffic is Google. Direct or unknown is 74.5%. Internal Dev.to is 19%. For someone whose best-performing historical content is evergreen reference material, that is the number I find hardest to look at.

What I Would Tell Someone Starting This

Pull the followers once and cache them, because the dates reconstruct years of history you never thought to record. Gate every analytics computation on data coverage, because a partial series will hand you a confident wrong answer rather than an error. Read thread depth instead of comment count. And check body_markdown before concluding a field does not exist.

Mostly, though: separate the metrics that measure distribution from the metrics that measure whether anyone cared. Views, follower counts, and impressions are the first kind. Comment depth, reply rates, and the fact that the same four people keep showing up in your threads are the second.

I spent nine years assuming the first kind was the scoreboard. The API took an evening to tell me otherwise.

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The Kitchen Doesn’t Care About Your Excuses

There is a moment in every high-stakes environment when something goes completely, objectively wrong, and the only viable response is to keep working.

In my case, it was a pantry clerk who walked into the dry storage room carrying a stack of boxes, clipped a fire sprinkler head, and discharged what I can only describe as an impressive quantity of initially greasy water across an active commercial kitchen. We were told to continue service. It took four hours for the sprinkler system technicians to arrive and resolve the situation. We dried our shoes afterward.

I have thought about that shift many times since leaving commercial kitchens for the technology industry. Not because it was the strangest thing I witnessed. It wasn’t. Not by a significant margin. However, because the response to it was so instinctively correct. Nobody called an all-hands. Nobody convened a retrospective on the water. We just kept swimming.

It turns out that lesson travels extremely well.

A few weeks ago I wrote about how a non-linear career isn’t actually non-linear, that the industries change but the underlying questions stay remarkably consistent. I want to make that argument concrete. Here’s what commercial kitchens specifically taught me about performing under pressure, and why none of it required translation when I showed up in technology.


The Kitchen Never Lies

I spent years in commercial kitchens before I spent years in technology. Western Culinary Institute. Private golf clubs. A Lebanese restaurant. Bulk production facilities turning out ten thousand pounds of macaroni and cheese a day, five days a week. Country clubs. A casino. Catering. Culinary competitions.

The environments were different. The underlying dynamics were identical.

High pressure. Constrained timelines. Mismatched team experience levels. Leadership of wildly variable quality and sobriety. Outcomes that mattered regardless of what had happened behind the scenes to produce them. Customers who neither knew nor cared about any of it.

I did not know I was learning transferable skills at the time. I thought I was learning how to cook. It turns out those were the same thing.


Same Kitchen, Different Ingredients

The technology industry has a vocabulary problem. It generates terminology at a pace that would impress a culinary school graduate. Culinary schools name everything too, usually in French. But underneath the terminology, the operational reality of a software team and a commercial kitchen are structurally almost identical.

You have a head chef and a CTO. You have line cooks and engineers. You have front of house and you have marketing. You have the person who is technically in a support role but is actually holding the entire operation together through sheer competence and quiet heroism, and that person exists in every kitchen and every engineering org I have ever encountered.

The hierarchy is real. The hierarchy is also frequently ignored when things get busy, because when things get busy everyone does what needs doing. The title matters less than the skill and the willingness to move.

The product has to ship. In a kitchen, that means service ends at a specific time regardless of what happened during prep. In software, the deadline is usually softer, and I would argue that softness causes more problems than it solves. A kitchen cannot negotiate with a hungry dining room. The discipline that creates is not optional. It is the whole job.


Expertise Is Flexibility, Not Rigidity

There is a format in culinary competition called black box. You arrive at the competition, you are handed a box of ingredients you have not seen before, and you have a defined window of time to produce something coherent and excellent from whatever is inside. No advance preparation. No recipe. Just skill and whatever is in the box.

The competitors who do well are not the ones with the most elaborate plans. They are the ones who know their fundamentals deeply enough that an unknown input doesn’t produce paralysis. It produces curiosity.

The harder version of this is what happened in some competitions when judges would walk in midway through cooking and announce a required addition. Not a gentle one. Sometimes it was Durian, a fruit so aggressively aromatic that its presence reorganizes every other decision you have made. And the timeline did not move.

The competitors who handled this gracefully shared a specific characteristic: they understood what they were already working with deeply enough to see how the new element could integrate. They were operating from understanding, not from recipe-following. Mastery, it turns out, produces adaptability rather than rigidity. The more you know, the more options you can see.

I have watched senior engineers navigate a surprise architectural requirement three days before launch with exactly the same quality. The ones who handled it well weren’t attached to their original design. They were attached to the outcome. The design was just the current best path to get there.

The ones who struggled, in the kitchen and in the codebase, were the ones who had confused knowing a recipe with knowing how to cook.


The Demo Is Not the Product

Culinary competitions sometimes include a format called hot food displayed cold. You cook an elaborate multi-course meal, seven courses, classical technique, genuine craft, and then you coat everything in aspic, a clear gelatin, to preserve its appearance for judging. The food looks extraordinary. It is presented on mirrored platters with architectural garnishes. Judges evaluate it with great seriousness.

Then it gets scraped into the garbage.

Nobody eats it. The entire exercise is about the appearance of the thing, assessed by people who will never consume it, after which it is discarded.

I have sat in enterprise software demonstrations that felt identical. A beautiful thing, carefully prepared, evaluated on appearance by people who will not use it daily, followed by a procurement process that has increasingly little to do with whether the thing actually works in a real kitchen at volume on a Saturday night.

The aspic looks great. Ship the thing that survives the sprinkler.


The Judges Don’t Care

This is the part that took me longest to fully internalize, and I think it is the most important.

In those culinary competitions where the judges walked in mid-execution and added a surprise requirement with no time extension, there was no sympathy in the scoring. None. If the Durian addition made the dish worse, you did not receive credit for the degree of difficulty. You did not get points for the fact that the constraint was late and unfair. The dish either worked or it did not.

End users operate the same way. They do not know about the sprinkler. They do not know about the scope change that arrived on Wednesday. They do not know that the original timeline was unrealistic or that the requirements shifted twice or that a key engineer was out sick during the final week.

They know if the dish works.

This is not a counsel of despair. It is a counsel of clarity. The customer’s indifference to your constraints is actually useful information, because it means the only variable worth optimizing is the outcome. Not the process narrative. Not the effort invested. The thing that lands on the plate.

Kitchens are honest environments in this way. The food either satisfies or it doesn’t. That directness, uncomfortable as it sometimes is, produces better cooks. I think it produces better engineers too, when the culture is willing to apply it.


From Soup to Python

I did not plan a career that would move from commercial kitchens to developer relations and technical writing. It happened the way most interesting careers happen. Through a sequence of decisions that made sense at the time, producing a trajectory that only looks coherent in retrospect.

But the through-line, looking back, is consistent: helping people understand difficult things under pressure, with incomplete information, against a deadline, in an environment that will not pause to accommodate the difficulty.

That is the job in a kitchen. That is the job in DevRel. That is the job in most places worth working, regardless of what you are serving.

The ingredients change. The kitchen doesn’t.

If you are standing in ankle-deep water right now wondering whether to keep going. Yes. Keep going. Dry your shoes after.

The dining room is waiting.

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