"If you have code on GitHub but the whole world can't see it, then you're paying for it," says Preston-Werner. There are three payment tracks. One is a personal plan that costs as little as $7 a month. (The price is based on the number of repositories you have.) Then there is an organization plan, which has features for more sophisticated team management and starts at $25. The big-money option is the enterprise plan, which involves clients downloading a version of GitHub to live locally on their servers. It can cost millions of dollars a year. Enterprise clients include Lockheed Martin, Microsoft, LivingSocial, VMware, and Walmart. GitHub doesn't talk about how much these companies, specifically, are paying, but it has hundreds of thousands of paying customers between the website and the enterprise client base.
Levine, the Andreessen Horowitz partner, says his firm was first drawn to GitHub because it was "a growing enterprise with 300 percent year-over-year annualized growth--in a market that has been unchanged for a very long time." Sounding amazed even several months on, he marvels that the co-founders had gotten to "really interesting levels of profitability and revenue without a dime of outside funding and without even building out a sales organization--they're all engineers!"
A grown-up sales operation, Levine says, is just a first "tactical" step. He and the lads have big plans.
For survivors of Web 1.0, GitHub's offices bring the memories--or night sweats--flooding back. The 14,000-square-foot loft is rigged out with air hockey, Ping-Pong, a pool table, and an Xbox 360 (hooked up to side-by-side flat screens). There's a catered Thursday lunch (families are invited), a fridge full of microbrew, and a handmade wooden kegerator with an inlaid Octocat, GitHub's fantastical mutant mascot. Numerous side rooms house the many other toys designed to "optimize for happiness" for GitHub's 145 employees, who work whenever and wherever they like: electric guitars, an amp, and a full matched set of harmonicas in the jam room; a Skype chamber; a womb room with low lighting, a shag rug, and four egg chairs. There's a ladies' lounge with a pink, plasticized fainting couch, and the executive lounge, complete with faux-antique globe (which conceals a 16-year-old bottle of Lagavulin) and lots of manly leather. Actually, the whole office smells of leather--and revenue, which is what makes it so not like 1999.
If the term open-source software triggers some sort of narcolepsy neurotransmitter in you, you are not alone. It certainly did in me, to the extent that I thought about it at all. But the further I wandered in this world, the more wondrous I found it to be. Those of us who don't write code tend to be oblivious to the sheer labor involved in creating thousands or even millions of lines of the stuff, all of which have to function perfectly if a piece of software is to run bug free. A single project on GitHub can entail months or years of work and countless strings of dialogue among maintainers and coders hoping to contribute.
It's hypergranular work and has to be, not least because open-source software has become the bedrock of almost every company on earth. From Apple to Microsoft to the tiniest start-up, open source is part of the software stack--and many companies are built mostly from open source. And that, of course, is the point: Open source means a new business doesn't have to start from zero; it can pull down prefab pieces of software infrastructure for free, building only the bits it needs to bring its product to life. John Pettitt is founder and CEO of Repost.us, a service that allows news articles to be embedded as easily as video, and to carry their advertising and analytics along with them; earlier, he was the founder of Software.net, which became Beyond.com, and CyberSource, a credit card fraud detection company bought by Visa for $2 billion in 2010. Back in 1994, when Pettitt was starting Software.net, he says, "there was no e-commerce software, there was no e-commerce platform; I had to write my own credit card processing, I had to write my own storefront. Everything we had to do, we had to do from scratch, because there were none of the building blocks there." Pettitt built much of his new company on GitHub. "Today, you can sort of Lego things together in a way you never could before," he says. "And the corpus of information and tools is growing at a huge rate."
Those Legos form the skeletal system of almost every new company; the profitmaking intellectual-property layer is skin thin, sitting on top. "It's no different than having two-by-fours and electricity," Preston-Werner says. "If you have a ready-made Web server and Web framework, for example, that represents hundreds of thousands or millions of man-hours of work that you don't have to put into creating a product."
That is exactly why GitHub is formidable: It is at once a lumberyard and a workspace. Entrepreneurs on the site can find, or help develop, almost all of the open-source raw materials they need and set up their own closed place to integrate those materials with their IP. What's more, by simplifying Git, GitHub has turned a tool even serious coders found arcane into something useful to the "casual forker," in Wanstrath's term. "We want to enable people who don't know each other to collaborate on the same thing, toward the same goal," says Wanstrath. "This is all I want to do--forever."
There has been considerable rumbling lately that the Web is turning into a Monopoly board or mall, with a few big anchor stores and a bunch of rabble scrambling either to build on top of them or to find a survivable place in their shadows. "The openness that drove the Web and its richness are definitely under attack," says Tim O'Reilly, founder and CEO of O'Reilly Media, the producer of industry-leading programming manuals, tech magazines, and conferences. "This happens again and again when something new comes on the scene. There's usually a huge sharing economy, with lots of innovation and lots of openness, and then some animals become 'more equal than others,' in Orwell's wonderful phrase, and then it tends to start to stagnate. But that impulse to create goes and bursts out somewhere else."
