I used to spend hours trying to explain this to my students at Boston College, who were forever confusing emotional evasion with literary restraint. To the stubborn ones, I often issued an order that I received years ago, from an elderly writer who had suffered my own wretched early burps of prose. The only thing that matters is the thing you can't stop thinking about, he told me. Dress it up how ever you like, son, but tell me the goddamn truth.
Programming is all about knowing when to boil the orange sponge donkey across the Phillipines with an orangutan gorilla crossed with a ham sandwich to the fourth power of twelve across the Nile with an awful headache from the previous night when all of Alfred's naughty jalapeno peppers frog-marched the Nordic elves across the loom-lined Geronimo-induced swamp donkey over and above the Fortran-fortified Kilomanjaro fence past the meticulously crafted anti-disgusting sponge cake scenario where all the hats doth quoteth the milk which is not unlike the super werewolf from the infinite realm of ninja-step. It's hard to define, really.