Why we're called Gradient.
The name isn't decoration. It's the standard we hold every piece of work to — and the simplest way we know to say what we're actually for.
The one metric that matters.
A gradient is the slope of a line — the thing that tells you, at a glance, whether you're heading up or down. Strip a business down far enough and that's the question underneath all the others: is this moving us in the right direction?
It's the only number we really care about. Not how clever the architecture is, not how much got shipped — whether the work leaves your slope pointing up and keeps it there. Software that just works, stays working, and compounds in your favour.
Keep your gradient positive. Everything else is detail.
And the .xyz is on purpose.
Write them as a vector — <x, y, z> — and you've described a gradient: which way a thing is heading, and how steeply. Ours points up. The domain was too good to pass up — the maths hiding in plain sight, for anyone who looks twice. We like details that reward attention; the whole site is built that way.
One standard, held all the way through.
Most teams make you choose: the polish of a good agency with the overhead and distance that come with it, or the speed of a marketplace with the risk that nobody really owns the result. We exist to close that gap — craftsperson-grade work across the whole stack, from someone who treats your problem as their own.
We're deliberately personal in how we work and careful never to be precious about who does it. The standard doesn't depend on any one name — it's a way of building that holds as we grow and as others join. What stays constant is the bar: things that just work, that you understand, that keep your gradient pointing up.