CHARLIE: There are too many tickets in our backlog!
JULIET: I know, right? So many of them are old-ass feature requests that’ll never get done.
MIKE: I’ve got an idea! Why don’t we auto-delete tickets older than 6 months?
(Everyone looks at each other in shock. Confetti wipe. MIKE is being carried through the office to thunderous applause.)
A maximum ticket age seems like a good idea. Big ticket backlogs are demoralizing, and it’s impossible to get any useful information out of them. Furthermore, we know with certainty that most things in the backlog are never getting done.
The submitter of a ticket knows more about why a piece of work is important than you do, right? Why not rely on that knowledge for triage?
No. Ticket cutoff ages are silly.
Ticket cutoff ages are silly because they rest on the assumption that a reporter will notice a ticket has been closed, read the notification, evaluate the ticket’s importance in the appropriate context, and reopen the ticket if – and only if – it’s important. This assumption is wildly flawed, as anyone with an inbox full of JIRA updates can attest. The evaluation step is especially absurd: how can ticket reporters be expected to consistently place requested work in the context of your team’s ever-shifting priorities and constraints?
Ticket cutoff ages are silly because the age of a ticket is a terrible proxy metric for value. There’s a crucial difference between urgent and important. Tasks that get resolved at a young age tend to be urgent ones, which are usually associated with achieving someone else’s goals. By enforcing a maximum age, your team will naturally focus on urgent tickets to the exclusion of important ones: generally those that advance the team’s goals. A ticket’s age has little connection with its importance.
Ticket cutoff ages are silly because they don’t even solve the problem they set out to solve: that demoralizing, disorganized pile of work that’s always in your peripheral vision. Sure, some tickets get closed, but you can never explain why. Important tasks disappear according to the whims of entropy, and unimportant tasks are always mixed in with everything else. Each time you try to understand your team’s commitments, you must reevaluate the merits of every ticket in the queue.
This method of constraining a ticket backlog is nothing short of an abdication of ownership. Instead of respecting our own time and that of the ticket reporter by making an explicit, up-front decision about a ticket’s fate, we let chance and frustration shape our product.
Wouldn’t it be better to take matters into our own hands and cap the backlog?