There’s a Claude Code plugin called i-have-adhd. That’s the entire name. You install it, type the slash command, and every answer the machine gives you afterward changes shape.
I have ADHD. So the purchase decision took about four seconds. (It’s free, but you know what I mean. The name did all the marketing. Somewhere a brand strategist felt a disturbance and doesn’t know why.)
Here’s what’s actually inside: ten rules in a text file. Lead with the action. Number the steps. Cap the lists at five. Say “about two minutes,” never “a while.” End with exactly one next step, not a buffet of them. And delete the filler off both ends of the reply, the “Great question!” and the “Hope this helps!” That’s the whole plugin. It’s barely software… really just a well-written note that says: here’s how to hand me information so I can actually use it.
If you’ve never had to think about why that matters, here’s the mechanics. ADHD taxes working memory. Every sentence of preamble is a toll I pay BEFORE the work starts, and the toll compounds: by the time a stock AI reply gets around to its verb, I’ve spent real focus, the scarce kind, holding six sentences of throat-clearing in my head in case any of it turns out to matter. If you hand my brain six paragraphs with the action buried in paragraph four, you didn’t send an answer. You sent a scavenger hunt where the prize is the sentence you could’ve led with. The plugin doesn’t make replies dumber, or even much shorter. It makes them sequenced.
File it under “accommodation,” if you need a category. Keep an eye on that word, though. I’m going to pick a fight with it before we’re done.
Great question! There are actually several ways to think about this...
Before we dive in, it's worth understanding a bit of context about how builds work.
(Historically, bundlers have taken different approaches to this problem...)
...which is why, in your case, you'll want to run npm run build before deploying.
Additionally, you might also consider exploring some related options.
Hope this helps! Let me know if you have any questions.
THE ANSWER · PARAGRAPH 4Now here’s the part I actually want to write about. Run back through the rules: lead with the action, number the steps, keep lists short, say how long things take, end with one next step, cut the filler. Try to find the one that only helps people with ADHD.
Take your time. I’ll wait.
There isn’t one. Nobody wants the answer buried. Nobody’s day improves when a list has nineteen items. Nobody has ever finished a task faster because a reply ended with “Hope this helps!” Even the README says the quiet part: you don’t need the diagnosis for this to read better. The rules come out of a clinical book (the author credits The Adult ADHD Tool Kit), strategies written for one specific kind of brain… and every single one of them lands on every brain I’ve ever met.
There’s a name for this, and it’s older than software. In 1971, a Berkeley grad student named Ed Roberts and a group called the Rolling Quads stood in front of the city council and got curb ramps poured at fifteen corners, the first citywide program anywhere. The ramps were specced for wheelchairs. Then came the strollers. The luggage. The delivery dollies, the bikes, the person crossing while reading their phone. Urbanists call it the curb-cut effect: build for the people the sidewalk excluded, and the sidewalk gets better for everyone on it.
Nobody wheels a suitcase down a ramp and thinks of Ed Roberts. That’s what winning looks like. And it’s an old, old pattern: around 1806, an Italian inventor named Pellegrino Turri built one of the first typewriters so his friend Countess Carolina Fantoni, who was blind, could write letters. He invented carbon paper along the way, just to ink the thing. An accommodation for one woman, and you typed on its great-great-grandchild today. Captions were built for deaf viewers; now look down any train car and count the hearing people reading their videos.
- WHO ROLLS THROUGH
- The wheelchair the spec
- The stroller
- The luggage
- The delivery dolly
- The bike
- You, reading your phone eventually
This work sits close to home for me, and not only because of my own wiring. A chunk of my time at Amazon MGM Studios went to inclusion work: the studio’s first public report on it, production playbooks that got into the unglamorous specifics, including what accessibility actually means on a working set. If that kind of work teaches you one thing, it’s the fight I promised with that word. “Accommodation” is misleading. It sounds like a favor. A side door bolted on for an edge case, budgeted reluctantly, revisited never. What it actually is, is a correction to a spec that was drawn too narrow. Somebody drew a doorway for the average person, and the average person doesn’t exist. The wheelchair user at your counter is filing the most useful bug report your spec will ever receive.
Which brings this back around to design, because it’s the same lesson I keep re-learning everywhere else. “For everyone” is where sharpness goes to die; the median user is a person no one has ever met. I’ve written about designing for an audience of two: the crispest work I’ve ever made was aimed at somebody with a name. The plugin’s author did exactly that. Ten rules aimed at one kind of brain, with clinical precision… and the precision is why it generalizes. An accommodation isn’t a detour from good design. It’s a preview of it.
And if the diagnosis still feels like someone else’s problem, think about the last time you borrowed this brain. A baby asleep on one arm, so the captions went on. A production incident, eleven tabs open, and you needed the answer first and the backstory never. Fried at 1 a.m., scrolling a wall of AI text for the one line that mattered. Everybody has days in this brain. Some of us live here full time. Design for the people who live here, and everyone who visits gets covered for free.
So yes, the plugin is for me, name and all. Install it anyway, whatever brain you’re running; you won’t miss the old replies. And the next time an accessibility request lands on your project looking like scope creep, remember where the ramp came from. The person at the edge of your design is the one who finds out whether it actually works. The person in the center never has to.
There’s a curb cut in my terminal now. Ten rules, poured for one brain, smoother for everyone who crosses it. Pour yours.