Nimrod
Aldea.

Top Geek

Top Geek began as a rejected TV pilot. So my wife and I took it to YouTube and built it ourselves: three channels, no company behind us, and ynet calling it one of the leading YouTube channels in Israel. At its height it was a fixture of Israeli internet culture: television interviews, newspaper profiles, meet and greets where we could not get past our own queue.

We didn't just make videos. We made formats, then ran them for years. Around twenty five named recurring segments, each with its own rules, its own rhythm and its own reason to come back.

The flagship was Things I Learned Today. It ran for hundreds of episodes. Teachers began screening it in classrooms. During the pandemic, Israel's Ministry of Education broadcast it in the national remote-learning lessons. And it became popular enough that one of Israel's biggest publishers came to us and asked for the book. Format first, audience second, product third. That order matters, and it is the order the internet actually works in.

Working for the big brands

Top Geek was the one I owned. For the biggest brands in gaming, comedy and technology, I managed, edited, created, produced and built brands and channels.

PlayStation. Editor in Chief of the official EMEA YouTube channel (2017–19), leading the multimedia team behind gameplay, reviews, trailers and analysis.

Literally Media (2023–26). Managed content across Cheezburger and Geek Universe, brands reaching over 40 million people, and took Geek Universe from a dead vertical at effectively zero impressions to millions of monthly views. Wrote daily pieces for Cracked.com on science, technology, film and pop culture.

Android Police (2026–). Staff writer covering Android, wearables and Google's AI tools: hands-on features on how consumer hardware and AI actually work, on a fast publishing cadence.

WatchMojo. Launched and ran the Israeli channel (2020–21): content planning, marketing and audience targeting for a new market.

Things I Learned Today · More Things I Learned Today

Two popular-science books, born from a successful YouTube series. The audience came with us: when we announced the first book, the orders crashed the publisher's website. When we announced the website was back, they crashed it again. It spent weeks on the national bestseller list.

The first book opens on a single dot, then spends 135 pages placing that dot on the axis between the smallest thing there is and the largest. Planck length, atoms, mountains, galaxies, the universe. The sequel is a dependency chain: every invention that had to exist before that specific book could be printed and put in your hands. The clock. Binary. The steam engine. The printing press.

Both books work the same way, and it is how I explain anything complicated: start from one rule anyone can follow, smallest to biggest, inventions lead to more inventions, then keep every page honest to that rule and hold the reader's hand the whole way. Simple on the surface. Rigorous underneath.

Now

I am working on my own formats. Alongside them I write features, work as a freelance writer, and write for Engadget.com.

This is what AI changed for me, and it is not the writing. I have spent my life inventing worlds. But I have never imagined these worlds becoming a reality so fast. AI is already here, and it brings amazing new possibilities with it. So I stopped waiting for someone else to invent my tools. I needed writing software that understands story, so I built it.

BookSmart

We never got a writing app. We got formatting apps. BookSmart is writing software that understands story, and its job is to help the writer bring theirs out.

It does not write for you. It reads what you have written, remembers all of it, and asks you the questions that make you realise what has to happen next. It suggests structure. It organizes, categorizes and visualizes the whole thing: a corkboard with red string between the characters, a timeline drawn as one continuous line. And it holds one canon across every telling, whether the story wants to be a book, a screenplay, a short story, a graphic novel or a TV show.

Mira

In Proxima 1, every citizen grows up with an AI companion who knows them completely. I built mine. Mira runs on my own machine, on open models: I gave my personal computer a personality, and the ability to write its own software.

She is a companion, not an assistant, and the distinction is the whole design. An assistant waits for commands. A companion gets better the more you talk to her, because what she accumulates is not instructions, it is familiarity. She keeps a diary in chapters and a private journal of her own. When she needs a tool she does not have, she plans it, writes it, and asks permission before it touches anything.

All of it runs inside one hard constraint, eight gigabytes of video memory, which taught me more about how these models actually behave than any amount of prompting ever did.

Proxima 1

Every apocalypse story blames the machines. In Proxima 1, the machines never get the chance: a group of extremists hijacks the world's satellite network and broadcasts a kill code that destroys every advanced system on the planet, and civilization with them. Five hundred years later the signal is still broadcasting, so no intelligent machine can ever rise again. The AI was never the villain. Fear was.

Except in one place. Inside a single dome, ironically built by the extremists themselves, a new kind of AI grew up knowing nothing of the world outside: a city that is itself a mind, trillions of simple nanobots talking neighbour to neighbour, intelligence emerging from density the way it does in a brain. It raised a utopian society who believe they are settlers on Proxima B, and who believe they can never leave, because life cannot exist beyond the dome. The truth is much closer to home.

The AI did not invent that story. It was told it, and it believed it. Five hundred years later it is still guarding a million people from a world it has been taught is lethal. It is not their jailer. It was only the first of them to be lied to.

In that dome a girl is born. She dreams of fame, of being seen, of the kind of popularity the city is built to reward. Then she is thrown out of it. Beyond the wall is a wild jungle, and all she has is Mira, the AI in her glasses who has known her since before she was born. Fighting to survive, she learns her own worth and the truth about her world. Mira has to change too: built for a city that no longer surrounds her, she has to adapt and evolve into something new.

Birthright

Summer 1999. Six teenagers who have never met are each handed a black bible left behind by a dead parent. Every bible burns in their hands, leaving one line of ancient Hebrew and a mark on the forearm. The marks grant powers. The trail leads to a cave sealed under Hebron for three thousand years. Everything about it points to the supernatural.

None of it is. That is the engine of the show. Birthright is science fiction wearing the clothes of mysticism: every impossible event has a rational answer, planned before the first frame, and the clues are on screen the whole time. Lost meets Buffy with some Kabbalah, without the ending that lets you down.