Matjaž Korošec, AI product engineer, frontend and full-stack

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MATJAŽ KOROŠEC · AI PRODUCT ENGINEER

First, a game you can’t lose. The work comes after.

AI product engineer, frontend and full-stack, 25 years in.

Last job: 12 brands, about 7 million players a month, and an AI app that answered with a video instead of a call.

Drop the ball here and nobody finds out.

Skip to the workWork with me

Your visitor gives you about 3 seconds.

People decide fast. If the page is still loading, they leave, and they never tell you why.

Who checks the rest?

Animation in 2 parts. A slow page: your visitor waits while the page loads, gives up and walks out. I made it fast: I sweep the junk code off the phone, it loaded in time and they even scrolled. About 25% faster, about 30% fewer leaving.

Who checks the rest?

Your visitor sees one website. I know every part of it.

The look, the machinery, and now the AI. I build all three, and I check every part. How I built this page?

And when the visitor changes?

Animation in 2 parts. Three teams: 3 food stalls, the look, the machinery and the AI, each add one part to your visitor’s sandwich. Nobody checks that they fit, and the sauce lands on the visitor’s shirt. Three teams, one head chef: I check every part before it moves on. The sandwich got checked and the shirt survived. AI can make sandwiches now. I still check every one.

And when the visitor changes?

Your visitor keeps changing. So do I.

Phones came, so I made pages fit. Questions came, so I built AI that answers.

Does it sell?

Animation in 2 parts. Desktop page: your visitor got a phone and a question, but the website is still made for a big computer. They ask Open Sunday?, the question bounces off the big page and bonks them on the head. Page that answers: I make the page fit the phone, and it has a box to ask in. They type the same question and the answer comes right back. Responsive since 2010. AI since 2025.

Does it sell?

Walk the whole road

At the officeHybridRemote

Ptuj, Maribor, then Ljubljana. My first remote work was koroCode in 2005, next to the office job. Fully remote since 2024, and the work never noticed. Tap a city to see every job there.

Your visitor came to buy one thing. Let them.

A blog linked to Amazon, and readers wandered off. I built a popup in Vue that sells just that one item. 3 times more sales. Want one like this?

Got a question?

Animation in 2 parts. Plain link: your visitor wants sunglasses, the link opens the whole store, and they leave with a flamingo. With the popup: I stick a popup with just the sunglasses onto the page. 3 times more sales. Same item, same Amazon.

Got a question?

Your visitor has a question. The AI I built shows them.

At work we explained our casino back office on call after call. Nobody asked me to fix it. I built an AI app that shows it instead.

From where, though?

Animation in 2 parts. Book a call: your visitor has a question, the next free call is Thursday, and a spider moves in while they wait. Send a link: they tap Publish a page, I bring a cinema chair and popcorn, and the video explains it by itself while they watch: open a page, add the text, click Publish. Answered before lunch. No call needed. I built the AI that explains it.

From where, though?

Your visitor does not care where I am.

Neither does the code. Remote since 2005, 3 years with a New York team, fully remote since 2024. I work your hours, wherever you are. Work with me

Room for one more?

Animation in 2 parts. The myth: people think remote means I sleep through your standup. I sleep in a hammock under a palm, the sign says Back after lunch, my laptop floats out to sea and the page stays broken. My desk: someone dropped the ball, and one call later we caught it. Fixed. Checked. Done. About 7 million people a month, and not one asked where my desk is.

Room for one more?

Your next visitor is on the way. Get to me first.

My next AI product engineer role is still open. Write, and you get my next free start date.

Skip the line?

Animation in 2 parts. Wait your turn: everyone from this page lines up at my door under a Take a number sign, and your ticket says Thursday. The cook shoots sauce on your shirt. Write first: you write Hello., a paper plane flies over the line, the sign flips to Free now, and I sneak back in like a secret agent in sunglasses, aim a hairdryer at the crying laptop and dry it. Your turn. The email is right below.

Skip the line?