Not long ago, Stephen Bradley, a New York tech entrepreneur, was looking to expand his company, AuthorBee, which aggregates tweets and Instagram posts and puts them together in story form. Instead of following people, readers can follow their interests—“Breaking Bad,” for example, or the New England Patriots. Bradley is not a stereotypical startup founder, a hoodie-wearing college dropout; he’s been working in tech and media for decades. To launch AuthorBee, he raised three-quarters of a million dollars from angel investors and hired programmers in Pakistan and Bangladesh to build a prototype. Now he wanted to build a bigger, better version of the site, so he had to find someone to write the code that would form AuthorBee’s DNA. The guys in Pakistan and Bangladesh were O.K., but the cultural differences and the language barriers slowed things down. He needed “one really good developer” with a mastery of all the coding languages and frameworks that AuthorBee uses: Python, Django, Angular, JavaScript, the Twitter A.P.I. The search for programming talent was the part of building a startup that Bradley most dreaded. “It is a nightmare,” he told me. “And I’m as plugged in as you can be to the New York tech scene.”

He put up a job posting on the Web site AngelList, and was immediately flooded with calls from headhunters and e-mails from offshore companies wanting to set up a “short online telephonic meeting.” “I could have had two hundred résumés on my desk,” Bradley said. But he knew that the people behind those résumés weren’t the ones he was looking for. His dream developer might be buried in there somewhere, but Bradley had come to think that developers were like social media itself: “Ninety-nine per cent of them suck.” He added, “The entire problem is wading through the noise.”

Finally, Bradley received an e-mail from 10x, a talent company. 10x was started by two music and entertainment managers, Michael Solomon and Rishon Blumberg, who for the past nineteen years have represented rock stars, including John Mayer and Vanessa Carlton. Recently, in the wake of the digital revolution and the music industry’s implosion, Solomon and Blumberg have begun serving as agents for technologists. 10x claims to represent digital “rock stars”; the company’s name comes from the idea, well established in the tech world, that the very best programmers are superstars, capable of achieving ten times the productivity of their merely competent colleagues. In HBO’s “Silicon Valley,” a self-effacing character named Big Head compliments his friend’s coding skills by saying, “Richard’s a 10xer. I’m, like, barely an xer.”

Computer programmers with agents: Bradley was interested. So one day last month he found himself in the 10x headquarters, in midtown Manhattan, talking to Michael Solomon. Solomon has a rock-and-roll vibe: he wore jeans and a metal bracelet, and he projects a mellow air. His office was decorated with guitars, gold and platinum records, and posters signed by Green Day and Bruce Springsteen.

Bradley asked about 10x’s talent pool: did it really include “the top developers in the world,” as Solomon claimed?

Solomon dropped technological achievements the way one might talk about album sales or duets with Lady Gaga. He said that one of his clients had overseen user-experience design for Apple’s iCloud. “Have you heard of Django?” he added. Django is a framework that was used to build Instagram. “The guy who co-created Django is a client.”

Bradley was impressed.

“What’s your stack?” Solomon asked, referring to the layers of code that make up a Web site.

Bradley ran through the various languages and features with which the site was built. “It’s all running on Amazon,” he said, meaning the company’s cloud-computing service.

Solomon leaned back in his chair and flipped through a mental Rolodex of his clients. “I definitely have some ideas,” he said, after a minute. “The first person who comes to mind, he’s also a bioinformatician.” He rattled off a dazzling list of accomplishments: the developer does work for the Scripps Research Institute, in La Jolla, where he is attempting to attack complicated biological problems using crowdsourcing, and had created Twitter tools capable of influencing elections. Solomon thought that he might be interested in AuthorBee’s use of Twitter. “He knows the Twitter A.P.I. in his sleep.”

“What kind of price range are we talking about?” Bradley asked.

“Ballpark, for this role you’re talking a hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”

The rate was significantly higher than what Bradley had paid the workers in Pakistan. (Offshore developers charge as little as twenty-five dollars an hour.) But Bradley decided the upgrade was worth it. “And that includes your fifteen per cent?” he asked.

Solomon said that it did, and they shook hands.

The world is being rebuilt in code. Hiring computer engineers used to be the province of tech companies, but, these days, every business—from fashion to finance—is a tech company. City governments have apps, and the actress Jessica Alba is the co-founder of a startup worth almost a billion dollars. All of these enterprises need programmers. The venture capitalist Marc Andreessen told New York recently, “Our companies are dying for talent. They’re like lying on the beach gasping because they can’t get enough talented people in for these jobs.”

The computer science taught in colleges still focusses more on theory than on commercial application; the business of teaching practical coding skills has the whiff of trade school. So-called coding “boot camps,” such as General Assembly, founded in 2010, are trying to fill the gap, teaching crash courses in how to design Web sites and write code. But Jake Schwartz, the co-founder and C.E.O. of General Assembly, told me, “There’s simply not enough senior people in the system.”

In Silicon Valley, where businesses are fuelled by venture capital, the “talent wars” have reached epic proportions. Andreessen said, “The motivation to go find talent wherever it is is unbelievably high.” The Google campus is famous for its playful amenities: nap pods, ball pits, massages, dry cleaning, all-you-can-eat buffets. Facebook recently announced that it would pay for its female employees to freeze their eggs. The “precation”—a sabbatical before starting a new job—has become commonplace.

The biggest companies frequently get into bidding wars over the best talent. Twitter’s senior vice-president of engineering, Christopher Fry, was paid more than ten million dollars in stock options in 2012, second only to what the C.E.O. received. To prevent a programmer from defecting to Facebook, Google paid him three and a half million dollars in restricted stock options. Facebook has also become known for the “acquihire”: paying millions of dollars to acquire a company in order to poach its tech talent. The company gets shut down, and the engineers work for Facebook.

Startups don’t have the money to compete with the giants. They can offer equity, but, Bradley said, “the market’s flooded with startups trying to do the same thing.” Plus, the most desirable developers—those with creative skills—often have entrepreneurial ideas of their own. “In their minds, you’re not just paying them to do their job,” one tech executive told me. “You’re paying them for the opportunity cost of not becoming Mark Zuckerberg.” In response, many startups have devised offbeat measures for luring candidates: offices that resemble a Chuck E. Cheese’s, with a music room (at Dropbox) and an indoor tree house (at Airbnb). Scopely, a mobile-game publishing company, rewards a new hire—or anyone who can deliver one—with eleven thousand dollars wrapped in bacon, an oil portrait of himself, and a harpoon gun.