Should I apply if I don’t meet all the requirements?

If your gaps are decoration, yes. If a gap is the core of the job, no. The library’s page on this draws on conversations in which a striking number of the people have sat on the hiring side, and both camps in its argument end up drawing that same line.

The listing is their wish list. The listing is their wish list describes the specific silence after reading a posting you wanted: eight of the twelve requirements are yours, the other four glow like warnings, and the tab closes itself. The hiring-side accounts say the requirements section is often written away from the hiring decision, recycled from the last posting, and inflated toward a fantasy candidate its own authors do not expect to catch; the genre’s tells include eight years demanded in a framework released three years ago. Who does the fantasy document filter? The honest and hesitant, who read it literally. The pool you would compete in is thinner than imagined, and several put the working rule bluntly: you do not need to match the text, you need to be less unqualified than the humans who applied. A no is information about one pool on one week, not about you. The page polices its own advice: a floor of real competence exists, soft skills and eagerness carry you across missing decorations, not across a missing profession, and it renders the argument with both sides. Its decider: distinguish the job’s core from its decorations. Years counts, tool names and wish-list adjectives bend everywhere; the surgery, the licence and the language the codebase is written in do not. Its friendliest version, they’ll teach you, is the part the conversations most fiercely correct; the engine is your ability to learn faster than the gap matters.

Run the arithmetic. Not trying is the only 100% is for the pause before an application, a message or a first attempt, when the inner forecast says probably not. Trying carries a small chance of working, never zero; not trying carries a one hundred percent chance of failure. Let the forecast stand, it might be right, then ask the only question the maths cares about: is probably-not worse than certainly-not? It never is.

Get the file right before anyone reads a word. Your resume’s filename is read first says three technical details speak before your experience does. Follow whatever format the posting asks for, because some systems and some humans discard the wrong one unread, and following the instruction was the first test. When it does not say, send a simple, single-column, text-based PDF named with your full name, not resume(2).pdf. One column, standard fonts, no tables or graphics, contact details in the body, because parsing software has a long history of losing phone numbers in a decorative header. The PDF-or-Word argument is rendered there with both sides; time has moved it without ending it. And the detail that outranks every technical choice on that page: typos. Have someone else read it once.

Know what your old employer can actually say. What a former employer is actually allowed to say corrects a comforting belief: no law says they may only confirm your dates and title. In the US, a truthful reference, including an unflattering one, is not defamation; what the law prohibits is a false or malicious one. The dates-only rule is company policy, common enough that a workforce concluded it must be law. So ask your referees in words, if somebody rings you about me, what would you say? Hesitation tells you to find someone else. If you left somewhere badly, that page warns that asking the hostile employer about their policy may prompt them; put the effort into referees who will speak well of you.

Who this is not for. The listing page’s own fork: highly technical roles where the missing skill is the job, regulated professions where the requirement is law, and niche industries small enough that a wild swing burns a bridge. There, applying without the stated floor wastes everyone’s time, starting with yours.