You can’t really repair an Apple Watch for long. After just a few years Apple itself will refuse service because the device is labeled an “obsolete product.”
This weekend I was going through some family belongings and found something amazing: a Longines wristwatch dating back to before WWII. It must have belonged to my great-grandfather, since my late father (who passed away a decade ago) didn’t wear it. The watch had certainly not been wound or maintained for decades. Out of curiosity, I adjusted the time and strapped it on my wrist… and to my surprise, it worked flawlessly. Built 90 years ago, untouched for ages, yet still alive. Of course, if I wanted to wear it regularly it would make sense to service it—but the beauty is that any competent watchmaker could still take care of it.
That contrast really struck me. This isn’t a problem with Apple specifically—it’s the entire industrial system. Planned obsolescence is, in my view, one of the biggest hidden drivers of pollution. Instead of building things to last, every force in the market pushes in the opposite direction. And what’s worse, consumers have been convinced to play along.
Today, “new” is considered automatically better. Instead of valuing something proven—tested by time—we’re told to crave the thinnest, sleekest, most seamless design. People even prefer flimsy plastic panels that snap with hidden clips (risking breakage every time you open them) rather than solid pieces held by visible screws. Batteries? Forget standard, swappable ones. No, they must be custom, glued, non-removable—just to shave off a millimeter of thickness. Doors, compartments, screws: all sacrificed at the altar of design purity.
It’s a rotten mindset. And I don’t blame Apple in particular—I blame the hypocrisy of the whole system. We talk about being “green,” yet our industrial logic is the exact opposite, so stop to bother me with “green”. If we were serious, the rule would be:
- build products for maximum durability and reliability,
- invest R&D not in yearly performance bumps, but in standardization and long-term support,
- define a path of evolution where each technological improvement comes as a retrofit or upgrade, compatible with the older product.
Think of something as simple as a bicycle. For decades they were practically eternal. Then came e-bikes. A model is released, then a new one a few years later. Hundreds of tiny design tweaks—but really, only one matters: the battery lasts longer. If lithium batteries have improved energy density, why not allow fitting a new battery into an older bike? Because the manufacturer deliberately changes the connector. Meanwhile, they still sell you the old battery—same outdated chemistry, at the same price as the new one, but incompatible with your bike. If you want new battery tech, change the whole bike! Pure madness.
Or think of when all batteries were just standard AA cells, not proprietary packs. I recently pulled out a 40-year-old toy from my childhood. Back then, its fatal flaw was that the batteries died in no time. This time, I dropped in modern Eneloop Pro cells—and suddenly it felt like it had infinite battery life! The product itself was fine; it just needed the benefit of newer battery tech.
Instead, everything today is disposable. Even cars. I drive a 1971 sports car that still works beautifully. But I can’t imagine any 2025 car still running in 2080. Not a chance.
If we truly care about sustainability, we need to completely flip the way we think about design: not towards endless replacement, but towards products that live endless —just like my great-grandfather’s watch still does today.