Planned obsolescence is the quiet agreement modern life seems to make with people: things will not last, and no one is supposed to expect them to. Phones slow down. Headphones fray. Appliances fail just outside their warranty window. Replacements arrive with sleeker packaging and slightly better features, and the cycle begins again. It feels like bad luck, but it is far more intentional than it appears.
At its core, planned obsolescence is a design and business strategy where products are created to become outdated, unfashionable, or nonfunctional after a certain period. Sometimes this happens physically, through fragile components, sealed batteries, or parts that are difficult or impossible to replace. Other times it happens psychologically, through fashion shifts, branding, and software updates that quietly push older models out of relevance. Either way, the goal is not longevity. The goal is repeat consumption.
The concept itself is not new. In the early twentieth century, manufacturers openly discussed how to shorten product lifespans to stabilize demand and stimulate economic growth. Lightbulb producers even coordinated to limit bulb life despite already having longer-lasting technology. What began as a response to overproduction eventually hardened into an industrial philosophy: durability was no longer a virtue. It was a financial risk.
Modern planned obsolescence is far more subtle and sophisticated. Software evolves faster than hardware. Devices are glued shut rather than screwed together. Repair often costs nearly as much as replacement. Even when products technically still function, they often work worse, run slower, or lose compatibility with new systems. Instead of breaking, they gradually become inconvenient.
This is where planned obsolescence becomes emotional rather than mechanical. A failing phone or dying laptop rarely feels like a simple object problem. It interrupts work, communication, creativity, and memory. Devices now store photos, conversations, finances, navigation, and social life itself. When they falter, the disruption touches daily identity, not just daily convenience.
The environmental cost is enormous. Short product lifespans generate massive amounts of electronic waste, much of it toxic, exported, or unrecyclable. Millions of devices are discarded each year because a single internal component failed or a software update made them impractical. Planned obsolescence turns landfills into archives of “almost” objects—almost useful, almost repairable, almost enough.
The system persists because it is extremely profitable. Predictable replacement cycles stabilize revenue, excite investors, and keep manufacturing demand constant. Longevity introduces uncertainty. Replacement guarantees return. In this way, planned obsolescence quietly transforms consumption into a subscription model for physical life. Ownership becomes temporary by design.
Yet resistance is growing. Right-to-repair movements challenge companies that restrict tools, manuals, and parts. Repair cafés, resale platforms, and modular product design are reshaping public expectations. Sustainability is becoming not only an ethical position, but a marketable one. Durability is slowly re-entering the cultural imagination.
Planned obsolescence also appears in everyday conversation more often than people realize—when someone jokes that nothing lasts anymore, or debates whether it’s even worth fixing something. These casual remarks reveal a deeper fatigue with constant replacement. The desire for things that endure is not simply nostalgic. It is psychological and economic exhaustion speaking out loud.
Ultimately, planned obsolescence asks a philosophical question disguised as a business model: should the world be built to persist, or to be replaced? The way objects are designed shapes how value, care, and time itself are understood. In a culture trained to expect breakdown, choosing longevity becomes quietly radical. It suggests a future where maintenance matters more than novelty.