The best, too much, and still not enough. Owning technology feels like an unhealthy struggle. Maybe we need to look elsewhere for the cure.
If you haven’t read it, this is a response to The Last Quiet Thing by Terry Godier. It is a great and detailed read about his frustration with modern tech products — a frustration that many people share. The article makes a side by side comparison between an Apple Watch and a Casio F-91W digital watch from 1989.
The problem was never how many things you own. The problem is that owning means something it never used to. Everything you buy is the beginning of a relationship you'll be maintaining until one of you dies or gets discontinued.
I wholeheartedly agree that today’s devices are, much more often than not, annoying. And, yes, my Apple Watch is a great example of that. It does feel like a relationship that needs to be maintained. And it is true, a Casio F-91W would not be annoying to me. But is that because it is just a “product” as the article puts it?
I think this is falling short of the truth. I did have a Casio watch once, but I want to talk about a different product instead: my kitchen knife.
My kitchen knife is a thing I cherish. It’s a Messermeister Olivia Elite. I bought it when I first moved away from home, and I decided that I wanted to enjoy cooking. I decided I wanted cooking to be part of my personality. I also decided that I wanted to invest in a knife that could accompany me through my whole life, so when I pick it up in thirty or forty years, it can remind me of that moment on a different continent where I first used it, or the times I chopped vegetables for a dinner with family or friends. This is a relationship — and one that gives a lot.
But it’s not like that knife only gives. It also takes a lot of maintenance. It needs a quick honing, or an even longer sharpening session when dull. It needs careful cleaning with a soft sponge after every use. It needs me to dry the handle right away every time and add a new coat of oil every month or two so the wood won’t crack. That’s a lot of maintenance compared to a simple ceramic knife from IKEA.
Nevertheless, I chose to own my knife because it brings me joy. I like the way the wooden handle feels in my hand and I like the softer impact of stainless steel on a heavy cutting board. The maintenance does take time, but for me, that is time well spent.
Fundamentally, I believe products that contribute to my life, that challenge me, that are like relationships, make life more fulfilling.
What makes tech products different is that the relationships we have with them are often unhealty. In some aspects these products are designed to abuse us. In others, wrong incentives, careless design, and ever more half baked features make them overwhelming and annoying. The Last Quiet Thing shows that much better than I could here. The whole topic honestly deserves nothing less than a dissertation.
The one thing I do have to add here is a thought: my kitchen knife is the result of thousands of years of craftsmanship, design, and engineering. Better steel, maybe more elegant shapes, but no new features. It is the result of centuries of performance engineering. They still sell new ones, they still create joy, and still provide utility. They haven’t been replaced.
What if we applied that to tech?
I do wish technology was built more intentionally. I don’t think bad tech products are the whole issue, though. The problem is also how many, and which, things we own. We have agency in the products we choose. That is especially relevant in a world where some of the newest and “best” products might actually not be the best for us.
We should go into every purchase knowing that. Some products are more like a tool, some more like a relationship, but fundamentally every product will be a give and take. I like to think of it like I’m buying a pet. Would it be rewarding or exhausting? Low or high maintenance? Quiet or loud? Any combination can work, it depends on what I am looking for.
Everybody knows they can’t own an infinite number of pets. It is the same with products. We have been told we can just consume more and more of them, but they do pile up. In our lives, occupying our rooms, our time, and our minds. Or, eventually, in a junkyard, trashing our planet.
So for every thing I get, I ask myself: Does it fit into my life?
I wish I didn’t have to ask myself that question, but I do. It is a hot fix for a problem that started way before “big tech” was a thing. Since the rise of consumer culture in the late 19th century, we’ve been conditioned to fill our lives with replaceable objects — “products”. We’re constantly exposed to ads trying to make us want more things. We’ve been taught the litmus test for buying a product is whether we can afford the price tag. We forgot about all the rest. The space those products take in our heads and houses. The time. The maintenance. The relationship.
We constantly look to fill our lives with things we “want”, not seeing our lives are in many ways already full. We already have enough things, but we don’t have more headspace, and we don’t have more time — two things we desperately need for what is actually missing for most: connection with real people1. Moreover, we often “want” things for reasons that have little to do with our own desires or needs and far more to do with what it symbolizes in our perception. We want things because of what they portray or because they work well for people we admire. Because our friend has it. Because we saw it on Instagram and it looked fun. Because it reminds us of someone or something. But that doesn’t mean we would actually enjoy owning said thing.
This weakness is systemically exploited by ads and influencer culture. Digital services are especially problematic here, because they are “free” or cost barely anything — they universally pass our price tag litmus test. Once signed up, dark patterns, infinite scrolling, and engagement bait abuse our brains’ weaknesses to maximize time on platform — a platform filled with more ads and influencers. It’s capitalism at its worst. These extreme exploitative patterns can’t be solved on an individual basis. They need political action.
That said, I don’t think all tech is bad. I feel lucky I can choose between everything from the simplest mechanical watch to a full fledged computer on my wrist. For me, that plethora of choices is where the (self) awareness needs to come in. I can’t just always get the newest and “best” and assume it will work for me. I need to be aware of what fits into my life.
So, what’s the bottom line? Ethical tech? Strength of awareness? Abolishing capitalism? I don’t know. I hope that we can get to a state where tech is better and capitalism more checked. For now, I try to be mindful of when I’m introducing new things into my life. I ask myself the question I proposed above: Does it fit into my life?
The thing is, we are all different. For some people operating their own email server is a cool long term hobby, for others it would be a maintenance nightmare. The same applies to a vegetable garden in your backyard. I cherish my kitchen knife with the wooden handle, but others who care less about their experience cooking would surely appreciate a utensil that is less fussy. Similarly, if you — like me — weren’t already meticulously recording lap times before the smart watch was invented, you probably don’t need one. Or at least you could turn the fitness features off. It’s just a something that is not for you. But you have it, because you were told way too often that you need it, that it is the “best”, that you really should have it.
So it is on every one of us to be aware of what we allow into our lives, to actively think about if we personally want and need something. If it is worth not just the price tag, but the time and space and energy. I find it helpful to consider the purpose and role a new object would have in my life. Is it a simple practical tool? A hobby? A practice? A toy? What is it for? Does it replace something else, or does it create balance? What would it give and what would it take?
I got my kitchen knife because I wanted to enjoy cooking. Did I “need” to cook, or even enjoy that process? No. I could have made a habit of takeout and frozen pizza. I chose to learn cooking because I enjoy tasty food and I value the skill of creating things that bring joy. Cooking fit into my life — it made sense for me and my values. And I chose it because I knew I had the time, the space for it. But why a fancy kitchen knife and chopping block and not a Thermomix or KitchenAid? I work in tech, so I spend most of my day looking at screens thinking and juggling various tasks. I wanted cooking to be something where I can arrive in the present. The meditative experience of repeated motion, focusing on what my hands are sensing. It fit into my life — it balanced what was already there.
Now, the truth is — all of this reasoning makes sense in retrospect, but I think I got lucky when I bought that knife. I didn't think like this yet. But in a way I learned from that knife some things I appreciate. More quiet. More working with my hands. Balance. I learned to think about what actually fits into my life.
And if I had learned to think like that earlier, I would not own an Apple Watch today.