Planned obsolescence is not some shadowy modern conspiracy dreamt up in a Silicon Valley boardroom. Its blueprints were drawn almost exactly a century ago, codified by a cabal of the world's largest light bulb manufacturers. What they built wasn't a product; it was an expiry date.

A Conspiracy of Light

In 1924, major players like Osram, Philips, Tungsram, and General Electric formed the Phoebus Cartel. Their objective was simple and utterly cynical: limit the lifespan of incandescent light bulbs to just 1,000 hours. Before Phoebus, bulbs often lasted 1,500 to 2,500 hours, a testament to decent engineering. But longevity, it turned out, was bad for business. The cartel mandated that any member producing bulbs lasting longer than the agreed-upon threshold faced heavy fines. This wasn't about improving quality; it was about ensuring repeat sales, artificially shortening a product's useful life for greater profit. This institutionalized decay set a precedent, embedding the idea that products could, and perhaps should, be designed to fail. It was an early, bold statement that profit would trump durability, a philosophy I find utterly deplorable.

The Digital Degeneration

Fast forward to today, and the ghost of Phoebus haunts almost every gadget we touch. The phone in your pocket, for instance, is a masterclass in modern planned obsolescence. Sealed batteries that degrade over a few years, making replacement difficult and expensive, often pushing users toward an entirely new device. Software updates designed to slow older models, subtly nudging you towards the latest, shinier iteration. Proprietary screws, inaccessible components, and glued-down parts make self-repair a Herculean task, if not outright impossible. And then there’s the insidious creep of what author Cory Doctorow calls “enshittification” – platforms and products that deliberately degrade quality, functionality, or user experience over time to extract more value, often through subscriptions or ads. Those printers that refuse third-party ink cartridges, or the “smart” appliance that requires a monthly fee for features you thought you owned outright – these are direct descendants of the Phoebus spirit. It's a betrayal of the user, a calculated erosion of value in the name of the bottom line. I appreciate a well-designed object, whether it's a beautifully aged armchair or a sleek piece of audio gear, precisely because it was made to endure, to age gracefully. This disposable tech culture, by contrast, feels like a cheap stunt.

A Future Built to Last

The trajectory of planned obsolescence seems clear: more “smart” features that are actually just subscription traps, more difficult repairs, and a continued push towards a rental economy for things we used to own. If we let it, our homes will fill with more junk, more e-waste piling up like the desolate landscapes depicted in WALL-E. But there is a counter-movement brewing, a growing demand for the Right-to-Repair. This movement advocates for legislation that requires manufacturers to make parts, tools, and repair information available to consumers and independent repair shops. It's a fight for consumer autonomy and against the wastefulness of our current system. We, the people, must demand better. We must choose products designed for longevity, repairability, and genuine utility, not merely for planned expiry. Look for companies that offer spare parts, provide repair guides, and design products that can be opened and serviced without specialist equipment. It's a small act of rebellion against the built-in demise, but it's a vital one. Let's make durability, not disposability, the new standard.