Three layers of paint

At LEGOLAND, I read a story that stayed with me. It was about the founder of LEGO and his son. At some point, the son took over part of the operations and came to his father with a proposal: “We always paint our bricks in three layers. If we only do two, we save money.” The father didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask for data. He didn’t weigh margins. He simply said: “No. We don’t compromise on quality.”

But the son had already shipped a batch. So the father made him recall the entire shipment and repaint every single brick himself ... one by one. Not out of punishment, but principle.

That kind of uncompromising belief in quality? It’s rare.

And honestly, I admire that so much. That refusal to compromise. That unshakable standard of quality. Even when no one would probably notice. Because it wasn’t just about the paint. It was about what the company stood for. I don’t feel like we see a lot of that anymore.

Of course we all want to make money. But there’s a line between being profitable and being so obsessed with the bottom line that you cut corners on the very thing you sell. And I’m not even talking about luxury products here. I’m talking about basic stuff. Everyday products. Things that should last ... but don’t. Because somewhere, someone decided that quality was negotiable.

And we’ve built entire systems around that idea. Planned obsolescence. Designing things not to last, so that people have to come back. Because if your product holds up for 10, 15 years - like fridges used to - then how do you keep people buying?

I get the logic. If everyone owns a fridge that works, you don’t have a recurring market. But it’s also a bit twisted, right? Make it fail so you can sell it again. That’s the strategy.

Phones are the easiest example. Imagine if we really built phones to last. Not just the hardware, but also the software. No forced slowdowns, no sudden incompatibilities. Sure, people who love having the latest gadgets would still buy the newest model. But the phones they leave behind? They could easily be reused. Given to a teenager. Handed down. Sold second-hand. Still working fine.

It’s not even that far-fetched. That kind of reuse cycle would reduce waste. It would make tech more accessible. But instead we’re stuck in a cycle where even the idea of a two-year-old phone feels “outdated.” And worse, some devices actually stop working. Not because they’re broken, but because they’ve been made obsolete.

And this isn’t just about phones. It’s TVs. It’s kitchen appliances. It’s software. The TV we had growing up? Lasted forever. The one before our current one? Eight years, max. The one we have now? I hope it makes it to ten, but I honestly don’t know anymore. And we spent a lot on it, just to make sure we might get the quality we used to get by default.

So it got me thinking. Do we need to stop investing in cheaper alternatives altogether? Do we need to stop flooding the market with “good enough” and instead raise the bar again?

What if we actually invested in making better products, and trusted that the early adopters would buy the newest models, while the rest of the market got access to the still-good second-hand ones?

What if that became the economic model?

Because this one, the one built on breaking things on purpose ... it’s kind of devious.

Pretending it’s progress when it’s really just shortening the lifespan of everything so we can keep buying more. And yeah, I know, there’s a story to be told: old versions are harder to maintain, newer models are more secure, more efficient, more advanced. Sure. But then shouldn't that also be something you build for from the beginning?

Shouldn’t durability be part of the roadmap?

I don’t know. Maybe it’s idealistic. But I think back to that LEGO story, and it sticks with me.

Because it was such a clear line in the sand:

this is the standard. This is who we are. 

Not everything has to be for profit. Some things are for pride.

And I wonder what it would take to get back to that mindset. Or if we ever will.