Is a smartwatch really a watch? At first, the answer seems almost insultingly obvious. It straps onto the wrist, it shows the time, and the word “watch” is baked right into the name. But the simplicity of that logic quickly unravels when we begin to consider what the word has historically meant, and what it still means to those of us who approach horology as more than mere function. A watch has always been more than a gadget; it is a cultural symbol, a vessel of continuity, and an artefact of human craft. Asking whether a smartwatch deserves to sit at the same table is not an exercise in pedantry—it is an attempt to clarify whether we are preserving the essence of horology or slowly diluting it into the broader realm of consumer electronics.

The lineage of the traditional watch stretches back centuries, to the bulky spring-driven clock-watches of the 16th century, which were as much status symbols as instruments of utility. Over time, movements shrank, accuracy improved, and artistry blossomed, giving rise to pocket watches, marine chronometers, and eventually the modern wristwatch. Through every stage of this evolution, the core remained constant: the watch existed to measure and display time. Complications might have offered moonphases, calendars, or chiming mechanisms, but even the most baroque expression of horology still revolved around the nucleus of timekeeping. A watch was never defined by convenience, but by its relationship with the passing of hours, minutes, and seconds. It was a physical embodiment of humankind’s attempt to capture time in miniature, to harness it in gears, springs, and jewels.

Smartwatches emerge from an entirely different genealogy. Their forebears are not Breguet’s tourbillons or Harrison’s sea clocks, but calculators, PDAs, pagers, and eventually smartphones. Their ancestry runs through Silicon Valley, not the Vallée de Joux. They are products of computing, not horology. When the Apple Watch debuted in 2015, it was marketed less as a successor to traditional watchmaking than as an extension of the digital ecosystem—an iPhone fragment condensed onto the wrist. These devices are not designed to serve time but to serve the user. They orbit the individual, monitoring health, relaying notifications, offering digital convenience, and storing data. The time display is one tile in a grid, an obligatory function rather than the defining soul.

This inversion of priorities marks perhaps the greatest philosophical difference between traditional watches and smartwatches. In a mechanical or quartz watch, time is the nucleus around which all else revolves. In a smartwatch, time is an accessory—useful, expected, but never central. The smartwatch’s essence lies in its ability to mirror the wearer: heart rate, sleep quality, messages, appointments, emails, and steps. It is not a window onto the flow of time but a mirror reflecting the rhythms of the self. That shift—from measuring the external world to monitoring the internal one—is profound, and it speaks volumes about the cultural values that gave birth to these devices.

Another difference lies in permanence. A well-made mechanical watch can survive centuries with care. It can be repaired, restored, handed down. It can outlive its owner and remain a vessel of memory, an heirloom connecting generations. Even quartz watches, though less romantic, often last decades with little more than battery changes. They embody continuity. Smartwatches, by contrast, are ephemeral. Their batteries degrade, their operating systems age, and their hardware is quickly outpaced by software updates. Within a handful of years, they become obsolete. They cannot be serviced in the traditional sense; they are replaced, not restored. That built-in transience places them at odds with horology’s deepest traditions, where endurance has always been central. The very idea of obsolescence feels antithetical to the spirit of a watch as a keeper of continuity.

L