A recent article by Hagerty titled “The Tech Driving Today’s Vehicles Could Turn Them into Tomorrow’s Junk” has sparked considerable discussion, but not debate within the automotive world. The piece correctly observes that as modern vehicles grow increasingly dependent on proprietary software systems, integrated connectivity, and touch-based user interfaces, they may face early obsolescence once the supporting infrastructure—updates, servers, and service expertise—inevitably fades away. Much like smartphones that become unusable despite functioning batteries or screens, these vehicles could be rendered effectively worthless if their tech backbone is allowed to collapse. The comparison is apt.
Hagerty is absolutely right. Many of today’s most hyped vehicles—particularly Teslas—are on a path to digital obsolescence. Once their software support ends, these cars may lose access to critical navigation, HVAC, media, or battery-management functions. Tesla’s fully integrated architecture, while sleek in the short term, may leave owners stranded in the long term. Rivian faces similar risk, as it doubles down on in-house software platforms without clear provisions for long-term serviceability. But it is General Motors’ decision to phase out Apple CarPlay and Android Auto that could prove most damaging. GM is not simply betting on proprietary systems—it is rebuking the most widely adopted, user-preferred interfaces in the industry. And in doing so, it is laying the groundwork for a generation of GM vehicles that may become unserviceable within decades. Without universal platforms and long-term digital stewardship, these cars could become artifacts of failed digital ambition—still physically intact, but electronically dead.
This concern intersects directly with the broader right to repair movement. As automakers wall off access to diagnostic tools, software interfaces, and electronic control units, independent mechanics and private owners find themselves locked out of their own machines. In the past, a broken alternator or fuel pump could be replaced with basic tools and a shop manual. Now, a failed infotainment processor or an inaccessible over-the-air firmware bug might permanently sideline a vehicle. Without legal protections ensuring access to vehicle software and technical documentation, entire generations of cars could become unrepairable by anyone other than the manufacturer—if even they still support it. The right to repair is no longer just about cost or convenience; it is about survival in a post-digital-enthusiast world.
This is not a hypothetical concern. We already have proof of concept—both good and bad. Consider Porsche Classic, which has become an industry benchmark for maintaining technological and mechanical relevance across decades. The Porsche Classic Communication Management (PCCM) program allows owners of 911s dating back to the 1960s to install drop-in units that add modern amenities like touchscreen interfaces, Apple CarPlay, Android Auto, Bluetooth, and digital radio while preserving the classic interior aesthetic. More recently, Porsche has extended this support to the 986 Boxster, 996 and 997 911s, and 987 Cayman/Boxster platforms—models from the early 2000s that now operate with the same smartphone compatibility as new vehicles. This is not nostalgia—it is industrial foresight. Porsche has recognized that technological evolution need not mean technological exclusion.
But Porsche Classic is broader than infotainment. It also encompasses the remanufacture of original mechanical parts—engines, trim pieces, fuel pumps, switchgear—often with greater precision than was possible during the original production runs. When molds or CAD files no longer exist, Porsche reverse engineers parts using surviving samples, 3D scanning, or new digital fabrication tools. The company has even restarted limited runs of magnesium engine cases for air-cooled 911s and produces discontinued electronics using modernized circuits with OEM connectors. It is a holistic approach to longevity, and it provides a model that others could emulate.
Mercedes-Benz Classic operates similarly, offering factory-certified restoration, 3D-printed and retooled parts, and extensive archival documentation support. Their involvement goes far beyond mere preservation—they actively guide vehicles from working daily driver to verified heritage asset. Ferrari Classiche takes an even more rarefied approach, authenticating and restoring historic Ferraris with Maranello’s full backing. They maintain decades-old software and tooling to guarantee that everything—from ECUs to analog gauges—meets Ferrari’s gold standard. The value added by this level of commitment is incalculable, both emotionally and financially.
These case studies expose a central truth: manufacturers who plan for continuity—of parts, platforms, and platforms—build vehicles with enduring cultural and mechanical relevance. But this truth also casts a long shadow over brands like Chevrolet, Kia, Hyundai, and other mainstream automakers who offer no comparable long-term support. There is no “Chevrolet Classiche” quietly archiving firmware, rebuilding infotainment interfaces, or tooling new climate control modules for defunct models. Once those systems break, they are gone. And with them goes any real chance of the car being cherished, restored, or remembered.
The deeper issue is not that mass-market cars don’t deserve classic status—it’s that their manufacturers are uninterested in making that possible. While Porsche, Mercedes, and Ferrari prepare their cars for the museum, Kia and GM are, by design or neglect, building disposable appliances. This is especially troubling in the EV and digital-native era. A dead touchscreen in a 2023 Chevy Blazer EV may mean no A/C, no navigation, no charge control, no meaningful resale. And unless GM reverses course or builds a legacy support division, future owners will be forced to junk otherwise mechanically sound vehicles.
What’s particularly galling is that this is preventable. GM’s decision to abandon CarPlay and Android Auto in favor of a closed ecosystem is not only consumer-hostile in the present—it is a liability in the long term. CarPlay is maintained by Apple, Android Auto by Google. They have the scale, incentive, and user base to keep these systems running for decades. Proprietary GM infotainment, by contrast, could vanish within a product cycle. And with it, so goes usability. This is not a bet on innovation—it’s a gamble with the customer’s future.
In the end, Hagerty’s warning is well placed, but incomplete. Yes, modern cars risk becoming tech junk. But they don’t have to. The blueprint exists. The only question is whether automakers—especially those outside the luxury sphere—will follow it. Proactive digital stewardship, platform openness, parts continuity, and legally protected access to repairs will separate tomorrow’s enduring classics from tomorrow’s landfill. GM’s rebuke of CarPlay will not end well—and it may come to define a generation of vehicles no one wants to preserve.