Explainers

This article aims to dismantle a widely accepted myth: that electric vehicles (EVs) inevitably depreciate and lose significant value upon resale. This notion has gained traction not due to meticulous analysis, but rather because many people focus solely on a single data point: the second-hand price of a car one year after purchase. If one extends the timeframe, however, the entire narrative shifts dramatically.

To clarify the facts, EVs do indeed experience higher depreciation in their first year compared to gasoline or diesel vehicles, a reality that cannot be denied. However, this is not because electric cars suddenly become outdated; rather, it is due to their higher initial price tags. Factors such as battery costs, premiums during the transition period, and manufacturers’ efforts to recoup early investments contribute to many EVs being priced above their internal combustion engine counterparts. Consequently, when these vehicles enter the second-hand market, their prices naturally adjust downward, leading to a pronounced depreciation in the first year.

Yet, if one only considers the sticker price, the critical factors are overlooked. Governments and manufacturers have provided numerous incentives in recent years to promote electrification, including cash subsidies, tax reductions, free home charger installations, and common three-year interest-free financing options. When these incentives are factored in, the actual acquisition cost of a new EV often diverges significantly from its listed price. The first-year depreciation, to some extent, merely reflects these benefits all at once.

Looking beyond the first year, the situation normalizes significantly. Market data, including that from Motorpoint, indicates that after the first year, the depreciation rates of EVs are actually quite comparable to those of internal combustion engine vehicles. In other words, EVs do not continue to depreciate at an accelerated rate; rather, they experience a sharp adjustment initially, after which the depreciation returns to a more typical pace. The notion that they ‘do not hold their value’ is largely an illusion created by a mismatch in timing.

If one truly wishes to avoid the first-year depreciation, there are two rational options. The first is to purchase a one- or two-year-old electric vehicle. The most significant depreciation has already been absorbed by the first owner, while the vehicle’s condition and technology remain relatively new. More importantly, the battery typically still retains six to seven years of original warranty, making the actual risk far lower than commonly perceived. This age range often represents the best value for money.

The second option is to lease an electric vehicle. If you prefer not to deal with depreciation at all, leasing can be the most straightforward solution. With fixed monthly expenses, you simply return the vehicle at the end of the lease, completely detached from fluctuations in second-hand prices. For those not intending to hold a vehicle long-term and who wish to enjoy the latest models and incentives, leasing is, in fact, an underrated option.

Ultimately, depreciation is merely a calculation. The number of years you use the vehicle, how you acquire it, and whether you account for all incentives are the key factors determining whether you ‘lose or gain’ value. To summarize a rapidly changing market with the phrase ‘electric vehicles do not hold their value’ is an oversimplification. The real question is not whether depreciation occurs quickly, but whether you have chosen the most suitable entry method for yourself.

If asked which country is the first to implement a comprehensive ban on gasoline and diesel vehicles, many would likely guess Norway, Germany, or even China. However, the true pioneer is Ethiopia. Starting in 2024, Ethiopia will completely prohibit the import of gasoline and diesel vehicles, subsequently extending this ban to trucks and assembled kits. In the new vehicle market, internal combustion engines will be entirely eliminated, leaving only electric vehicles legally permitted—a policy that is remarkably rare on a global scale.

The reason this revelation is so surprising is largely tied to the long-standing perceptions of Ethiopia. Many still associate the country with the images of famine from the 1980s, viewing it as a symbol of chronic poverty and developmental stagnation. In reality, that historical period is decades behind us, and Ethiopia’s economy and national capabilities have undergone significant structural transformations.

Over the past twenty years, Ethiopia has consistently invested in infrastructure and energy, developing a comprehensive network of roads, railways, industrial parks, and a national power grid. The electricity supply is primarily hydroelectric, locally sourced, and both low-cost and stable. In contrast, gasoline and diesel are entirely reliant on imports, consuming substantial foreign exchange annually and exerting long-term pressure on the macroeconomy. In this context, promoting electric vehicles is not merely an environmental policy; it is a direct economic and energy security decision.

Because the number of vehicles is relatively low and internal combustion engines have not become deeply entrenched in daily life, Ethiopia can leapfrog the gasoline vehicle era and directly choose the most advantageous energy path for itself. This ‘latecomer advantage’ allows it to progress more swiftly in certain critical transformations than many developed economies.

In summary, while Ethiopia is not yet wealthy, it is no longer the country that exists solely in the memories of famine. It is a developing economy transitioning to a lower-middle-income status, making decisive choices in energy and transportation policy. Relying on outdated stereotypes to understand it will only obscure the truly significant changes taking place.

Many people first encounter the concept of “carbon offsetting” not through climate reports, but at the checkout page when purchasing airline tickets. A small box pops up: for just a little extra money, you can offset the carbon emissions of your flight. This design appears considerate, yet its actual effect is highly misleading. It suggests that emissions can be immediately “remedied”; as long as one is willing to pay, they can continue to fly guilt-free. This sense of reassurance is more psychological comfort than a genuine reduction in carbon emissions; worse still, it can lead people to mistakenly believe that by opting in every time, they can fly more often.

The primary issue with carbon offsetting is that it attempts to counterbalance immediate, certain, and irreversible emissions with uncertain promises of future action. Take the most common example of tree planting: the carbon absorbed by trees is merely temporarily stored within the biomass. Trees age, decay, and can be destroyed in wildfires; in a world where warming is intensifying, these risks are only increasing. More critically, there is currently no technology that can guarantee that this carbon will not re-enter the atmosphere in the future.

Strictly speaking, not all carbon absorption by the biosphere is meaningless. In climate policy, there exists the category of LULUCF (Land Use, Land Use Change, and Forestry): when land use undergoes long-term, institutional, and nearly irreversible changes—such as converting agricultural land into legally protected long-term forest—the stability of its carbon storage is relatively high, and it has a reasonable place in national carbon accounting. However, the projects offered by aviation carbon offsets rarely involve genuine permanent changes in land use, let alone decades of institutional guarantees.

In recent years, some carbon offsets have shifted focus from tree planting to claiming investments in solar or wind energy. On the surface, this seems more reliable than biospheric carbon absorption, as it directly replaces fossil fuel power generation. However, the fatal flaw of such projects lies in their inability to prove “additionality.” Renewable energy has become the cheapest new power option in most countries, supported by policies, subsidies, and financing; many projects would have been built regardless. If solar and wind farms would still emerge without the purchase of carbon offsets, then the so-called “offsetting” merely claims credit on paper without delivering any additional emissions reductions.

Theoretically, the only true method to counterbalance fossil fuel emissions is to return carbon dioxide to geological layers, permanently sequestering it underground. However, the costs of geological carbon sequestration are exorbitant, far beyond the few pounds presented at the airline checkout page. For this reason, it has never been an option in the carbon offset box for airlines.

Consequently, the carbon offset options on airline tickets not only fail to help but may actually be counterproductive. When passengers believe they have “paid to address” emissions, flying ceases to be viewed as a high-carbon behavior that requires moderation, instead becoming a morally cleared choice. The result is not a reduction in flights, but rather a more comfortable and frequent flying experience, with even less pressure to confront the real need for emissions reductions. This design does not facilitate any structural change; it merely exchanges psychological comfort for continued behavior, allowing high-carbon activities to expand under the guise of seeming responsibility.

Since the 19th century, many newly independent countries have viewed the U.S. Constitution as a blueprint for democratic success. The principles of separation of powers, presidential systems, federal structures, and written constitutions appear rational and modern, carrying the aura of success. However, history repeatedly shows that this path often fails to lead to stable democracy, instead sliding towards authoritarianism. The issue lies not in the quality of the U.S. Constitution itself, but in the misunderstanding that it can be directly transplanted as a plug-and-play democratic system.

This phenomenon of ‘institutional transplantation’ is particularly evident in Latin America. Mexico’s 1824 Constitution incorporated American experiences in its federal structure and executive design, formally establishing a republic. Yet, for over a century, it experienced cycles of strongman politics, military interventions, and constitutional interruptions. Argentina’s 1853 Constitution openly modeled itself on the United States, designing a centralized presidential system, which resulted in prolonged cycles of coups and military rule. The institutions existed, but democracy never took firm root.

By the 20th century, the trend of imitation continued. The Philippines established a presidential republic under American influence, with a complete constitutional text and an electoral system in place, yet it could not prevent Ferdinand Marcos from imposing martial law under the guise of ‘constitutionalism’, turning the system into a tool for personal rule. Brazil similarly adopted a system design highly reminiscent of the United States, but oscillated between elected governments and military intervention for decades. The commonality among these countries is not that their constitutions were insufficiently progressive, but that the institutional capacity and political culture supporting democratic operations were not developed in tandem.

Ultimately, a constitution is merely a framework for power, not democracy itself. The U.S. Constitution functions not because of any inherent magical power in its text, but because it is built upon long-accumulated political habits. Traditions of local autonomy, an instinctive wariness of power, the professionalization of the judiciary and bureaucracy, and the self-restraint of losers in accepting electoral outcomes are crucial conditions that do not automatically emerge simply from being written into a constitution. When these foundations are weak, the constitution can easily be manipulated, becoming a legitimate facade for power expansion.

Presidential systems inherently carry structural risks. Executive and symbolic power is concentrated in one individual, and elections often present a zero-sum competition where the winner takes all. In contexts where party systems are weak, society is highly fragmented, and the legislature and judiciary are not yet mature, presidents can easily equate ‘popular mandate’ with unlimited power, viewing opposition as enemies rather than legitimate competitors. Once checks and balances fail, political crises can swiftly escalate into extraordinary measures, even providing excuses for military intervention in politics.

These failures are not merely stories from other countries. Even the United States itself is not inherently immune to authoritarian backsliding. If institutions are taken for granted, if political norms continue to erode, and if the populace no longer actively defends the rule of law, checks and balances, and electoral outcomes, then a presidential system can similarly become a conduit for power concentration. Two and a half centuries of democratic history can be viewed as a deep institutional accumulation, or merely as a series of fortunate escapes from collapse.

As the 18th-century politician John Philpot Curran stated in a speech in 1790, the condition for the existence of freedom is eternal vigilance. This sentiment is often distilled into the phrase ‘Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty’: the cost of freedom is perpetual awareness.

The universe is vast, and with so many stars, it seems improbable that we are alone. Yet, despite extensive searches, we see no evidence of extraterrestrial civilizations. This discrepancy forms the crux of the Fermi Paradox: if civilizations are not rare, then where has everyone gone?

In discussions of this issue, the Drake Equation is often invoked. Its significance lies not in providing answers but in highlighting the vast uncertainties involved. Each parameter can fluctuate by several orders of magnitude, leading estimates of communicable civilizations in the Milky Way to range from nearly zero to thousands. Consequently, some argue that the universe is inherently quiet, while others suggest that this silence itself is anomalous.

However, the true sharpness of the Fermi Paradox lies not just in ‘how many civilizations’ exist, but in another often underestimated factor: time and expansion.

Consider a highly conservative, even benevolent assumption. Imagine a technological civilization that did not emerge in the early universe but appeared merely 10 million years ago. Relative to the universe’s age of approximately 13.8 billion years, this is less than a thousandth of a moment. Further assume that its expansion capability is not aggressive, with interstellar travel at only one-tenth the speed of light, far below the typical settings found in science fiction.

Under these conditions, the results remain astonishing. At 0.1c, 10 million years is sufficient to traverse about 1 million light-years. This means that within a sphere of 1 million light-years radius from its home planet, all potentially habitable planets should theoretically have been explored, colonized, or at least marked by clear traces. For comparison, the entire Milky Way has a diameter of only about 100,000 light-years. In other words, such a ‘not too early, not too fast’ civilization would have long had the capability to cover the entire galaxy, even spilling over into nearby galactic clusters.

This calculation does not require assumptions of faster-than-light travel, a unified galactic empire, or that every star is inhabited by aliens. As long as a civilization crosses a certain technological threshold and possesses the basic motivation for survival, its expansion is almost a matter of time. This aligns perfectly with human historical experience: from migrations out of Africa to the expansion of agricultural societies, and from modern transcontinental colonization to globalization, technological civilizations have never been static.

Thus, the true unsettling aspect of the Fermi Paradox is that even if such a civilization has existed only once, we should have already seen it. Anomalies in infrared radiation, traces of stellar energy use, artificial astronomical structures, or even just the debris of probes scattered across interstellar space would suffice to reveal its presence. Yet what we observe is a clean and indifferent universe.

This reality pushes the question directly towards the ‘Great Filter’ theory. If civilizations tend to expand, yet the universe remains so silent, the most reasonable explanation is not that civilizations do not arise, but that most cannot survive long enough. Perhaps they went extinct before mastering interstellar capabilities; perhaps internal risks erupted after rapid expansion; or perhaps the average lifespan of civilizations is simply too short to leave any observable traces.

Bringing this reasoning back to humanity makes the implications sharp. Nuclear weapons, biotechnology, artificial intelligence, and climate disorder are all byproducts of civilizations gaining immense power in a short time. They are not external threats but rather the internal injuries of civilization growth. If the Great Filter is indeed ‘failing to learn self-restraint before expansion,’ then the silence of the universe is likely not a coincidence but a statistically inevitable outcome.

Thus, the Fermi Paradox is not merely an intriguing question of astronomy but a civilization-level arithmetic problem. Given time, civilizations will expand; if we see no traces of such expansion, we must question whether civilizations can endure the test of their own power. The issue has never been just ‘where are the aliens?’ but rather ‘why has no civilization succeeded in reaching a point where we can observe them?’

And this question quietly points towards our future.

The International Energy Agency’s (IEA) Announced Pledges Scenario (APS) is not an aggressive environmental blueprint; rather, it is a model that incorporates the climate commitments that various countries have announced and claim they will implement. Even so, the conclusion remains clear: by 2050, global oil demand will fall to around 50 to 60 million barrels per day, nearly halving from current levels. Oil will not disappear overnight, but its historical peak has already passed.

In this context, discussions about ‘building new pipelines’ appear increasingly out of touch. Pipelines are not flexible assets; they are heavy infrastructure with lifespans of 40 to 50 years, and their commercial premise hinges on one factor: long-term, stable, and predictable demand. The world depicted by the APS fundamentally contradicts this premise.

Alberta, Canada, serves as a microcosm of this issue. For years, local politicians have periodically raised concerns about ‘pipeline shortages,’ claiming that without new pipelines, oil sands would be trapped inland, missing out on export opportunities. Such discussions have become almost a cyclical political maneuver, surfacing around elections, yet they have consistently failed to overcome the reality threshold—capital no longer believes this is a viable business.

The completed Trans Mountain Expansion (TMX) exemplifies the problem. The project was ultimately completed not because the market was optimistic, but because the federal government took over, with costs ballooning from the initial estimate of CAD 7.4 billion to over CAD 30 billion. It can operate, but the returns are highly uncertain; its existence resembles a policy choice rather than a successful investment.

As for those projects still ‘under discussion’ but unable to materialize, their fate is already sealed. Whether it is the former Energy East or the rejected Northern Gateway, they share a common assumption: that oil demand would exist long-term, even expand. With the advent of the APS, this assumption is no longer valid; future iterations will only become more challenging, not easier.

Turning to the United States, the situation is equally clear. Keystone XL has become a symbol of long-term political controversy, yet it has never truly addressed a core issue—who will bear the risk of declining long-term demand. Donald Trump repeatedly endorsed the pipeline, but political rhetoric cannot replace financial decision-making; under the premise of stagnant demand growth, insurance, financing, and long-term contracts all fail, and projects naturally remain on paper.

This does not mean that North America lacks pipelines. The extensive network from the Permian Basin to the Gulf of Mexico is still operational, the Dakota Access Pipeline continues to transport oil, and the Colonial Pipeline maintains refined product supply. However, these are existing, amortized assets, not new bets in the APS era. Their logic is to be used until they can no longer be used, rather than to reinvest for another forty years.

The only projects that may still pass approval are ‘replacement’ or ‘lifespan extension’ projects, such as the Line 3 Replacement. These projects are not intended to increase throughput but to mitigate risks and update aging facilities; they are defensive rather than offensive. This represents the limit of pipeline investment permissible in an APS world.

Proponents of rebuilding pipelines often invoke ‘energy security’ and ‘jobs,’ but this misplaces short-term political pressures onto long-term infrastructure decisions. The risks pointed out by the APS are not about a lack of oil but about an excess of unused pipelines. Once the pace of demand decline outstrips the payback period, assets will swiftly turn into liabilities, ultimately borne by public finances.

Oil will still be used for some time, but the investment window is closing. In a world of structurally contracting demand, laying new long-lived channels for high-cost, high-carbon intensity crude oil is neither forward-looking nor pragmatic; it is a refusal to confront reality. Oil will eventually phase out, and building new pipelines in the interim can only be described as folly.

Fascism is never born overnight. It does not emerge from a coup, a slogan, or a madman’s epiphany; rather, it is rationalized step by step in an atmosphere of fear, disorder, and disappointment, ultimately brought to power by the masses themselves.

Historically, fascist movements share a common starting point: societies undergoing severe upheaval. Economic recession, humiliating defeats, widespread unemployment, and institutional failure create conditions where the existing order can no longer explain reality or improve lives. People begin to stop asking how to repair the system and instead seek to identify who is to blame. At this juncture, reason recedes, and emotion takes center stage.

The first step of fascism is to simplify the world. Complex issues are distilled into a single narrative: the decline of the nation is not due to policy errors, structural imbalances, or global changes, but rather because ‘someone is holding us back.’ This ‘them’ can be outsiders, minorities, intellectuals, the media, opposition parties, or even the entire existing elite. As long as it remains sufficiently vague, it can bear the weight of public discontent.

The second step is the politicization of emotion. Fascism is not adept at governance but excels at mobilization. It does not offer solutions but provides emotional outlets. Anger is framed as justice, fear is packaged as crisis, and doubt is denounced as betrayal. Rational discussion is viewed as weakness, and compromise is depicted as treachery. The masses are not persuaded; they are incited.

Next comes impatience with institutions. When democratic processes are described as ‘slowing efficiency’ or ‘hindering reform,’ when judicial independence is labeled as ‘protecting the guilty,’ and when media oversight is dismissed as ‘fake news,’ fascism begins to dismantle checks and balances. It does not outright deny elections but claims they are ‘manipulated’; it does not immediately abolish courts but first attacks the motives of judges. The institutions remain, but their credibility is hollowed out.

The crux of fascism lies not in the strength of its leader but in the willingness of followers to abandon judgment. When people start saying, ‘This is not the time for procedures,’ or ‘Extraordinary times require extraordinary measures,’ they have already accepted a premise: that power can be unchecked as long as the purpose is ‘just.’ And this ‘just’ is always defined by those in power.

It is important to note that fascism does not necessarily appear in the form of military boots and salutes. It can don a suit, rise to power through voting, and concentrate authority in the name of democracy. It can even exalt the term ‘people’ while gradually stripping away their choices. Historical examples have long shown that when dissent is stigmatized, when minorities are seen as the problem itself, and when violence is rationalized as a necessary means, the escape routes often vanish.

The most successful moment for fascism is not the day it seizes power, but the moment when the majority begins to think, ‘This might not be so bad after all.’ It is not imposed on society but tacitly accepted; not because everyone believes in it, but because too many choose to remain silent.

The question is never merely whether fascism will re-emerge, but whether we will still be able to recognize its form when the same conditions arise again. For the true nourishment of fascism is not hatred itself, but the fatigue of relinquishing thought.

In recent years, news reports have frequently featured images of “electric vehicle fires” and “lithium battery explosions.” As these stories accumulate, many people instinctively wonder: Are electric vehicles particularly prone to catching fire? This intuition, however, is itself questionable. What you are witnessing is not the frequency of incidents, but rather the frequency of their exposure.

Let us return to the numbers. Different countries have slightly varying statistical methodologies, but the overall direction is highly consistent. For every 100,000 electric vehicles, approximately 20 to 30 cases of fire occur annually; in comparison, gasoline or diesel vehicles see about 1,300 to 1,600 cases under the same metric. Even when comparing based on mileage, the conclusion remains unchanged: the incidence of fire in fuel vehicles is significantly higher than in electric vehicles. When looking at statistics with a clear denominator, electric vehicles are not the “more fire-prone” category.

So why does the public perception seem entirely the opposite? The reason is fundamentally human. Electric vehicles are still a relatively new phenomenon, and with a smaller fleet size, each incident appears rare. When lithium batteries enter thermal runaway, the resulting smoke, flames, and potential for reignition create a dramatic spectacle, making for compelling headlines and videos. In contrast, fuel vehicle fires have become mundane occurrences—engine overheating, aging fuel lines, short-circuited wiring, and post-accident fuel leaks happen daily, yet most remain confined to local fire department records or insurance claims, seldom making the news. The result is that exposure rates are mistakenly perceived as incidence rates.

Some have raised another concern: even if fires are infrequent, are lithium battery fires more difficult to extinguish, thus making them more dangerous? This assertion has some truth but is often exaggerated. Lithium-ion batteries can indeed enter thermal runaway under extreme conditions, and their reactions do not depend on external oxygen. The focus in managing such incidents is on prolonged cooling rather than merely isolating oxygen, which means firefighters often require more water and time, along with monitoring for reignition risks afterward. This speaks to a difference in handling rather than an inability to extinguish. Electric vehicle fires can be controlled; the tactics simply differ from those used for fuel vehicles.

More critically, difficulty in extinguishing fires does not equate to a higher frequency of occurrence. When a fuel vehicle ignites, the flames often spread more rapidly and violently; once fuel leaks, the risk to passengers can be significant. However, because such incidents are so common, their handling has become institutionalized, and the public has become accustomed to them, leading to a false sense of security based on familiarity. Exaggerating the relatively few, low-frequency, but more complicated electric vehicle incidents into a widespread high-risk narrative is logically flawed.

Another frequently conflated source of concern has emerged in recent years: fires involving small lithium battery products such as electric bicycles, scooters, and power banks, which have indeed increased and often result in casualties within residential settings. Many of these incidents involve substandard battery cells, modifications, or improper charging. These accidents are often “conveniently” attributed to electric vehicles, blurring the lines between different levels and specifications of risk and amplifying fear.

In summary: if you say you “often see” electric vehicle fires, that is correct; but if you conclude that they “occur frequently,” that is incorrect. What truly matters is not how shocking the images are, but how large the denominator is. Mature risk discussions rely not on headlines and videos, but on statistics and systems.

Many households are aware that inkjet printers become increasingly expensive over time, yet they continue to endure the costs, primarily because the machine is still functioning, making replacement seem wasteful. However, a thorough cost analysis reveals that the real waste often lies in prolonging usage.

To provide some context, ink tank printers have only recently become mainstream. Over a decade ago, the home and small office market predominantly offered cartridge options. In recent years, with improved designs, enhanced reliability, and simplified refill systems, ink tanks have rapidly gained popularity, particularly in multifunction devices that combine printing, scanning, and automatic document feeding. Many households today are still using products based on the previous generation’s logic.

For a clearer comparison, let’s examine the differences using specific examples. Take two all-in-one inkjet printers of the same brand and class: a traditional cartridge model typically costs around $900 in Hong Kong, while the corresponding ink tank version is priced at approximately $2,000, with nearly identical functionalities. At first glance, the ink tank model appears to be $1,100 more expensive, but the real distinction lies in the consumables.

In the case of the cartridge printer, a black ink cartridge costs about $120 and has a nominal yield of around 300 pages; the three color cartridges also cost about $120 each, with the same yield. The cost per black-and-white page is nearly $0.40, and when printing in color, with both black and color inks being consumed simultaneously, the cost per page rises to about $1.60. Moreover, if any one color runs out, many models will refuse to print, often resulting in even higher actual costs.

Conversely, the ink tank printer operates quite differently. A bottle of black ink costs about $120 and can print 6,000 pages, resulting in a cost of just $0.02 per page. The three color inks together cost around $300 and can also print 6,000 pages, making the cost per color page approximately $0.05. Even when accounting for black ink, the total cost for color pages is only about $0.07. This is not merely a slight reduction; it represents a significant difference in cost structure.

Many may wonder why ink tanks can be so much cheaper. The key lies not in the quality of the ink but in the operational design. Cartridges are not just simple ink containers; they are highly engineered consumables that incorporate nozzles, sensors, and chips to monitor usage, restrict substitutes, and even halt printing before the ink is entirely depleted. Each time a cartridge is replaced, it is essentially a purchase of a set of precision components, not just ink. The ink itself is a minor part of the cost; the rest comprises plastic, electronic components, packaging, and brand premiums.

In contrast, ink tank systems separate these components. The print head and control system are fixed within the printer itself, representing a one-time investment; only pure ink is replenished in simple bottles, devoid of chips, nozzles, or complex packaging. This separation of hardware and consumables naturally reduces costs to their most basic form. This design difference is the fundamental reason for the cost disparity of over tenfold per page between the two systems.

The break-even point becomes quite clear. The price difference between the two machines is $1,100. If primarily printing black-and-white documents, savings per page amount to about $0.38, requiring approximately 2,900 pages to break even. For frequent color printing, savings per page are around $1.53, leading to a break-even point of only about 720 pages. Considering a more realistic mixed usage scenario of 80% black-and-white and 20% color, the average savings per page is about $0.61, resulting in a break-even of approximately 1,800 pages.

Translating page numbers into time makes the conclusion even more intuitive. Printing 100 pages a month would yield a break-even period of about 18 months; for households with students or those working from home, monthly printing of 200 pages is not uncommon, reducing the break-even period to around 9 months. Remarkably, all of this often occurs before the old machine has even broken down.

The key factor is not the brand or a specific model but rather the system in place. Cartridges represent a design that packages high-priced hardware as consumables, compelling repeated purchases; ink tanks shift costs forward, resulting in long-term low consumption. When the market has completed this transition, remaining within the old system and continuing to pay is, in itself, a form of invisible waste.

Thus, replacing a printer early is not a blind chase for the new but rather a means of stemming financial losses. The real question should not be whether the machine is still functional, but rather how much longer one intends to pay for an outdated cost structure.

A chronological examination of investments in Venezuelan oil reveals a pattern of oversight. The resources were already present, and the risks were apparent; yet investors repeatedly chose to ignore them, naively believing that everything would eventually turn out well.

The first to pay the price were American oil companies. In 2007, amid a wave of nationalization, ConocoPhillips was forced to withdraw from the Orinoco heavy oil project and subsequently sought international arbitration. The tribunal ultimately ruled that Venezuela must compensate approximately $8.7 billion, one of the largest investment arbitration awards in the history of the energy sector. However, a ruling does not equate to cash. Given Venezuela’s long-standing debts and uncertain restructuring prospects, the recovery of this compensation is highly uncertain and can only be pursued through piecemeal methods such as seizing overseas assets, resulting in actual recoveries far below the book figure.

Chevron’s choice reflects another investment mentality. It did not fully withdraw but accepted a passive minority stake, choosing to remain. The outcome was capital lock-up and restricted operational control, with cash flow entirely dependent on sanctions waivers and political winds rather than market performance. Even though it has recently obtained limited operational permits due to diplomatic considerations, it has only managed to maintain production at a minimal level, falling short of normal investment returns. This situation has ceased to be a commercial calculation and has become a political gamble.

After the retreat of Western capital, Chinese investment entered the fray. Beginning in 2008, China provided over $60 billion in loans and investments to Venezuela under a ‘loans-for-oil’ model, in exchange for long-term crude oil supplies and engineering contracts. While this arrangement appeared to hedge against systemic risks, it failed to guard against declining production, aging equipment, and managerial failures. Oil deliveries have consistently fallen short of expectations, and some debts have required extensions or renegotiation. Even after years of debt repayment through oil, estimates still indicate that Venezuela’s unpaid debts to China amount to tens of billions of dollars.

When Donald Trump declared that the U.S. would take over Venezuela and intervene in transitional governance, the uncertainty surrounding Chinese investments was heightened further. Whether existing contracts would be recognized, whether loan arrangements would need rewriting, and whether repayment mechanisms would change all depended on a new round of great power competition. Unfulfilled assets were once again exposed to political risk.

The entire timeline reveals a recurring error: overseas fossil fuel investors systematically underestimate geopolitical risks while naively believing that the worst-case scenarios will not materialize, or that even if they do, they can be mitigated through arbitration, diplomacy, or the passage of time. However, in non-free, non-democratic systems, law is a tool, contracts are merely temporary arrangements, and capital lacks genuine protection.

The structure of the industry further amplifies these risks. Fossil fuels are highly concentrated assets that can be controlled at a single point. Oil fields, mines, and transportation facilities are clearly visible and are the easiest to seize or disrupt. Once a regime shifts or international conflicts escalate, investments have almost no buffer space.

In contrast, domestic clean energy and storage infrastructure present a completely different risk structure. First, they are located within national borders, protected by local rule of law, regulatory frameworks, and defense systems. For external forces to directly disrupt them would require crossing sovereign red lines, which comes at a high cost. Second, and more crucially, they are decentralized. Solar panels are spread across rooftops and sites, onshore wind farms are dispersed over vast areas, and battery storage is deployed at multiple nodes and levels. To inflict substantial damage on these facilities without triggering a full-scale conflict would often require costs and time that far exceed any potential strategic gains.

Bringing the perspective back to national security, the conclusion is quite clear. In an era where energy transition and geopolitical tensions are accelerating, continuing to invest in overseas fossil fuel infrastructure poses not only investment risks but also strategic risks. It ties energy supply, capital security, and diplomatic maneuvering together; once the situation reverses, the costs will not only be borne by companies but will also return to the national level.

The truly rational choice is to gradually cease taking risks with overseas fossil fuels and to concentrate resources on domestic clean energy, grid systems, and storage infrastructure, or to collaborate only with allies that have similar systems and stable relations. This is not idealism but a pragmatic calculation of national security. The lessons from Venezuelan oil serve as a reminder to investors and decision-makers: the most dangerous aspect is not the risk itself, but the illusions surrounding it.