Long before the internet became a household utility and decades before ‘Google’ became a verb, there was a different kind of window into the world. It didn’t require a Wi-Fi signal, a password, or a battery. It was made of heavy cardboard, fine paper, and the scent of ink. For anyone who grew up in the mid-to-late 20th century, the family encyclopedia set was the ultimate status symbol of curiosity and education.

Having a set of encyclopedias in the living room—whether it was the prestigious Britannica, the accessible World Book, or the classic Collier’s—meant that your home was a place of learning. These weren’t just books; they were a massive investment for a family. Often bought on a payment plan from a door-to-door salesman, these volumes represented a parent’s hope that their children would have the world at their fingertips.

The experience of using an encyclopedia was physical and slow, a stark contrast to the instant gratification of 2026. If you wanted to know about the rings of Saturn, the history of the Roman Empire, or how a steam engine worked, you didn’t just type a word and click. You walked to the shelf, felt the weight of the specific volume (perhaps ‘S’ for Saturn), and flipped through the thin, delicate pages.
There was a unique joy in this process called ‘serendipity.’

You might be looking for information on ‘Space Exploration,’ but on the way to that page, your eyes would catch an illustration of a ‘Sphinx’ or a map of ‘Switzerland.’ You would stop, read a few paragraphs, and suddenly you were learning about something you hadn’t even searched for. This ‘accidental learning’ is something the modern internet, with its laser-focused search algorithms, has largely taken away from us.

The illustrations were a masterpiece in themselves. Before high-definition digital photos, we had detailed hand-drawn diagrams, transparent overlays that showed the anatomy of the human body layer by layer, and rich, colorful maps that felt like an invitation to travel. For a child in the 60s or 70s, these books were the closest thing to a magic portal. You could spend a rainy Saturday afternoon traveling from the deep oceans to the furthest stars, all without leaving your armchair.

The encyclopedia also taught us a very important life lesson: patience. Information wasn’t ‘disposable.’ Because these sets were only updated every few years (unless you bought the ‘Year Book’ supplement), we treated the information with respect. We didn’t have a million opinions clashing on a screen; we had a curated, edited, and fact-checked source of truth. There was a sense of certainty in those pages that feels missing in today’s world of ‘fake news’ and endless digital noise.
Today, most of those beautiful leather-bound sets have disappeared from our living rooms.

They’ve been replaced by tablets and smartphones that hold a billion times more information. But for those of us who remember the weight of the book in our hands and the quiet rustle of the pages, the digital version feels a bit ‘hollow.’ We miss the texture, the smell of the paper, and the pride of owning a library of human knowledge. Looking back at our old encyclopedias reminds us that while technology changes, our human desire to wonder, to search, and to discover remains exactly the same.”