When the Timex/Sinclair 2068 finally reached store shelves in the fall of 1983, it arrived bearing the weight of considerable expectations. After the phenomenal success of the T/S 1000—which had sold 550,000 units in just five months—and the delays and confusion surrounding what had originally been announced as the “T/S 2000,” the computing press and eager users alike were watching to see what Timex would deliver.
Between November 1983 and the end of 1984, at least thirteen substantial reviews would appear in publications ranging from mainstream computer magazines to enthusiast newsletters. The machine that emerged was a study in contradictions: technically ambitious yet commercially uncertain, improved in nearly every specification yet somehow still controversial.
The story of how the TS 2068 was received reveals as much about the rapidly evolving home computer market of the early 1980s as it does about the machine itself.
The First Impressions: Autumn 1983
Fred Blechman, writing in the November 1983 issue of Computers & Electronics, approached the TS 2068 with the careful eye of someone who understood what Timex was trying to accomplish. His “First Look” article methodically documented how the new machine addressed virtually every complaint users had lodged against the T/S 1000. “Those of you having Timex 1000s will find that the things you complained about—membrane keyboard, memory wobble, slow and unreliable cassette loading, limited BASIC language, no color, no sound, limited graphics, etc.—have been corrected in the T/S 2068,” he wrote. It was a remarkable list of improvements, and Blechman’s tone suggested genuine respect for the engineering effort involved.
The physical transformation was immediately apparent. Gone was the tiny membrane keyboard that had made the T/S 1000 a curiosity; in its place stood a full-size keyboard with “hard” typewriter-like keys borrowed from the Brother EP-20 electronic typewriter. The case itself was substantial—nearly 15 inches wide, over 7 inches deep, and almost 2 inches high. At four pounds, it had actual heft. The light gray plastic case with its dull aluminum finish looked professional, and the clear black printing on the keys was easy to read. Timex had even thought to include raised dots on the F and J keys for touch typists—a detail that suggested the company was taking this machine seriously.
Blechman walked his readers through the technical specifications with evident enthusiasm. The Z80A microprocessor, 48K of built-in RAM, 24K of ROM containing an expanded BASIC interpreter, direct video output for a monitor, two Atari-standard joystick ports, and a cartridge slot for instant-loading software—it all added up to what he called “a sophisticated ‘under-$200’ basic computer offering many special features.” The four display modes (compared to the Spectrum’s single mode), the sophisticated graphics capabilities with 256×176 pixel resolution, and the sound system with three voices and a noise channel all pointed to a machine with genuine power.
Michael Wiesenberg’s December 19, 1983 review in InfoWorld struck a similarly enthusiastic note, calling the 2068 “an excellent product, which compares well with computers costing far more.” His assessment was particularly significant because InfoWorld reached a broad audience of computer buyers and enthusiasts. He praised the real keys that “actually click when you press them,” the “respectable 48K of user memory,” and the sophisticated sound capabilities that “make it rival the best synthesizers.” His only complaint about the sound was the quality of the built-in speaker, though he noted “you can, however, easily connect an external speaker.”
What impressed Wiesenberg most was the tape system, which he found “considerably more flexible than on earlier models.” The ability to save programs with automatic execution on loading, the Merge command that preserved existing programs in memory, and the Verify command for confirming successful saves all represented significant improvements. He noted that the 2068 was dramatically faster than its predecessors—a program that took 2.8 seconds on the 2068 required over 11 seconds on the T/S 1500 in Fast mode and an “agonizing 1 minute, 10.5 seconds” in Slow mode.
Both early reviewers understood they were looking at pre-production units. Blechman noted color issues on his sample (“the colors were not as marked on the keyboard”) while still finding the performance impressive. Wiesenberg praised the “excellent users’ manual” as being “aimed at beginners, taking them from no knowledge of computers to being able to write extensive programs.” For users coming from the T/S 1000, these reviews suggested a machine that had matured significantly while remaining affordable.
The Winter Wave: Competing Voices
As the TS 2068 reached broader distribution in early 1984, a wave of reviews appeared in both mainstream publications and specialty magazines. The assessments ranged from genuinely impressed to cautiously optimistic, but a consistent pattern emerged: reviewers acknowledged the machine’s technical sophistication while expressing concerns about its market positioning and quirky design choices.
Henry Kisor, writing for the Chicago Sun-Times on January 15, 1984, captured this ambivalence perfectly. As a newspaper technology columnist rather than a computer magazine specialist, he brought a mainstream perspective that was valuable precisely because it wasn’t steeped in technical minutiae. He found the machine “remarkably easy to set up, thanks in part to an exceptionally lucid instruction manual,” and noted that he “had it hooked to our color TV and running in less than 10 minutes.”
But Kisor also understood the pitfalls of buying new technology. “One of the pitfalls of buying computers new on the market is having to take some things on faith,” he warned. “Manufacturers are notorious for announcing forthcoming software and features for new machines, but often failing to follow up.” His review became a litany of “promises, promises”—a word processor was promised “soon,” a Centronics interface for standard printers was promised “soon,” a modem and terminal software were promised. He concluded with measured optimism: “Those and $169 will get you a first-class computer for kids right now. But whether the 2068 will be a good general computer for Mom and Dad as well depends on the word processor and printer interface and we’ll just have to wait and see.”
Jules Gilder, reviewing the machine for Electronic Fun with Computers & Games in January 1984, highlighted an issue that would prove central to many assessments: the keyboard. While acknowledging that “the 42 full-travel push-button keys” provided “a satisfactory alternative” to typewriter-style keyboards, he was blunt about the learning curve: “The newcomer to computing, however, should take a closer look. Timex hits the nail right on the head on page 12 of the 2068 User Manual when they say, ‘At first glance, the keyboard looks impossibly complicated—each key has five or six labels…’ It not only looks complicated, it is complicated.”
Gilder’s point was crucial. The single-keyword entry system that Sinclair enthusiasts found elegant struck newcomers as bewildering. “The idea of assigning a key to each BASIC keyword is a good one and could be enormously helpful, if its use was optional and not mandatory,” he wrote. “But forcing the user to press from one to four keys, either simultaneously or in sequence, to enter the desired BASIC keyword, is not a particularly friendly way of doing things.”
He also identified what would become the machine’s most notorious weakness: the tape system. “The computer uses an ordinary audio cassette tape recorder to store programs on and the system is extremely finicky,” Gilder reported. Of six sample programs provided with the review unit, only two would load properly, and even those were “apparently made by hand and not mass-produced. None of the four mass-produced tapes provided would load properly.” This wasn’t just inconvenient—it was potentially fatal for a consumer product. Gilder’s conclusion reflected this concern: if this was your first computer, “you might become exasperated with it, which would be a pity.”
Sharon Zardetto Aker, who reviewed the machine for both Microcomputing and Family Computing in February 1984, provided perhaps the most technically sophisticated early assessments. She understood the implications of bank switching (“unprecedented in a $200 computer”), praised the “surprisingly comfortable” keyboard despite its non-standard design, and appreciated the elegance of Sinclair BASIC. “Sinclair Basic is a joy to work with and easy to learn,” she wrote in Microcomputing. “It is exceptionally well-suited for beginners and sophisticated enough for a more experienced programmer.”
But Aker also didn’t shy away from criticisms. Line editing was “still awkward,” particularly because “the delete function is a shifted key.” More significantly, she noted that achieving 64-column mode required machine code, that mixing it with the two display files for animation demanded sophisticated programming, and that the enhanced color mode’s per-pixel attribute control made practical use challenging. These weren’t failures of the hardware—they were indications that the machine’s most powerful features required expertise that many users wouldn’t have.
Her Family Computing review emphasized the machine’s accessibility for children and programming novices. “Children seem much less intimidated by the Timex keyboard, however, which makes it a good family computer,” she noted. But she was also clear-eyed about the competition: “The choice between the Timex 2068 and other computers in its general price range—Atari 600XL and Commodore 64—comes down to personal preference and intended application.”
The Technical Deep Dives
Two March 1984 reviews in major computer magazines—Creative Computing and Compute!—provided the kind of detailed technical analysis that serious computer buyers craved. Both reviewers were impressed by what they found, but their enthusiasm was tempered by practical concerns.
Owen Linzmayer’s Creative Computing review was notable for its comprehensiveness and generally positive tone. He appreciated the “sleek 14.75″ x 1.75″ silver and grey body,” the sophisticated ROM cartridge design that used watchmaking technology to create incredibly thin cartridges, and the high-resolution graphics capability. “When it comes to graphics, the TS2068 outperforms almost every other computer in its price range,” he concluded.
Linzmayer’s review also revealed telling details about the machine’s design compromises. He noted the absence of a power indicator LED—”I can’t figure out why computer manufacturers refuse to spend the extra $.25 to install a small LED power indicator”—and acknowledged that the cassette interface, while functional, ran at only 1200 baud, the same speed as the TRS-80 Color Computer. More significantly, he noted that “in terms of the computer’s ‘open architecture,’ the TS2068 is somewhat limited,” with the expansion port able to accept only two peripherals at a time.
But his conclusion was unambiguous: “For $199.95 retail, the Timex Sinclair 2068 personal color computer represents one of the best buys on the computer market today. Aimed at the home user, the TS2068 is certainly capable of living up to almost any entertainment, educational, or computer tutorial expectations the prospective purchaser may have.”
John Krause’s Compute! review echoed many of these sentiments while adding his own observations. He appreciated the keyboard’s audio feedback (“Each time a key is pressed, a faint sound can be heard from the internal speaker”), the elegant user-defined graphics system (“It’s that easy. Moreover, you don’t have to sacrifice any of the normal characters”), and the sophisticated but complex sound capabilities. However, he lamented that “it’s a shame that these sounds must be heard through the small internal speaker. It would have been better to have an audio output to give you the option of using your monitor’s speaker or an audio system.”
Both reviewers highlighted the included software—particularly the Keyboard Tutorial and Turtle Graphics programs—as evidence of Timex’s commitment to making the machine accessible to beginners. Krause found the tutorial particularly well-designed, with “a picture of the keyboard…drawn, using high-resolution graphics accompanied by sound effects. The appropriate key flashes, allowing the user to find its exact location on the keyboard.”
Neil Shapiro’s February 1984 Popular Mechanics review brought yet another perspective, though unfortunately only the introductory portion survived in the historical record. What’s telling is that Popular Mechanics—a magazine for practical-minded do-it-yourselfers—chose to review the machine at all, suggesting Timex’s hope that the 2068 would appeal beyond the traditional computer enthusiast market.
The Community’s Voice
While mainstream computer magazines were assessing the TS 2068 against its commercial competitors, the user community publications offered a different perspective—one rooted in genuine enthusiasm for the Sinclair/Timex ecosystem and optimism about the machine’s potential.
Joseph Williamson’s review in SUM (Sinclair User’s Magazine) exemplified this insider perspective. Rather than comparing the 2068 to Commodores and Ataris, he focused on the improvements from the T/S 1000 and the practical capabilities the new machine offered. His assessment of the colors was notably positive: “Even though they advertise eight colors, the BRIGHT command gives you two brightnesses for each color for a total of 16 distinguishable colors. The colors are strong and vibrant with less interference than I had expected.”
Williamson appreciated details that mainstream reviewers might overlook—the auto-repeat function’s protection against accidentally deleting line numbers, the LIST command’s pagination feature that prompted “SCROLL?” after 22 lines, the addition of DATA, READ, and RESTORE commands that made data manipulation easier. His review read as a checklist of improvements and features that mattered to actual programmers, not just specs to be compared on a chart.
Richard Cravy’s SUM article, “TS-2068 GETS RAVE REVIEWS,” served as a kind of meta-review, compiling enthusiastic quotes from the mainstream computer press. His collection of praise included Computer Shopper, Computers & Electronics, InfoWorld, Microcomputing, Creative Computing, and Compute!. The quotes he highlighted emphasized the machine’s value proposition: “In terms of memory, graphics, and sound, the Timex Sinclair 2068 is an impressive entry into the under $200 market,” from Compute!. And from Creative Computing: “For $199.95 retail, the Timex Sinclair 2068 personal color computer represents one of the best buys on the computer market today.”
But Cravy also acknowledged the elephant in the room: third-party support. “As for third-party support, there isn’t much (if any) right now, and whether there will be in the future remains to be seen,” he quoted from Microcomputing. The parallel to the Commodore 64’s trajectory was implicit—that machine had also struggled initially before becoming a powerhouse. “It was the same story with the Commodore 64; I hope the Timex story will have as happy an ending,” Cravy wrote, though the hopefulness in that statement belied an underlying uncertainty.
The user community’s optimism wasn’t blind boosterism—it was rooted in genuine appreciation for what the machine could do. These were people who had lived with the T/S 1000’s limitations and genuinely marveled at the 2068’s capabilities. The fact that the keyboard required learning, that the tape system was finicky, that peripherals were limited—these were issues, certainly, but they were issues the community was willing to work around for a machine that offered so much at such a low price.
The Dissenting Voice
Then came Mark Brownstein’s May 1984 review in Video Games magazine, titled “Hard Sell: The Timex Sinclair 2068: Was it too little, too late?” It was unlike any review the 2068 had received to that point—not just critical, but dismissive in a way that suggested fundamental contempt for the machine’s design philosophy.
“What can you say about a new computer that’s about a year and a half behind the times?” Brownstein opened. “I grew up in the old ‘if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all’ school of thought—I didn’t always believe it then, and I don’t now—not when it’s your money that’s at stake.”
Where other reviewers had described the keyboard’s multi-function key system as initially challenging but ultimately manageable, Brownstein called it “an ingeniously devised torture device.” He fixated on the complexity: “In their attempt to use as few keys as possible, the designers have assigned five functions to most of the keys.” The relocation of punctuation marks from their standard positions particularly irked him: “colon is on the ‘z’ key, quotation marks are on the P key, etc.”
His critique went beyond mere technical assessment into broader condemnation of Timex’s design philosophy. “With the trend towards ‘plug it in and use it’ gaining momentum in computer design, the 2068 seems to be a giant fall backward,” he wrote. The single-keyword entry system, which Sinclair enthusiasts praised as a time-saver, became in Brownstein’s telling a “misguided good intention” that “doesn’t work at all well.”
Perhaps most damagingly, Brownstein positioned the machine as obsolete before it even launched. “It’s obvious that this machine was developed for a market that no longer exists—the market of at least a year ago (a market that was paying $300 for a membrane-keyboard Atari 400, with only 16K of memory, and lacking a built-in BASIC).” By May 1984, with the Commodore 64 well-established and the Atari line maturing, this wasn’t an unreasonable observation.
His final assessment pulled no punches: “Ads for the 2068 identify it as being a 72K machine. This figure probably includes about 16K for the video processor, possibly an equal number for the keyboard control and basic, and around 4K of ROM (although these figures aren’t available). The 72K 2068 is probably more like a 48K machine.” The implication—that Timex was inflating the specs—was harsh. His conclusion was even harsher: “If you’re going to spend the $200 or so that they want for this computer, you should know about its potential, in terms of support, expansion and other important matters…If you are seriously thinking about buying a Timex 2068—think again. If you want your kids to stop wanting a computer, get them this one.”
The Anatomy of Disagreement
The contrast between Brownstein’s scathing review and the generally positive assessments from other publications reveals something important about how computers were evaluated in the mid-1980s. It wasn’t that one side was right and the other wrong—it was that they were evaluating different things based on different assumptions.
For reviewers like Blechman, Weisenberg, Linzmayer, and Krause, the TS 2068 represented genuine innovation at an accessible price point. They evaluated it against what $200 could buy elsewhere and found it compared favorably. They understood the keyboard’s learning curve as a trade-off for the efficiency of single-keyword entry. They saw the sophisticated BASIC, the bank-switching architecture, the high-resolution graphics modes, and the three-channel sound synthesis as evidence of ambition and capability.
For Brownstein, these same features were evidence of a machine out of step with market trends. By May 1984, the home computer market was consolidating around standards: typewriter-style keyboards, straightforward BASIC implementations, disk drives rather than tape, established software libraries. The TS 2068’s quirks—however justified from an engineering standpoint—made it alien to users who had been trained by Commodore, Atari, and Apple to expect certain conventions.
The keyboard controversy exemplifies this divide. Sharon Zardetto Aker, who clearly understood both sides, noted in her Family Computing review that “the keyboard is not ideal for word processing…It is superbly designed for typing in programs.” This was accurate—the single-keyword system was indeed faster for programming once mastered. But Brownstein was also right that “you are almost required to take your eyes off what you’re doing to make sure you find the right key.” Both observations could be true simultaneously.
Similarly, the tape loading issues that Jules Gilder experienced weren’t necessarily universal—Joseph Williamson praised the “tone header [that] allows the computer to sense and adjust to differences in tape recorder motor speed which helps assure good loading every time.” But the existence of any loading problems in a consumer product was potentially fatal. One user who successfully loads ninety-nine tapes but fails on the hundredth will remember the failure; a reviewer who cannot load four out of six sample tapes cannot recommend the product.
The Question of Support
Running through nearly every review was a common thread of concern: the question of third-party support and software availability. This wasn’t abstract speculation—it was recognition of a fundamental market reality. A computer’s value wasn’t just in its specifications but in the ecosystem surrounding it.
Owen Linzmayer noted that “Timex has over 40 different titles available, ranging in price from $9.95 to $22.95 each,” and suggested “hundreds of packages are available from outside vendors.” But there was something tentative in that “available”—where were they available, and how did they compare to the thousands of titles for the Commodore 64?
Henry Kisor’s concerns about Timex’s promises echoed throughout the review corpus. Word processors were “promised,” modems were “in development,” disk drives were “planned.” Michael Weisenberg noted that the BASIC included “commands for Future Peripherals” like Format, Open #, Close #, Move, Cat, Erase and Reset. These weren’t features—they were aspirations encoded in ROM.
Sharon Zardetto Aker in Microcomputing captured the paradox perfectly: “As for third-party support, there isn’t much (if any) right now, and whether there will be in the future remains to be seen…Publishers are more cautious than optimistic, so it will probably be at least a year (if at all) before third-party programs proliferate. It was the same story with the Commodore 64; I hope the Timex story will have as happy an ending.”
But the Commodore 64 had Commodore behind it—a company with deep roots in the computer industry, established dealer networks, and serious marketing muscle. Timex, for all its resources as a watchmaker, was still feeling its way in the computer business. The success of the T/S 1000 had been as much about the $99 price point as about the computer itself. At $200, the TS 2068 was in a different market segment entirely.
Jules Gilder made an important observation about software availability: “One reason for this is wide availability of programs for the ZX Spectrum, which are directly compatible and will undoubtedly be imported into this country.” This was true—the Spectrum had a thriving software scene in the UK. But importing software required distribution networks and licensing arrangements. How many American computer stores would stock imported British software for an American computer that most people didn’t own?
Richard Cravy’s optimistic hope—”I certainly hope our machines will do as well” as the Commodore 64—reflected the community’s desire more than any market analysis. By the time his review appeared in 1984, the pattern was already clear. Third-party developers waited to see if a platform would succeed before investing in it. But platforms couldn’t succeed without third-party software. It was a chicken-and-egg problem, and the TS 2068 was caught in the middle.
The December Epilogue
Tony Cekolin’s December 1984 comparison in the Sincus News newsletter came after Timex had already announced their exit from the computer market. Yet his assessment remained fundamentally practical rather than elegiac. When someone asked him which computer was “best,” his response was immediate: “for what application?”
His comparison of the TS 2068 with the TI 99/4A and TRS-80 Color Computer II evaluated the machines across three basic functions: text handling, graphics, and number crunching. For text handling, Cekolin praised the 2068’s true upper and lower case letters and highlighted Tasword II: “I’ve used word processors up to the mainframe level and I am constantly impressed with Tasword in comparison.”
In graphics, he readily conceded the TRS-80’s superiority but noted a crucial advantage of the 2068: “The TRS-80 has one drawback that the TIMEX doesn’t have a problem with however, and that is mixing text and graphics. On the TRS-80 you must draw any text you want on a graphics screen. That can be a serious liability to the business programmer or any one who wants to label their graphics.”
His conclusion was telling: “All in all I think that the TIMEX is the best computer for the home user who doesn’t want to spend an arm and a leg for their system.” This wasn’t a claim that the 2068 was technically superior to its competitors—it was an argument about value and utility for a specific audience. Coming nine months after Timex’s announcement, from someone who owned and used all three machines being compared, it represented something important: validation from actual use rather than speculation about market positioning.
The Verdict of Time
Looking across the spectrum of reviews, several patterns emerge. First, nearly every reviewer acknowledged the TS 2068’s technical sophistication. Even Mark Brownstein, in his otherwise scathing assessment, conceded that the machine had “some fairly sophisticated graphics and sound commands.” The disagreement wasn’t about whether the machine was capable—it was about whether that capability mattered in the context of the 1984 home computer market.
Second, the keyboard remained the most divisive feature. Reviewers who came from the Sinclair ecosystem or who spent significant time with the machine generally came to appreciate the single-keyword entry system. Reviewers encountering it fresh from Commodores and Ataris found it bewildering and non-standard. Both perspectives were valid—the keyboard was efficient for what it was designed to do, but what it was designed to do wasn’t what most American computer users in 1984 expected.
Third, the tape loading issues that Jules Gilder experienced represented a serious issue. Even if not universal, the existence of unreliable tape loading in a consumer product was potentially fatal. Joseph Williamson’s positive experience with the tape system couldn’t undo the damage done by a reviewer unable to load the sample software. In consumer electronics, the first impression is often the only impression that matters.
Fourth, the question of third-party support and software availability hung over the machine like a cloud. Every positive review included some variant of “if Timex supports it” or “assuming software becomes available.” These weren’t quibbles—they were recognition that a computer without software was an expensive doorstop. The fact that Spectrum software existed in Britain was cold comfort to American buyers looking at empty software racks in their local stores.
Finally, the timing was simply wrong. Had the 2068 appeared in 1982 alongside the Commodore 64’s launch, it might have established itself before market consolidation began. Had it arrived in 1986 at an even lower price as computing became more mainstream, it might have found a niche. But in late 1983 and early 1984, it entered a market that was simultaneously too crowded and too immature—crowded with established competitors but immature enough that software ecosystems hadn’t fully developed for any but the market leaders.
The Disconnect Between Capability and Reception
The divergent reviews of the TS 2068 reveal a fundamental disconnect that haunted Timex’s entire computer venture: the gap between what a machine could do and how it was perceived in the marketplace. Fred Blechman’s technical preview in November 1983 demonstrated that the 2068 was a capable computer with sophisticated features. Tony Cekolin’s user-focused comparison in December 1984 showed that it could compete effectively with more expensive machines for common tasks. Michael Weisenberg’s InfoWorld review praised it as “an excellent product, which compares well with computers costing far more.”
Yet Mark Brownstein’s Video Games review—published in a magazine read by computer enthusiasts and potential buyers—dismissed the machine as essentially obsolete on arrival. Henry Kisor’s cautiously optimistic newspaper review highlighted the gap between Timex’s promises and delivered reality. Jules Gilder’s experience with unreliable tape loading suggested quality control issues that could sink a consumer product.
The professional reviewers captured one kind of truth: the technical specifications, the BASIC capabilities, the graphics and sound features, the clever bank-switching architecture. The user community representatives captured another: the practical utility for people who actually used these machines for word processing, programming, and graphics work. And the skeptical voices captured a third truth: that none of it mattered if consumers didn’t trust the platform’s future.
Looking back at these reviews, what becomes clear is that they were reviewing different things. Some reviewed the machine that existed; others reviewed the machine in the context of market dynamics; still others reviewed the machine that might exist if promised peripherals materialized and third-party support developed. All these perspectives were valid, but they led to irreconcilable conclusions.
Owen Linzmayer concluded that the machine “represents one of the best buys on the computer market today.” Mark Brownstein concluded that potential buyers should “think again” before purchasing it. Both men had access to the same hardware, the same specifications, the same BASIC. But they were evaluating against different standards, different expectations, and ultimately different visions of what home computing should be.
The Manual as Universal Praise
Curiously, the one element of the TS 2068 package that received nearly universal praise across all reviews was also the most traditional: the manual. Michael Weisenberg called it “excellent,” noting it was “aimed at beginners, taking them from no knowledge of computers to being able to write extensive programs.” Fred Blechman described the “very detailed over-300 page User Manual—in color, with many, many screen displays” that “really holds your hand through the early stages.”
Sharon Zardetto Aker praised how it “guides you through increasingly difficult material as you learn basic programming.” Henry Kisor highlighted “an exceptionally lucid instruction manual” that let him get the machine running in less than ten minutes. Owen Linzmayer noted the manual was “spiral bound, which allows it to remain open while lying flat and leaves the reader use of both hands for typing.” Even Mark Brownstein, in his otherwise devastating critique, conceded “the manual is well-written, guiding you through increasingly difficult material as you learn basic programming (or fine tune yourself on this machine)” before adding his characteristic sting: “The manual is probably the best thing about the 2068.”
This praise for the documentation reveals what Timex actually understood about their market. The company knew that many TS 2068 buyers would be first-time computer users or people stepping up from the simpler T/S 1000. The manual was designed to teach, not just reference. It walked users through concepts progressively, building confidence as it built competence. John Krause noted that the Keyboard Tutorial cassette program demonstrated “the use of every key, all the modes and how to produce each of the five or more possibilities on each key” with hints if users responded incorrectly.
That such care had gone into the documentation while quality control issues plagued some tape loading and keyboard manufacturing tells its own story about Timex’s priorities and perhaps their understanding of what would make or break their computer in the marketplace. They prepared users to succeed with the software but couldn’t quite nail the hardware experience that would make good first impressions on retail shoppers and magazine reviewers.
A Computer Out of Time
Looking back at the reviews of the TS 2068, what becomes clear is that the machine arrived at precisely the wrong moment in computing history. Had it appeared a year earlier, it might have established itself before the market consolidated around the Commodore 64, Atari 800XL, and Apple II platforms. Had it appeared two years later at an even lower price point, it might have carved out a niche as a truly budget option for the masses.
But arriving in late 1983 and early 1984, it found itself competing against established platforms with extensive software libraries and strong retail presence, while being dismissed by reviewers who saw it as neither fish nor fowl—not quite a professional machine, but too expensive and unusual to be an obvious choice for beginners. The professional reviews captured this awkward positioning. Blechman’s preview in November 1983, appearing as the machine launched, treated it as a legitimate contender worthy of detailed technical analysis. Brownstein’s review in May 1984, after several months in the market had passed, read more like an autopsy than an assessment.
Jules Gilder concluded his January 1984 review with pragmatic advice that captured the machine’s challenge: “If you already own a TS 1000, you’ve encountered these problems before and will be able to handle them, in which case this is an excellent machine for you to step up to. If this is going to be your first computer, you might become exasperated with it, which would be a pity. The machine is quite capable once these obstacles are overcome.”
This was the TS 2068’s tragedy in microcosm: it was genuinely capable, legitimately impressive in many ways, but it demanded patience and learning from users at precisely the historical moment when the market was moving toward “plug and play” convenience. The Commodore 64’s keyboard was familiar to anyone who had used a typewriter. The Apple II’s BASIC worked like BASIC on every other computer.
The TS 2068, by contrast, did things its own way—the Sinclair way—and expected users to adapt. For the dedicated enthusiast willing to invest the time, this wasn’t a problem. Joseph Williamson’s SUM review and Tony Cekolin’s comparison demonstrated that users who made that investment found a capable and satisfying machine. But the mainstream market of 1984 wasn’t looking for computers that required investment—it was looking for computers that worked out of the box.
The Reviews That Mattered Most
In the end, the most important review of the TS 2068 wasn’t written by any journalist—it was written collectively by the market itself. And that review was unambiguous: the machine didn’t sell in sufficient quantities to sustain itself. Timex’s announcement that they were exiting the computer business came in early 1984, less than a year after the 2068’s launch. David Higgenbottom’s subsequent attempt to revive the platform demonstrated that enthusiasm existed, but enthusiasm without capital and market presence couldn’t reverse a verdict already rendered.
Yet the story of the 2068’s reception also reveals something important about how we evaluate technology. The professional reviews, with their focus on specifications and market positioning, captured one kind of truth. The user community’s assessments, with their focus on practical utility and actual experience, captured another. Both were valid, but they were measuring different things.
Mark Brownstein was probably right that the 2068 would struggle against the Commodore 64 and would fail to attract sufficient third-party development. But Tony Cekolin was also right that it was “the best computer for the home user who doesn’t want to spend an arm and a leg for their system” and that Tasword II was genuinely impressive compared to word processors on other platforms. Michael Weisenberg was right that the machine offered features “usually found on more expensive machines.” And Jules Gilder was right that “the tape bugs” could represent “a serious problem.”
These truths could coexist because they addressed different questions. The professional reviewers were asking whether the 2068 would succeed in the marketplace. The user community was asking whether it was useful for its intended purpose. The skeptical voices were asking whether consumers should risk their money on an uncertain platform. All three questions were legitimate, and they had different answers.
The tragedy of the TS 2068 wasn’t that it was a bad computer—by most objective measures, it was a capable and well-designed machine with genuinely innovative features. The tragedy was that being capable and well-designed wasn’t enough. In the home computer market of 1983-84, success required not just technical merit but also market timing, retail presence, software library, brand perception, quality control, and often pure luck. The TS 2068 had some of these factors but not enough of them, and in a market rapidly sorting winners from losers, “not enough” meant the same thing as “not at all.”
When computer historians recount the story of the early 1980s home computer boom, the TS 2068 appears, if at all, as a footnote—a British-American hybrid that briefly existed before disappearing. The contemporary reviews, read in sequence across different publications and perspectives, tell a more nuanced story: of a machine that inspired genuine admiration for its technical accomplishments, harsh criticism for its market positioning and quirks, and loyal defense from the community that used it. All three perspectives were true. All three mattered. And all three would shape how the TS 2068 was remembered—or forgotten—in the decades to come.
The users who would keep the platform alive for years after Timex’s departure weren’t reading every review or planning their purchases around market share projections. They were people like Tony Cekolin and Joseph Williamson, who understood that a computer’s value couldn’t be reduced to a single score or recommendation. They saw what the machine could do, not just what the market said it was worth. In the end, that community would prove to be the most important reviewers of all—not because their verdict determined the 2068’s commercial fate, but because their continued support ensured it would have an afterlife far beyond what any contemporary review predicted. The amateur astronomers, having discovered their comet, would continue tracking it long after the mainstream press had moved on to other stories.