I used to chase megapixels. Now I would rather chase photographs that mean something.
Megapixels once had an extraordinary hold over me. Every time a new high-resolution camera appeared, I convinced myself that its larger files would somehow make me a better photographer. More resolution meant greater detail, greater flexibility and, I assumed, greater opportunities.
It is an easy trap to fall into, particularly when camera manufacturers have spent years presenting megapixel counts as one of the clearest measurements of progress.
A larger number always looks impressive on a specification sheet, especially when modern cameras now comfortably push beyond 50, 60 or even 100 megapixels. Yet somewhere along the way, many of us began paying more attention to our cameras' resolution than to the quality of the photographs we were producing.
My own journey began with film, using simple Kodak point-and-shoot cameras before eventually working with SLRs such as the Nikon F5. When I moved into digital photography, I used everything from the 4MP Nikon D2H to the 36MP Nikon D800.
The D2H might sound almost laughably modest by modern standards, but it was an exceptional professional camera: fast, responsive and perfectly capable of producing photographs that were published internationally.
Nobody looking at those images cared that they had been captured with four megapixels. The photograph either worked or it did not. By the time I owned the Nikon D800, however, I had started wondering what even more resolution might offer.
I looked towards digital medium format cameras such as the Hasselblad H6D-100c and Phase One XF 100MP, believing their enormous files might improve my work or make it more attractive to clients.
Both systems were magnificent, and I particularly enjoyed using the Phase One. I even photographed an entire event across Ireland and the UK with it, to understand how the system performed outside the controlled environment of a studio.
The files were extraordinary, but the photographs were not automatically extraordinary because of them – and that distinction took me longer to understand than it probably should have.
A camera can record more detail, but it cannot decide where you should stand. It cannot recognize a fleeting expression, anticipate a moment or tell you when the light is about to change. It cannot develop your sense of composition or give an image emotional weight.
Those decisions still belong entirely to the photographer, regardless of how advanced the camera might be.
For a while, I waited for Nikon to produce the high-resolution answer I thought I needed. Canon had released the 50MP EOS 5DS and I expected Nikon to respond with something similar. Instead, I gradually realized that the 36MP D800 I already owned was more than capable of producing everything I needed.
The problem was not the camera; it was that I had allowed technical specifications to distract me from photography.
Once I stopped worrying about what other photographers were using, my work began to change. I started looking for different positions rather than standing shoulder to shoulder with ten other photographers producing almost identical frames.
I thought more carefully about timing, perspective and what was happening beyond the obvious subject. I stopped chasing megapixels and started chasing memories, and that change in mindset eventually led me towards older Leica cameras.
I have used the Leica M-E, with its 18MP full-frame CCD sensor, with great success. On paper, 18 megapixels might appear limited in 2026, but the camera has produced images with wonderful character, depth and color.
More importantly, it has produced photographs I care about, which is ultimately worth far more to me than an impressive number on a specification sheet.
I now regularly use a Leica M240, another camera that can hardly be described as new. Its 24MP CMOS sensor looks positively restrained next to today’s high-resolution mirrorless cameras, but its files continue to hold up remarkably well.
For social media, 24 megapixels is more than enough, especially when platforms such as Instagram and Facebook reduce and compress images so heavily that much of the original resolution is discarded before anybody sees it.
Even fairly significant crops from the M240 can comfortably provide enough detail for online use, while the same files can also produce impressive physical prints.
A successful large print is not simply a matter of sending the original file to a printer and hoping for the best. It requires careful preparation, including appropriate resizing, output sharpening, soft proofing, and the correct ICC profile for the chosen printer and paper.
When that process is handled properly, a well-exposed and carefully focused 18 or 24-megapixel image can print beautifully. Viewing distance also matters, because a large print is intended to be appreciated as a complete image rather than examined from a few centimetres away with a magnifying glass.
File preparation, printing technique and the quality of the original photograph often matter far more than the headline resolution.
Of course, high-resolution cameras have genuine advantages. Commercial, architectural, landscape and studio photographers may require enormous files, particularly when clients need extensive cropping or very large reproductions.
There are situations where every additional megapixel is useful, but most photographers are not regularly producing billboard-sized prints or advertising campaigns that demand huge amounts of resolution.
Many of us are sharing our images online, creating books, making moderately sized prints, or simply documenting the people and places around us. For those purposes, an older camera can still be more than capable.
I would rather use a camera that encourages me to go out and photograph than own the latest high-resolution model simply because its specification sheet is more impressive.
The Leica M240 does that for me. It feels direct, uncomplicated and involving, and its 24-megapixel files give me all the resolution I realistically need. A photograph does not become more meaningful because it contains more pixels; it becomes meaningful because of the moment it preserves, the story it tells or the memory it brings back.
That is why I no longer judge a camera primarily by the number printed beside its sensor resolution. I judge it by whether I want to carry it, whether it encourages me to look more carefully and whether it helps me capture the world as I see it.
Megapixels matter, but they are not the photograph. And I would take a memorable image from an old 18-megapixel Leica over a forgettable 100-megapixel file every single time.
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