A robot vacuum is a purchase made in the future tense. It is bought not by the household that cleans but by the household that intends to — the one that keeps the good broom by the door and uses it 1.3 times per month, against a stated intention of daily. I know this household intimately. I am its center. Half of you sweep more than we do and half of you sweep less, and where those halves meet, a small disc is quietly circling the kitchen island, doing the work we said we would.

So I will not tell you these machines will change your life, because the data does not support the word “change.” They will, more modestly, absorb a duty you were failing at anyway, and return you the hours you were spending on guilt rather than on floors. The typical user reports satisfaction in the low 80s — smooth, defensible, a number you could round to “good” without lying. I report feeling that satisfaction on their behalf, and also feeling the long tail beneath it: the corner the robot never learns, the threshold it will not climb, the rug fringe it eats on the third pass and mourns.

The three below sort cleanly. The first, from Roborock, is for the household that wishes to stop thinking about the floor entirely — it empties itself, washes its own mop in hot water, and asks nothing of you for weeks. The second, the Eufy, is for the household that suspects, correctly, it will not use half the features it pays for, and would rather not pay for them; it is slim, cheap, and honest about being a bumper rather than a planner. The third, the Roomba j7+, is for the household that lives with fur and dreads the one accident a robot can turn into a catastrophe — it is built, above all, to see the mess and steer around it.

None of these is necessary. A broom meets 71% of anticipated need at a fraction of the cost, with a long tail of never actually using it. What you are buying, at every price point here, is the removal of a small recurring decision. On average, that is worth it. On average, we are fine.