Imagine being handed the keys to a 9,000-pound behemoth of a car—a vehicle so massive it makes your first apartment look like a closet. That’s exactly what happened to me when GM let me test-drive the 2026 electric Escalade IQL for a week. Before you dive in, let me clarify: I’m no professional car reviewer. TechCrunch has experts for that. But I do drive an electric car, and when this opportunity came up, I was all in. Little did I know, this car would challenge everything I thought I knew about luxury, practicality, and even my own preferences.
But here’s where it gets controversial: Is this car a masterpiece of modern engineering or a symbol of unnecessary excess? Let’s dive in.
I first laid eyes on the Escalade IQL at a car show last summer. My initial reaction? “Wow, that’s enormous.” But despite its size, there’s an odd elegance to its design. It’s what I’d call ‘strapping’—bold yet somehow restrained. The proportions just work. But when it arrived at my house, reality hit hard. At 228.5 inches long and 94.1 inches wide, it dwarfed everything around it. Driving it up my driveway felt like piloting a ship through a narrow canal. The hood is so high that ascending a slope blocks your view of what’s directly in front of you. I seriously considered leaving it in the driveway for the entire trip.
And this is the part most people miss: It’s not just the size that’s intimidating—it’s the presence. This car screams, “I’m the boss.” From its comically imposing grille to its light show that greets you like a loyal butler, it’s designed to command attention. But is that a good thing? I wasn’t so sure.
My first few days with the Escalade were a mix of awe and frustration. The interior is a tech lover’s dream: a 55-inch curved LED screen dominates the dashboard, and every passenger gets their own screen, wireless chargers, and even massage seats. The cabin is cavernous, with legroom that rivals a first-class airline seat. But then there’s the frunk—the front trunk—which operates like it’s possessed. Open it too quickly, and it freezes mid-ascent. Close it without holding the button, and it refuses to budge. It’s a small detail, but it’s emblematic of the car’s quirks.
Here’s the controversial part: GM’s Super Cruise hands-free driving system feels like a work in progress. While some reviewers rave about it, I found it unsettling. The car drifted between lanes, triggering a cascade of warnings—a flashing icon, haptic seat vibrations, and a chime that felt more like a scolding than a reminder. Is this the future of driving, or just a fancy gimmick?
But then came the snowstorm. Tahoe was hit with eight feet of snow, turning our trip into a winter wonderland—and a driving nightmare. Except, with the Escalade, it wasn’t. Its sheer weight made it feel like a tank plowing through the snow. What should have been terrifying became serene. The car was quiet, strong, and in control. It was in this moment that I realized: I had fallen for this monstrous machine.
By the end of the week, I’d stopped apologizing for its size and started embracing it. Parking? Still a challenge. Charging? A nightmare in winter (thanks to limited infrastructure and a battery that guzzles energy like there’s no tomorrow). But the highs—the sound system, the screen, the sheer presence—outweighed the lows. I even caught my husband eyeing it fondly.
Here’s the question I’m left with: Is the Escalade IQL a practical choice? Absolutely not. Is it a symbol of excess? Undeniably. But is it an experience unlike any other? Without a doubt. And that’s why, when GM came to take it back, I considered hiding it under a tarp and pretending it was never there.
So, what do you think? Is the Escalade IQL a marvel of engineering or a monument to overconsumption? Let me know in the comments—I’m genuinely curious to hear your take.
