A factor of a thousand, and a date three decades wrong
Unix time is counted in seconds. JavaScript counts in milliseconds. Java counts in milliseconds. Postgres gives you seconds, most log formats give you milliseconds, and half the APIs in the world pick one without documenting which. Feed a millisecond value to something expecting seconds and your event lands tens of thousands of years in the future; feed seconds to something expecting milliseconds and it lands in January 1970.
Both failures are visually obvious once rendered as a date, which is exactly why converting is the fastest way to diagnose them. A ten-digit number is seconds and lands in the present; a thirteen-digit number is milliseconds. Reading the length is the whole diagnosis, and seeing the resulting date makes it unmistakable.
A timestamp has no timezone, but everyone reading it does
An epoch value is an absolute count from a fixed instant. It is not in UTC, or in your timezone, or in anyone else - it is a number, and a timezone only enters when it is rendered for a human. This is the point where two people comparing notes on the same incident start disagreeing about when it happened.
Showing UTC and local side by side makes the offset visible rather than assumed. It is the difference between reading a log line as half past two and knowing whether that was half past two where the server is, where you are, or where the customer was when they complained.
The 2038 problem is closer than it sounds
A signed 32-bit integer counting seconds runs out in January 2038, at which point it wraps to 1901. That sounds comfortably distant until you remember that any system reasoning about a date more than a decade ahead - a mortgage term, a certificate lifetime, a pension projection, an expiry field - is already computing values past the boundary today.
Anything still storing time in a 32-bit signed field needs to move to 64 bits. Most modern platforms have, but embedded systems, old database columns and file formats defined decades ago have not, and the failure is silent until the arithmetic crosses the line.