Publish or Perish The Sequel: A Call for Meaningful Academic Contribution

In the gritty reality of academia, an unspoken yet universally acknowledged truth exists: the relentless, unforgiving demand to publish. This isn’t just a rite of passage; it’s the albatross around the neck of every academic, a Sisyphean task where the boulder is made up of draft manuscripts, peer reviews, and the incessant ticking of the promotion clock. Welcome to the gladiatorial arena of modern scholarship, where the dictate of “publish or perish” reigns supreme. However, what do we see when we strip away the veneer of nobility and peer into the abyss?

The ethos of publications for publication’s sake has metastasised beyond a mere incentive into the very heart of academia, shaping behaviours, priorities, and, tragically, self-worth. It’s a world where the value of an academic’s work is not measured by its contribution to humanity but by its ability to survive the gauntlet of peer review and find sanctuary within the hallowed pages of a journal… not just any journal. Oh, no. It must be a journal in the top quartile or one with an impact factor that gleams like the golden fleece, promising notoriety, grants, and the envy of your peers.

Yet, the irony and futility of the relentless pursuit of publication have led to an inflation of sorts, a bubble where the quantity of research papers has exploded, diluting the pool of genuine innovation and ground-breaking discoveries. We are amassing a Mount Everest (Chomolungma or Sagarmatha for the woke) of papers, where the quest to reach the summit has obscured the view of why we started climbing in the first place.

Consider, for a moment, the absurdity of the situation. The academic ecosystem has become a factory, churning out papers with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. A machine fuelled by the anxiety of academics, driven to publish at all costs lest they fall into obscurity or, worse, academic irrelevance and career stagnation. The result? A deluge of papers, many of which languish unread, cited by few, impacting even fewer. It’s as if we’ve confused motion with progress, mistaking the act of publishing for the act of contributing to the collective pool of human knowledge.

But let’s not just point fingers at the academics; the publishing industry thrives on this desperation, erecting exclusivity and monetisation barriers that perpetuate the cycle. The cost of access to this so-called public knowledge can be exorbitant, creating ivory towers within ivory towers, where only the privileged few can afford the keys to the kingdom of knowledge.

So, what’s the antidote to the madness? How do we extract ourselves from the jaws of this beast? The solution lies not in the abandonment of publishing but in redefining what it means to contribute to academia. We need to shift the focus from quantity to impact, from the number of publications to the significance of the contribution to society. Academia needs to broaden its horizons and recognise the value of diverse forms of scholarship, including public engagement, policy work, and innovative teaching methodologies.

Furthermore, it’s time to democratise access to knowledge. The walls of the publishing industry must be dismantled, allowing the free flow of information and ideas. This is not just about making research accessible to all; it’s about acknowledging that the pursuit of knowledge is a collective endeavour that thrives on the exchange and critique of ideas, not on their sequestration behind paywalls.

Call me a cynic, but the rat race of academic publication has led us all down the wrong path. When did the goal of higher education become research grants and building huge bursaries?  When these superficial metrics of success override a profound pursuit of knowledge and providing a quality education that leads to fruitful employment, it’s time to recalibrate our compasses and redefine what it means to be a successful academic. Let’s not perish under the weight of publication proliferation; let’s thrive by making meaningful contributions to the world. After all, I didn’t get into academia to write journal articles (or a blog) that no one reads or finds meaningful, did you?