Learning to speak in an alien language

One of my primary research areas is in science communication as a means of bridging the academic-practitioner gap. Why do I believe this to be such an important area, both in terms of a research agenda and my sense of purpose as a faculty member? In today’s blog post, I’d like to share some of my thoughts (opinions, which can change!) on this. Much of this content is adapted from a commentary I wrote about science communication published in 2022.

Academia trains us in a language few people speak.

We’re fluent in jargon, hedging, and dense technical writing. We cite obscure papers. We write 10,000-word articles that take two years to publish. And then we’re surprised when no one outside our field seems to care.

But stepping into science communication is like waking up on an alien planet. The grammar is different. The values are different. The incentives are different. You think you’re speaking clearly, but no one understands you — and worse, they misquote you on Twitter.

Still, if we believe our science matters, then we need to learn how to translate.

I’m going to do something weird here and, in trying to persuade you of the importance of science communication, I’ll instead start by telling you about all the perils — the reasons why you shouldn’t engage in science communication.

Peril #1: The writing style is different

Academic writing is built to impress a few select experts and persuade them of the accuracy of your findings. Public writing is built to reach large audiences and persuade them to keep reading.

The difference is massive. Public writing rewards short sentences, analogies, and emotional resonance. Academic writing often does the opposite. We’re trained to hedge. To caveat. To qualify. But that doesn’t work to engage people in a short, punchy article. The first time I submitted to a national outlet, I was warned that many editors hesitate to accept academic submissions because they’re often poorly written for general audiences.

Peril #2: The audience is different

Even among psychologists, statistical literacy is uneven. Outside the academy, it’s even worse.

Try explaining p-values or interaction effects to someone who hasn’t taken stats since high school, and then do it in a way that feels meaningful. Now, do it in one paragraph. You’ll quickly realize that communicating research is more than just translation — it’s transformation. You have to reframe your work in entirely new ways without compromising what makes it scientific.

Peril #3: 1,000 words or less

Academic papers are long. Public writing is short.

Boiling down years of research into 1,000 words forces you to cut a lot: the literature review, the methods section, even the nuanced limitations (gasp!). Editors want your point up front, fast. Readers want to know what they can do with your research, not where it fits in the existing scholarly conversation.

As I often tell my students: if your argument only works in 10,000 words, it may not be that strong to begin with.

Peril #4: All op-eds are wrong

Every op-ed, in some way, commits the error of omission. Including this one!

You simplify to be readable. You generalize to be relevant. You omit caveats to be clear. You are, at least partially, misrepresenting your field, and that’s incredibly uncomfortable for us academics. It’s a tightrope walk between accessibility and accuracy, and it comes with ethical tension.

At some point, you have to ask yourself: how much complexity can I preserve before the message disappears?

Peril #5: You will not be rewarded

There’s no Google Scholar count for op-eds. No h-index for blog posts.

Many institutions still don’t value science communication in tenure decisions. The incentive structure for academic careers prioritizes peer-reviewed publications, not practical relevance. For early-career researchers, the message is clear: public engagement is a side gig at best, and a liability at worst.

Peril #6: You have to think like an entrepreneur

Writing for the public isn’t just about the content, it’s about the hustle.

You have to pitch your ideas. Promote your work. Build relationships with editors. Engage on social media. Build a website!

In other words, you need to think like a marketer, not a methodologist. Most of us were trained to keep our heads down and write for reviewers, not readers. That mindset is hard to shake.

Peril #7: You are (mostly) on your own

There are few formal structures in academia to support public scholarship.

You’ll rarely get mentorship, course credit, or institutional support for learning how to write op-eds or build media relationships. Most academics doing science communication are self-taught. And that can feel isolating, especially early on — it did for me!

One pearl to make it all worth it

So why bother?

Because science communication isn’t just a skill — it’s a value system. And in today’s world, it’s essential to the advancement of human knowledge, especially at a time when misinformation spreads faster than peer review.

What good is our work if it only circulates among a few scholars who already understand the topic? Scholarship should move. It should make a difference. And that means making our science matter to someone beyond the academic bubble.

For those of us in the organizational sciences, I believe the stakes are even higher. Lewis et al.’s (2023) article offers a great argument here:

We expect those who make knowledge claims in public about, say, genetics, chemistry or astrophysics to be, respectively, geneticists, chemists or astrophysicists. More, we expect those who are given license to assess and contest these knowledge claims to be, respectively, geneticists, chemists or astrophysicists. By contrast, the social world is the site of public knowledge-making by a wide range of actors (p. 660).

In other words: Everyone thinks they’re an expert in leadership, relationships, or workplace culture. And meanwhile, the people who are experts — psychologists, researchers, scientists — often go unheard, unrecognized, or unread.

That’s how “pop psychology” takes root. That’s how real psychological science fades into obscurity. And that’s why we need better science communicators in the social sciences, now more than ever.

Would you join us in our efforts?

Hopefully I’ve convinced you — albeit in a backwards way — to consider spending some of your valuable time honing your skills in science communication. Here’s some ways to get started: check out groups like Beyond the Ivory Tower, ComSciCon, PsychGeist Media, and the Center for Communicating Science. For those reading this blog post in July 2025, Beyond the Ivory Tower is still hosting bi-annual workshops for young scholars, led by a New York Times op-ed editor (apply on their website).

Yes, translating your science for public audiences is difficult. But if we care about real-world impact — about helping people solve the very problems we study — then we have to step outside our journals.

We have to start speaking human.

Even if it feels like learning an alien language.