The Scam of Academic Publishing Reflects the Scam of Academia, By Professor X
The article from The Conversation,
dives into the murky waters of the academic publishing industry, spotlighting its transformation from a modest scholarly endeavour into a multibillion-dollar juggernaut that often prioritises profit over scientific integrity. It kicks off with two high-profile examples of editorial rebellion: in December 2024, the entire editorial board of the Journal of Human Evolution resigned en masse, citing Elsevier's inadequate copyediting, misuse of artificial intelligence (AI), and exorbitant fees for open access. This followed a similar walkout in 2023 by over 40 scientists from Neuroimage, another Elsevier journal, who branded the publisher "too greedy" for its steep article processing charges (APCs). Elsevier, the biggest fish in this pond, has denied AI misuse and defends its practices, but these resignations signal a growing rift between researchers and the for-profit publishing machine.
Historically, academic publishing began with noble intentions. The Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, launched in 1665, was a platform for scientists to share discoveries with peers. For centuries, it remained a niche, community-driven affair. But post-World War II, the explosion of research, the entry of commercial players, and the internet's rise in the 1990s flipped the script. Today, it's a concentrated, cutthroat industry dominated by the "big five"—Elsevier, Springer Nature, Wiley, SAGE, and Taylor & Francis—which control about 50 percent of all research output. Elsevier alone publishes 3,000 journals, raking in A$3.6 billion in profit in 2023 for its parent company, Relx, with a near-40 percent profit margin that rivals tech titans like Microsoft and Google. Prestigious titles like The Lancet fall under their umbrella, amplifying their clout.
The article lays bare the industry's dirty secret: its profitability hinges on exploiting free labour. Researchers write articles, peer-review them, and edit journals—all unpaid—while university libraries shell out hefty subscription fees to access the very work their own academics produced. This model, turbocharged by the pressure to "publish or perish," has warped trust in science. Editorial resignations, like those at Neuroimage and Journal of Human Evolution, underscore the clash between shareholder-driven profit motives and the research community's quest for integrity. Taxpayer-funded research often ends up locked behind paywalls, alienating the public and clashing with the ethos of scholarly inquiry. Publishers, incentivised to churn out as many articles as possible, have fuelled the rise of "junk journals" peddling fake research and pressured legit ones to cut corners.
As an alternative, the piece highlights the "publish-review-curate" model, exemplified by MetaROR. Here, preprints go public immediately, followed by open peer review and a curated assessment—speeding up knowledge sharing, dodging paywalls, and fostering transparency. But it's not flawless: early media hype can confuse, and funding preprint servers remains a puzzle. The article concludes that as academia evolves, publishing must adapt to serve research, not just profit.
But let's call it what it is: academic publishing, as it stands, is a shameless racket—a multibillion-dollar scam that's been fleecing researchers, universities, and taxpayers for decades while masquerading as a pillar of science. Don't let the polished journals or prestigious titles fool you; this is a grift built on exploitation, greed, and a stranglehold on knowledge that'd make a mob boss blush.
The core of the scam is simple yet diabolical. Researchers—often funded by public money—do the heavy lifting: they design studies, collect data, write papers, and review each other's work, all for free. Publishers swoop in, take that labour, slap it into a journal, and sell it back to the same universities and taxpayers at obscene markups. A 40 percent profit margin isn't an accident—it's the payoff from a system where they pay nothing for the raw material (academic research) and charge a fortune for the finished product. In 2023, Relx pocketed A$3.6 billion while academics got zilch. Compare that to tech giants: Google and Microsoft at least pay for their inputs. Publishers? They're middlemen with a golden goose they didn't even hatch.
Then there's the paywall trap. You'd think taxpayer-funded research would be public domain, right? No. It's locked up, accessible only to those who can fork over thousands for subscriptions or APCs—$3,450 for Neuroimage, $11,690 for Nature Neuroscience. That's not publishing; that's extortion. The public pays twice: once to fund the work, then again to peek at it. Meanwhile, researchers in poorer countries or independent scholars? No show. This isn't about disseminating knowledge—it's about hoarding it for profit, turning science into a luxury good.
The "publish or perish" culture is the scam's enforcer. Our career—tenure, grants, prestige—rides on getting into these big-name journals. Publishers know this and jack up fees, knowing you've got no choice but to pay or pray. It's a monopoly game: the big five control half the market, and they've got you by the throat. Editorial boards walking out—like at Neuroimage and Journal of Human Evolution—prove the breaking point's near. They're fed up with "unethical" fees and shoddy practices like half-baked copyediting or AI meddling, all while Elsevier claims it's "competitive." Competitive my foot—it's a cartel!
And don't get me started on the junk journal explosion. Publishers, hungry for more articles (aka more cash), greenlight garbage—fake studies, paper mills, you name it. Quality? Who cares when each piece nets thousands? Even legit journals feel the heat to lower standards, churning out volume over rigour. Trust in science erodes while they count their billions. Arash Abizadeh nailed it: they're incentivised to flood the system, not filter it.
The open-access flip? Another con. Sure, preprints and models like MetaROR sound noble—free access, transparent review—but publishers twisted "gold open access" into a new revenue stream. APCs shift the burden to authors, often thousands per paper, excluding anyone without deep pockets. Diamond open access (no fees for anyone) is the dream, but it's a speck against the big five's empire. Preprint servers? Great, until you realize they're underfunded and ripe for corporate takeover down the line.
This isn't a business—it's a parasite. Publishers add minimal value: basic formatting, a website, maybe some software. Peer review? You do it. Content? You write it. They're glorified printers with a 40 percent margin, laughing all the way to the bank while science groans under their weight. The fix? Burn it down and start over, metaphorically speaking. Fund diamond journals, ditch impact factors, reward preprints—anything to cut these leeches out. Until then, every paper you submit is another coin in their scam. Wake up, academia: you're not just complicit—you're the mark!
"In December 2024, the editorial board of the Journal of Human Evolution resigned en masse following disagreements with the journal's publisher, Elsevier. The board's grievances included claims of inadequate copyediting, misuse of artificial intelligence (AI), and the high fees charged to make research articles publicly available.
The previous year, more than 40 scientists who made up the entire academic board of a leading journal for brain imaging also walked off the job. The journal in question, Neuroimage, is also published by Elsevier, which the former board members accused of being "too greedy".
Elsevier has previously denied using AI and has disputed that its business practices are untoward.
Mass resignations of journal editors are becoming more frequent. They highlight the tension between running a for-profit publishing business and upholding research integrity.
From a niche to a multibillion-dollar business
The world's first academic journal was called Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society. It was established in 1665 as a publication that allowed scientists to share their work with other scientists.
For a long time, academic journals were a niche branch of publishing. They were run by and for research communities. But this started to change from the second world war onwards.
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The expansion of research, combined with an influx of commercial publishing players and the rise of the internet in the 1990s, have transformed journal publishing into a highly concentrated and competitive media business.
Elsevier is the biggest player in this business. It publishes roughly 3,000 journals and in 2023 its parent company, Relx, recorded a profit of roughly A$3.6 billion. Its profit margin was nearly 40% – rivalling tech giants such as Microsoft and Google.
Along with Elsevier, Springer Nature, Wiley, SAGE, and Taylor & Francis make up what are known as the "big five" in academic publishing. Collectively, these publishers are responsible for roughly 50% of all research output.
Many of the most trusted and prestigious research journals are owned by commercial publishers. For example, The Lancet is owned by Elsevier.
A key factor in their profitability is volunteer labour provided by researchers. Traditional models of peer review are a good example of this. Academics provide publishers with content, in the form of journal articles. They also review their peers' work for free. University libraries then pay for access to the final published journal on behalf of their research community.
Alongside the pressure on academics to publish, the push to "speed up science" through these systems of peer-review only contribute to issues of trust in research.
The increasing frequency of editorial board resignations reflects the tension between researchers trying to uphold scientific and research integrity, and publishers trying to run a for-profit business answerable to shareholders.
Research is most often built on spending taxpayers' money.
Yet there is often little alignment between the profit imperatives of large, multinational publishers and the expectations of the communities and funding bodies that pay for the costs of research.
For example, for-profit publishing models mean the results of research often end up locked behind paywalls. This has implications for the dissemination of research findings. It also means the public may not be able to access information they need most, such as medical research.
The business of academic publishing also doesn't always sit comfortably with the values and motives of scholarly inquiry and researchers.
Publishers may focus on maximising shareholder gains by publishing research outputs, rather than on the content of the research or the needs of the research community.
As Arash Abizadeh, a former editor of Philosophy & Public Affairs – a leading political philosophy journal – wrote in The Guardian in July 2024:
Commercial publishers are incentivised to try to publish as many articles and journals as possible, because each additional article brings in more profit. This has led to a proliferation of junk journals that publish fake research, and has increased the pressure on rigorous journals to weaken their quality controls.
The world's first academic journal, Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, was established in 1665. Henry Oldenburg/Philosophical Transactions, CC BY
Better publishing practices
What could alternative academic publishing practices that safeguard the integrity of research look like?
The "publish-review-curate" model is one example.
This model has been adopted by community research initiative MetaROR. It involves authors publishing their work as "preprints" which are immediately accessible to the community.
The work then goes through an open peer review process. Finally, an assessment report is produced based on the reviews.
This model aims to accelerate the dissemination of knowledge. It also aims to encourage a more transparent, collaborative, and constructive review process.
Another important advantage of preprints is that they are not locked behind paywalls. This makes it faster and easier for research communities to share new findings with other researchers quickly.
There are some drawbacks to this model. For example, preprints can cause confusion if they are publicised by the media too early.
The question of who should pay for and maintain online preprint servers, on which global research communities depend, is also a subject of continuing debate.
As the academic ecosystem continues to evolve, we will need publishing models that can adapt to the changes and needs of the research community and beyond.
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