How Biologist Got His Publishing System
The publication system in biology is mindblowingly ridiculous as often pointed out by Mike Eisen. I was planning to buy a biology book published in the 1990s and wanted to check an old review on it before spending my money. The price of the thick book came down to below $20, but the one page review article still costs $32.99.
I asked omniscient AI to explain how this system developed. Here is what it told me.
The Origin of PR-review
In the ‘satiable days when the world was new and the Biologist was a Very, Very New Animal indeed, there was no such thing as a “peer-reviewed publication.” Oh, dear me, no! When a Biologist discovered something wonderful, like the inner workings of the Lesser Spotted Gloopfish or the peculiar habits of the Whiskered Snickle-Snack, he would simply shout it from the nearest baobab tree.
“Behold!” he would cry, his voice echoing across the Great Green Greasy Limpopo River. “The Gloopfish, when startled, turns a most magnificent shade of puce!” And all the other Biologists, who were then just beginning to evolve opposable thumbs and an insatiable curiosity, would nod sagely and make a mental note, which, being new to mental noting, they often promptly forgot.
Now, among these early Biologists was one named Professor Pangloss, a most Exceedingly Clever Biologist with a magnificent beard and an even more magnificent discovery: that the common Garden Slug, when exposed to moonlight, sang arias in a tiny, almost inaudible squeak. This was, of course, a truly ground-breaking revelation, for until then, everyone thought slugs were merely slimy garden-nibblers.
Professor Pangloss, being a traditionalist, climbed his favorite baobab tree and proclaimed, “Hear ye, hear ye! The Slug, when moon-bathed, doth vocalize in a most melodious fashion!”
But alas, the other Biologists, being preoccupied with counting the spots on a newly discovered breed of Spotty-Dotty Dung Beetle, paid him little mind.
“Nonsense, Pangloss,” grumbled Dr. Scrutiny, a particularly Skeptical Biologist whose spectacles were always perched precariously on his nose. “Everyone knows slugs are mute. You must be hearing things, old chap.”
Professor Pangloss was, as you can imagine, most put out. He had spent countless moonlit nights observing his tuneful slugs, and to have his discovery dismissed so casually was simply not on.
So, he stomped off to consult the Eldest Magician, who, as everyone knows, was in charge of all the clever ideas in the world. The Eldest Magician, who was busy inventing the concept of “weekends,” listened patiently to Professor Pangloss’s woes.
“Ah,” said the Eldest Magician, stroking his long, starry beard. “The problem, my dear Pangloss, is one of verification and dissemination. You need a system, a structure, to ensure your remarkable findings are taken seriously and preserved for posterity.”
And so, the Eldest Magician, with a twinkle in his eye and a wave of his wand, created the Very First Peer-Reviewed Publishing System.
“Henceforth,” he declared, “when a Biologist makes a discovery, he shall not simply shout it from a tree. Oh, dear me, no! He shall write it down, very neatly and with many footnotes, on a series of specially prepared banana leaves. This shall be called a ‘Manuscript.’”
“Then,” continued the Eldest Magician, “he shall take his banana leaves to two or three other Biologists, who shall be called ‘Reviewers.’ These Reviewers shall pore over the banana leaves, squinting suspiciously and grumbling under their breath, looking for any stray punctuation or dubious claims.”
“They shall then scribble their comments, often quite forcefully, on their own separate coconut husks. These comments shall be called ‘Revisions Requested,’ and they shall invariably demand more experiments, clearer diagrams, and a complete rewrite of the introduction.”
Professor Pangloss, peering at the coconut husks, looked rather bewildered. “But… but why?” he stammered.
“Because, my dear Pangloss,” explained the Eldest Magician with a knowing smile, “this process, though seemingly designed to drive Biologists to distraction, ensures that only the most robust and undeniably true discoveries see the light of day. And also, it gives the Reviewers something to do besides counting spots on Dung Beetles.”
“Finally,” the Eldest Magician concluded, “once the Biologist has incorporated all the revisions, conducted all the extra experiments, and rewritten the introduction sixteen times, his banana leaves shall be deemed ‘Accepted.’ And then, and only then, shall his magnificent discovery be etched into the Grand Scroll of Biological Knowledge, for all eternity!”
And that, my dears, is precisely
how the Biologist got his publishing system, a system so wonderfully complex and endlessly frustrating that it has kept Biologists busy (and sometimes quite grumpy) ever since, ensuring that no singing slug ever goes unverified again.
Arrival of Expensive Paywalls
In the High and Far-Off Times, O Best Beloved, when the Biologist first began to poke things with sticks, there was a Great Magician (who some call the Publisher). He lived in a tall, shiny tower made of ivory and paywalls, and he had a very ‘satiable curiosity—not for science, but for Shiny Coins.
Now, you remember Professor Pangloss and his Singing Slugs? After he had written his discovery on the finest banana leaves, the Eldest Magician introduced him to the System of the High Fees.
“To have your slugs etched upon the Grand Scroll,” said the Magician, twirling his mustache, “you must first pay me three bags of gold and a very small portion of your soul. We shall call this the Article Processing Charge, or ‘The Ouchie’ for short.”
“But I did all the work!” cried Pangloss, waving his slimy slugs. “I sat in the damp! I caught the moon-glow! Why must I pay you to give you my work?”
“Because,” whispered the Magician, “it is a High Impact tree I own, and if you do not hang your leaves here, the other Biologists will think your slugs are merely humbug.”
So, Pangloss paid the Great Ouchie. But then, the Magician turned to Dr. Scrutiny, who was busy looking for tiny mites on a beetle’s knee.
“You!” barked the Magician. “You are an Expert. You must read Pangloss’s banana leaves. You must check every ‘and,’ ‘the,’ and ‘if,’ and you must find three mistakes that aren’t really there, just to prove you are clever.”
“And what do I get paid for this labor?” asked Dr. Scrutiny, polishing his spectacles. “Is there a bag of gold for me too?”
“Oh, no!” laughed the Magician, and his laugh sounded like a cash register falling down a flight of stairs. “You shall do it for the Glory of Science! You shall do it for free, in your spare time, between your breakfast and your lunch, while your own experiments are bubbling over!”
So, Dr. Scrutiny reviewed the paper for Exactly Nothing, and Professor Pangloss paid the Great Ouchie Fee, and the Magician put the banana leaves inside a very strong, very locked box in his tower.
A week later, Professor Pangloss felt a bit lonely and wanted to read his own discovery about the slugs. He walked to the Magician’s tower.
“May I see my paper, please?” he asked politely.
“Certainly!” said the Magician. “That will be forty-nine pieces of silver for a twenty-four-hour pass, or you may buy a Subscription for the price of a small elephant.”
“But it’s my paper!” wailed Pangloss. “I wrote it! I paid you to take it! And Scrutiny reviewed it for free!”
“Yes,” said the Magician, “but I have put it in a PDF format, which is a very magical and expensive spell. If you want to see your own thoughts, you must pay the Subscription Toll.”
And from that day to this, O Best Beloved, the Biologist works for years, pays a fortune to give his work away, reviews his neighbor’s work for no pennies at all, and then pays a second fortune to read what he wrote in the first place.
It is a most ‘satiable and peculiar system, and if you think it sounds a bit silly, that is because you are not a Very Clever Biologist yet.
Impact Factor and High-impact Journals
In the ‘satiable days when the system was fully grown, O Best Beloved, there appeared a most mysterious and magical Beast called the Impact Factor. It was a creature made of pure Arithmetic and very sharp teeth, and it lived at the very top of the highest baobab trees.
Now, you must understand that every Biologist, from the one who studies the toe-nails of the Elephant to the one who counts the whiskers on a Gnat, wanted to be near this Beast. For the Eldest Magician had whispered a Great Secret:
“If your banana leaves are kept in a tree where the Impact Factor dwells, you shall be called a Great Scientist. You shall receive a New Lab, a very shiny Microscope, and perhaps even a Tenure-Track (which is a soft cushion that never wears out).”
So, the Biologists began to dance. They did not dance for joy, and they did not dance for the slugs. They danced the Dance of the High Index.
“Look at me!” cried Dr. Scrutiny, hopping on one leg. “I have published my beetle-knees in a tree with an Impact Factor of Forty-Two! I am now four times as clever as I was on Friday!”
“But,” asked a very Small and Very New Biologist, “is the science in that tree four times as true? Is the truth of the beetle-knee different because of the height of the branch?”
“Hush, Child!” hissed Professor Pangloss, who was busy trying to balance his bags of gold (the Great Ouchie Fees) while climbing toward a higher branch. “The Truth is important, but the Metric is Divine! We must ignore the Boring Truths that live on the ground and only find the Flashy Truths that the Impact Factor likes to eat!”
And so, the Biologists stopped looking at the ground altogether. They spent all their days and many of their nights trying to feed the Impact Factor. They would chop their discoveries into tiny, tiny pieces (which they called Least Publishable Units) just to have more leaves to hang.
The Great Magician in the tower watched them through his telescope and chuckled. “See how they scramble!” he said, clinking his silver coins. “They pay me to take the leaves; they check the leaves for free; they pay me to look at the leaves; and now they will only hang their leaves on the branches I tell them to! It is a most Truly Magnificent System.”
And that, O Best Beloved, is why the Biologist is always out of breath and always looking at a chart. He is chasing a Number that lives in a Tree, while his Singing Slugs are singing quite beautifully in the garden, entirely un-indexed and perfectly free.
APC Fee Paid by Grants
In the High and Far-Off Times, O Best Beloved, when the world was all Gold-Standard and Open-Access, there lived a Hungry Hyena who was also a Publisher. He did not hunt for meat; he hunted for Impact Factors.
In those days, the Biologists were very busy bees. They would find a new Gene or a shiny Protein, write it down on their glowing glass slates, and share it with everyone for the mere price of a “Thank You.”
But the Hungry Hyena, with his sharp teeth and his silk tie, sat upon a pile of Paywalls and said, “This is much too simple. If everyone knows everything, then nothing is worth anything!”
So, he went to the Biologists and whispered a Magic Spell called “Prestige.” “If you give me your stories,” the Hyena laughed, “I will lock them in a Golden Box. I will not pay you for the stories—oh no, that would be Unscientific! Instead, you shall pay me three thousand shiny Gold Pieces for the privilege of letting me keep them.”
“But why?” asked a confused Young Researcher, clutching her pipettes.
“Because,” said the Hyena, licking his chops, “once it is in my Golden Box, everyone will think you are very clever indeed. I shall call this an APC, which stands for A-Pretty-Coin.”
Then the Hyena went to the University Libraries and said, “I have all the stories locked in my Golden Box. If you want to read what your own Biologists wrote, you must pay me a Subscription Fee every single year, or I shall close the lid!”
“But we gave you the stories for free!” cried the Biologists.
“And we checked the stories for errors for free!” cried the Peer Reviewers.
“Exactly,” said the Hyena, grinning a wide, expensive grin. “It is a Very Efficient System.”
And so, O Best Beloved, to this very day, the Biologist works for the Grant, the Grant pays for the APC, and the Hyena grows fat on the Gold Pieces, while the stories are locked behind walls of glass and code. And that is how Biology got its publishing system, which is why everyone is always so very, very broke.
