Since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, something curious has taken root in our collective behavior—an urge to voice opinions not just frequently, but far and wide, and often in fields where our experience is shallow, or sometimes non-existent. Observing this pattern both around me and within myself, I’ve come to a quiet, unsettling conclusion: people tend to speak most confidently about topics they either wish they were experts in, or about subjects that lie far beyond their actual expertise—way, way beyond their pay grade. 

This phenomenon isn't entirely new, but the pandemic—and the digital dependency it deepened —pulled it into sharp focus. At its core, this tendency to speak on topics we barely understand is often less about deception and more about desire. Many of us wish to be seen as competent, insightful, or intelligent—particularly in areas we admire from a distance. Whether it’s immunology, climate science, machine learning, national security, or foreign affairs, our engagement often stems from an aspirational drive: we want to matter in those conversations. 

The digital world enables this. A well-crafted tweet or passionate comment can simulate the feeling of expertise. The traditional barriers to public discourse—academic credentials, institutional access, years of field experience—have been eroded. One no longer needs a Ph.D., a government clearance, or a place at the policy table. A decent internet connection and a spark of confidence are enough. As a result, the appearance of knowledge becomes more accessible than knowledge itself. 

There is also a peculiar attraction to speaking about things that lie far beyond our operational sphere—topics where decisions are made by world leaders, scientific experts, or defense strategists. Part of this is rooted in powerlessness. These large-scale issues shape our lives, and we want to believe we can shape them in return. Commenting on them, even from a place of limited understanding, grants us a fleeting sense of agency. It is a way of resisting the helplessness that comes with complexity. 

Take geopolitics or national security, for instance. During moments of military conflict, diplomatic fallout, or global power realignment, social media platforms are suddenly brimming with amateur analysis—from people who have never read a declassified intelligence brief or studied a treaty, yet speak as if they were seasoned strategists. The urge isn’t always driven by malice or misinformation. More often, it’s about identity-building. We subconsciously tell ourselves, “I am the kind of person who understands the world’s deepest games.” 

Adding to this is the collapse of traditional knowledge hierarchies. Expertise used to be earned over time—through study, mentorship, publication, or fieldwork. But the internet has flattened that landscape. Now, a teenager with no background in diplomacy or defense can influence public opinion about foreign policy through viral content. A meme can outpace a white paper.

Confidence, not competence, has become the currency of credibility. And yet, while our tools have evolved, our cognitive wiring hasn’t. We remain drawn to certainty. When everyone is speaking, the most confident voice in the room—regardless of its foundation— wins attention. This explains why so many public discussions now sound like debates between avatars of certainty, not collaborators in search of clarity. 

In reflecting on this, I include myself in the critique. I, too, have expressed opinions on matters Ionly partially understand, and will likely continue to do so. But acknowledging that tendency doesn’t discredit the insight—it makes it more human. Self-awareness may not be a shield, but it is a compass. It encourages us to examine not just what we believe, but why we feel the need to say it out loud. Is it a spark of genuine curiosity? Is it insecurity masquerading as intellect? Is it the longing to belong—or the desire to be admired? These questions are not rhetorical. 

They matter—especially in an age where every opinion can echo endlessly, shaping not just personal worldviews but real-world beliefs, public pressures, and political consequences. 

We live in a time where everyone has a voice, but not everyone remembers to listen. Our tendency to speak beyond our depth is a natural consequence of psychology colliding with technology. But if left unchecked, it risks replacing dialogue with noise, and insight with illusion. The answer isn’t censorship, nor silence—but humility. It is not weakness to say, “I don’t know.” It is wisdom. In a world where attention is cheap but understanding is rare, the strongest opinions should be built not on the desire to be right—but on the discipline to be honest. With others. And with ourselves.