The Title Problem

Some time ago, I found myself in a hospital late at night.

The person at reception looked at my health insurance card and said:

“Professor. At your age. You must be very smart.”

I was caught off guard.

Of course, I like the idea of being smart. I also like the idea of being perceived as smart. And yet, in that moment, I was simply a person sitting there, wondering what message I had apparently sent — just because a few additional letters appeared on my card.

The fact is: I am a professor. I hold a doctorate. I have a diploma. Each of these titles says something about me. More precisely, they are attributions others make about me.

For several years now, I have also been part of the system that assigns those titles. I conduct exams, give grades, and at some point congratulate young people on the fact that they are now allowed to carry the title of Bachelor or Master of Science. Regardless of what they actually take away from their studies (in terms of knowledge, methods, or personal development), they now carry a title and allow others to attribute capabilities to them.

Because that is the core function of a title: it signals that its holder is capable of something. And that someone with the authority and qualification to judge has decided that this is indeed the case.

If we look at academic degrees, they are not merely an expression of knowledge or subject expertise. They are an expression of a process and of all the capabilities that come with it. Someone who has studied for several years and passed dozens of exams does not prove that they can recite specific content from memory (even if that was sometimes required). They demonstrate persistence, the ability to prioritize, and the capacity to think in a way that fits the situation. All of these are qualities that matter in an organizational context.

Organizations have to decide what to do with those qualities. They hire people. Since they do not know them, they rely on observable characteristics to decide whom to trust and what to expect from them.

In that sense, hiring has surprising parallels to buying a household appliance.

I know that I need a washing machine, and I have a rough idea of what it should do. But I do not buy one every day. Tomorrow, I might be buying a dishwasher or a toaster. Each time, I have to understand what the market offers and which features I should evaluate. Most importantly, I want to avoid a bad decision - one that would be costly and difficult to reverse.

So I rely, at least in part, on something that is easy to observe, transferable across products, and represents many qualities I cannot directly see: the brand.

A brand I know and trust can make the decision easier. It is not a guarantee of quality, but it is a strong signal. It tells me that I am buying a higher probability of reliability. It reduces my search costs.

A candidate’s degree works in a similar way. It is also a signal — of capability, development, and competence.

Even so, degrees were never hard evidence of competence. Anyone who has worked with other people long enough knows that. They were simply signals that made competence more likely.

This is not a problem in itself. Signals do not need to be perfect. They need to be clear and observable. Their function is to reduce the effort of evaluating every possible alternative in detail.

There is an implicit contract in place between different parts of society that ensures degrees can function as such signals. Organizations rely on them because universities promise that they do not assess students once, but observe them over years, documenting performance and development. They evaluate exams, papers, and theses. They require discussion, collaboration, and justification.

The signal of a degree is not that someone managed to produce a piece of work.
The signal is this: someone has gone through the process that leads to such work - and has developed valuable capabilities along the way.

But what happens if the output becomes detached from the process that used to produce it?

Papers can now be generated within minutes by language models — including literature review, structured argumentation, and visual presentation. The few errors and hallucinations that remain are often difficult to distinguish from those made by humans. In some contexts, they may even be less of a flaw than the mark of supposedly “authentic” work that has not been machine-optimized.

And the use of AI is not limited to academic writing.

So what happens if generative systems can produce the very output that forms the basis of evaluation?

A simple observation follows: if output can be generated without the level of cognitive effort it previously required, then the signal a degree sends begins to change. Its indication of a long intellectual path becomes weaker. And weaker signals are harder to interpret — especially for those who rely on them.

From a different perspective, one could argue that organizations have never hired people for their ability to think, but for their ability to produce results.

In that sense, a degree might still function as a signal. It may indicate that someone can generate relevant output, perhaps even by effectively using modern tools.

But this assumes that relevant output is clearly defined. In practice, this is often not the case. Many situations require judgement — and judgement does not behave like measurable output.

Organizations and societies will therefore have to decide what value they continue to assign to degrees. And they will have to find ways to identify other signals when deciding whom to trust.

At the same time, universities will have to ask what exactly they certify with a degree if they can no longer reliably observe thinking itself.

Until recently, degrees functioned as relatively clear signals of an intellectual journey.

If those signals begin to weaken, the question is not necessarily whether degrees disappear.

The question is what will take their place.