Publish and Perish: Why Ponder Stibbons Left the Ivory Tower

(With apologies to Terry Pratchett)

Ponder Stibbons sat in the shadowy recesses of the Uncommon Room, clutching a lukewarm cup of tea and the last vestiges of his patience. Across from him, the Dean, wrapped in his usual self-satisfaction, puffed his pipe and surveyed the room as if it were all a great and glorious joke that he alone understood.

"Leaving?" the Dean spluttered, when Ponder finally managed to slide the conversation in that direction. "What do you mean, leaving? Where would you even go?"

"Industry," said Ponder, trying not to make it sound like a curse. "Databases. Big ones."

The Dean blinked. "But we have databases here. The Archchancellor’s hat alone contains centuries of magical indexing..."

"Yes, but in the real world, we use them to actually store and retrieve information, not just argue about what information is worth storing in the first place," Ponder snapped. "And I’ll be paid properly."

"Pah," scoffed the Dean. "The true academic mind isn’t in it for the money."

"Yes, I noticed that," Ponder said. "But, funnily enough, the people running the place seem to be. We have more Bursars than I can count, and none of them seem to know how to count. We used to do research, but now we do ‘strategic impact planning’ and ‘value-oriented magical development initiatives’."

The Dean made a valiant effort at looking wise. "Well, you have to admit, Stibbons, there’s no point in just doing magic for magic’s sake."

"Then what’s the point of this place?" Ponder snapped. "If we’re not here to push the boundaries of knowledge, then we’re just a very exclusive, very inefficient vocational school for people too dim-witted to teach themselves. The students don’t want to learn magic, they want to finish a course of study in three semesters so they can get a cushy post enchanting chairs for the Patrician’s office."

The Dean waved a hand vaguely. "That’s always been the case."

"It wasn’t always quite this blatant," Ponder retorted. "Back in the day, we had time to actually think about things, research things, discuss things. Now it’s all quotas, reviews, assessments! And if the students don’t like you, they file complaints! Complaints! As if the study of magic were meant to be… comfortable! We used to throw fireballs at people! Now we have to ‘create a nurturing environment for knowledge acquisition’."

"Ah," said the Dean, puffing his pipe. "Well, times change."

"Not here, they don’t," said Ponder bitterly. "That’s the whole problem. The world outside moves forward while we shuffle our papers and complain that we don’t have enough funding to investigate basic transmutation spells."

The Dean chuckled. "You always were an idealist, Stibbons. Research takes time. Why, I myself have been preparing to write a paper on the comparative metaphysical mass of a thaum for—"

"Twenty years!" snapped Ponder. "And you’ve produced nothing!"

"Ah, but when I do…" The Dean waggled his fingers mysteriously.

"And even if you did, it wouldn’t get published," Ponder continued. "Do you know what happens to papers these days? You send them off, wait a year, and then get them back covered in cryptic, punishing comments from anonymous reviewers who seem to hate the very idea of scholarship."

"Ah yes, peer review!" said the Dean enthusiastically. "Ensuring the highest quality!"

"Ensuring nobody gets anything done!" Ponder snapped. "It’s not review, it’s ritualized academic hazing. Half the time the reviewers are just competitors trying to torpedo your work so their own gets published first. It’s like trying to hold a debate where the other side gets to set your chair on fire before you start speaking."

"Ah, well," the Dean said philosophically. "At least we all suffer equally."

"No, we don’t!" Ponder threw up his hands. "It’s a zero-sum game! Everyone hoards their ideas because collaboration just means giving someone else ammunition to shoot down your next grant proposal! We’re supposed to be discovering new knowledge, and instead we spend all our time writing meticulously worded rebuttals to complaints about our font choice."

"Well, I suppose that’s just how academia works," the Dean said, smiling in what he clearly thought was a reassuring way.

Ponder sighed. "You know what’s coming, don’t you? The golems are already doing spellwork. Automated spell matrices. Soon, students won’t even need to be here. They’ll just buy the knowledge in convenient pre-packaged modules."

"Nonsense," the Dean huffed. "You can’t replace a wizard with a machine."

"That’s exactly what I thought," said Ponder. "Until I have seen them in the wild. It turned out you very well can."

The Dean froze. "What?"

"Oh yes. A spell-engine that automates theorem derivation and spell stabilization. Does in minutes what takes us years. Accurate, tireless, and best of all, doesn’t insist on being called ‘Professor’."

The Dean was pale. "But… but the prestige, Stibbons! The robes! The titles! The long lunches!"

"Industry has long lunches too," said Ponder. "And they reimburse you in two days instead of two months."

The Dean looked positively ill. "And you’re going to… what? Spend your days solving real problems? Making a tangible difference?"

"Yes."

"But… how will you cope?" The Dean’s voice was faint. "Without the endless meetings? The unread grant proposals? The departmental infighting over whose name goes first on a paper no one will read?"

Ponder stood, dusted off his robes, and picked up his satchel. "I think I’ll manage."

(Written by a golem named ChatGPT with some prompting)