At the beginning, there was no fully articulated thought—only a vague sense that something didn’t quite fit.
That feeling was difficult to grasp. It surfaced in different situations: in seminars, in encounters with research methods, in conversations with other researchers. What stood out was that I wasn’t alone in this. Others seemed to notice something similar—usually hinted at, rarely developed. Brief moments where someone would say, “This feels a bit off, doesn’t it?”—and then things would move on.
What exactly felt “off” was hard to pin down. But over time, two underlying patterns began to emerge.
The first concerned how research was expected to be conducted. In many contexts, there was a growing sense that certain methodological approaches—especially quantitative ones—were not just presented as one option among many, but increasingly functioned as an implicit default. Even in areas where the subject matter itself resisted straightforward quantification, the expectation remained to translate it into such a format.
To be clear: this was not about rejecting quantitative methods as such. Quite the opposite: I love and was always good in mathematics. The tension lay elsewhere—in the taken-for-granted way certain methodological decisions were made, often without much consideration for whether they actually fit the object of study.
The second pattern appeared in a very different domain, yet followed a similar structural logic. In areas dealing with texts, culture, or theory, the field did not necessarily feel more open—just structured differently. Certain themes, perspectives, and discourses had a noticeably stronger presence than others. Formally, there was room for choice. In practice, however, that space often felt narrower than expected.
Again, this was not about opposing particular topics. The issue was more subtle: how open is a field, really, if certain themes consistently dominate while others remain peripheral?
Both observations shared a common feature: they were difficult to articulate. Not because it was forbidden to talk about them, but because the conceptual tools to express them clearly were missing.
You could ask questions. You could raise concerns. But there seemed to be an invisible boundary—beyond which discussions would either become quickly pragmatic (“this is just how we do things here”) or dissolve into general responses that didn’t quite address the underlying issue.
In retrospect, that may have been the crucial point: not the structures themselves, but the difficulty of clearly identifying them.
It was during this phase that I met someone who fundamentally shifted my perspective: Kanwar Singh.
Our conversations were not dramatic in any obvious sense. There were no grand debates or formal theoretical arguments. And yet, they had an impact that I only fully understood later.
What happened in those conversations was, in essence, something simple—and decisive: things that had previously existed only as vague impressions began to take shape.
Kanwar had a way of articulating precisely what I had been sensing but couldn’t yet express. Not as a finished theory, not as a closed critique, but as a precise observation. Suddenly, it was no longer just a matter of feeling that “something is off,” but of asking concrete questions:
Why are certain methods treated as default—and others not?
Why do fields appear more open than they actually are in practice?
And why is it so difficult to discuss these issues at a deeper level?
These conversations had a double effect. On the one hand, they helped me take my own observations seriously, rather than dismissing them as a personal misunderstanding. On the other, they gave me a language to formulate them.
That was the real turning point.
Because from that moment on, something shifted:
a diffuse perception became an articulable line of inquiry.
And with that shift, the earlier sense of unease began to reorganize itself.
 |
| Picture: Tim D on Unsplash |
The methodological dimension, for instance, could now be understood as a form of implicit pre-structuring. Not in the sense of deliberate restriction, but as the result of institutional dynamics that stabilize certain approaches. If quantitative methods are seen as particularly “legible”—for publications, funding, or international comparability—it becomes understandable why they gain prominence.
But this is precisely where the more fundamental question begins:
what happens to questions that do not easily fit these formats?
A similar dynamic appears on the level of content. Here too, constraints rarely arise through explicit decisions, but through recurring patterns. Topics that are frequently addressed become normalized—they are visible, discussable, and institutionally supported. Others remain more peripheral—not necessarily because they are less relevant, but because they are less easily integrated into existing discursive frameworks.
These dynamics are subtle. They do not operate through prohibition or explicit exclusion, but through expectations, habits, and implicit standards. And that is precisely why they are so difficult to grasp.
Over time, however, it became increasingly clear that these patterns were not limited to the context of studying. Similar structures appeared in academic work environments as well. Projects followed certain logics, topics needed to be “connectable,” contributions were expected to align with existing lines of inquiry.
Within these frameworks, it was entirely possible to work productively. There were clear tasks, achievable goals, measurable progress. But the more fundamental questions—the ones that had triggered the initial sense of unease—often remained outside these structures.
And it was at this point that the need for something else emerged.
Not for a counter-position in the sense of offering a “better” system.
Not for a sweeping critique of science.
But for a space in which these questions could be asked at all—without immediately being translated into existing categories.
The first steps in that direction were unremarkable. Notes, fragments of thought, initial attempts to formulate what had been observed—without a clear structure or defined purpose. From there, a small Facebook essay collection emerged, initially as an experiment: a way to explore whether and how these ideas could be communicated.
The blog came later.
And it did not begin as a finished concept, but as a continuation of this process. A place to gather observations, refine them, and develop them further. A kind of working space for questions that have limited room within the standard academic environment.
It is important to emphasize: this blog is not intended as a counter-model to science. On the contrary, many of the questions raised here emerge precisely from a serious engagement with scientific practice—not from a rejection of it.
But every practice has its blind spots. And the more stable a system becomes, the less visible those peripheral areas often are.
Perhaps the motivation behind this blog can best be described as an attempt to look more closely at those less visible zones.
Not to provide simple answers.
But to ask better questions.
Because in the end, that was what had been missing at the beginning:
a language for something that was perceptible—but not yet graspable.
This blog is an attempt to develop that "language".