Before I begin I must say that science does require peer gatekeepers for new knowledge, to critically examine any new body of work. That's the good kind of gatekeeping. But I'm going to rant and express my excitement for the death of another vile kind of gatekeeping. Let me explain. As a physics grad student,  I’ve burned through every course, every problem set, every so-called “rigorous foundation.” And when it came time to actually do research, I stumbled into a strange and silent phenomenon that no one warns you about.

Whenever I tried to ask big, dangerous questions — the kind that poke holes in the syllabus — the senior folks would lean back in their chairs and say, “You can’t ask that yet. Go learn the basics first and come back.”

So I did. I learned the basics, I came back, and the same damn line would roll off their mouth again. The only time they seemed genuinely helpful was when I was obediently trudging along in the direction they approved — doing what they cared about, in the way they prescribed.

Without a band of fellow misfits, I was mostly on my own, scavenging for answers. Over time, the whole thing started to smell less like mentorship and more like subtle gatekeeping — not to protect the sanctity of knowledge, but to protect status. It felt like a kind of knowledge envy, or maybe insecurity.

Because let’s get something straight: nobody — not Einstein, not Feynman, not the guy down the hall — does research in a state of perfect clarity. Everyone learns as they go. That’s the game. So when someone says you’re “not ready” to ask a question, what they really mean is: don’t touch the sacred fire until I’m done basking in its glow.

In academia, this ritualized nonsense hides behind the altar of rigor—but rigor is good and sacred even. Senior researchers, postdocs, even grad students will puff up their chests and declare certain topics “hard” or “too advanced.” It’s not about difficulty — it’s about keeping the hierarchy intact. They stay the authority. You stay the supplicant.

They’ll tell you they’re “protecting” you — saving you from confusion, from the treacherous fog of half-knowledge. But that’s rarely true. If I ask a question about string theory — something I know nothing about — a real teacher would guide me through the jungle, not slam the gate in my face to “protect” me from the trees. Curiosity doesn’t need guarding. It needs gasoline and a match.

What I think we’re seeing — and what I hope we’re witnessing — is the final death rattle of a very old social structure, a kind of intellectual caste system that’s been hanging around for centuries.

Back in the ancient days, knowledge was a lineage, a sacred inheritance. You didn’t learn it; you received it from a high priest or guru. Then came the printing press, and the whole priesthood trembled. Suddenly, anyone with eyes and paper could access scripture, philosophy, and science.

Fast-forward a few centuries: the internet. Knowledge went feral. It escaped the monasteries, the ivory towers, the dusty libraries. It networked itself, multiplied, crossbred. Authority decentralized. Anyone could learn, teach, publish, create. The old gatekeepers lost a few teeth.

And now, with AI, the gates are not just open — they’re gone. Knowledge isn’t merely accessible anymore; it’s interactive. You don’t have to know where to look — you can talk your way into understanding. The act of learning itself has become conversational, dynamic, alive. The old guard, the ones who used to tell us what we could or couldn’t ask, are being quietly ushered off the stage.

For the first time in human history, we’re flirting with true epistemic egalitarianism — a world where the right to know doesn’t depend on pedigree, proximity, or permission.

It’s the happy death of the knowledge gatekeepers.