Let’s talk about one of academia’s most cherished myths: that identifying an unstudied area automatically creates a valuable research problem. We’ve all done it. Faced with the need to justify our research, we fall back on that comfortable phrase: “While scholars have extensively studied X, there is a gap in the literature regarding Y.”
It feels safe, doesn’t it?
After all, we’re not claiming anything controversial. We’re just pointing to empty space on the academic map. But here’s something uncomfortable: in an infinite field of knowledge, there are infinite gaps. The mere existence of unexplored territory doesn’t make it worth exploring. The comfort of gap-thinking has become a trap, leading us to mistake the unknown for the important. It’s academia’s version of the path of least resistance. Like finding an empty parking spot rather than questioning whether we need to drive at all. We comfort ourselves with the methodological security of virgin territory – after all, if no one has studied it, we can’t possibly be wrong about previous findings. We can sidestep the messier task of challenging existing scholarship. It’s a scholarly security blanket that lets us avoid the scarier question: not what’s missing, but what’s wrong with how we currently think about things.
Think of it this way: There’s no research on what color socks professors wore while writing groundbreaking papers. There’s a gap in literature about how many times academics check their email or scroll through Instagram for a new chocolate cake recipe while revising manuscripts. There’s an unstudied area regarding the relationship between coffee consumption and citation practices. There’s an unstudied area regarding whether academics who write with blue pens cite differently than those who write with black ones. No one has investigated the correlation between article rejection rates and the phase of the moon. There’s a shocking gap in our understanding of how the font choice in rejection letters affects scholars’ ice cream consumption….
Ok, I’m getting side-tracked here, but it’s really fun to gap-think like that.
So, these are gaps, but they’re gaps no one needs filled (although, the more I think about the socks and ice cream questions, the more curious I become!). The existence of a gap tells us nothing about its value. Yet how often do we see dissertations and articles justified solely by their novelty, as if being the first to study something automatically makes it worthwhile?
And let’s be honest – academia excels at producing these kind of meaningless gaps. We could write entire dissertations about the font choices in conference presentations, the correlation between theoretical frameworks and coffee brands, or the migration patterns of lost USB sticks in university libraries. We could map the relationship between academic jargon and impostor syndrome, or study how many scholars actually read the articles they cite (now that might actually be useful!). The point is, gaps are everywhere, and most of them deserve to stay unfilled.
The problem runs deeper than just weak justifications. Gap-thinking shapes how we conceptualize research itself. It encourages a peculiar form of academic timidity, where we avoid making strong claims about what’s wrong with current understanding, preferring instead to quietly suggest that something might be missing. It’s a defensive posture that prioritizes safety over significance. This timidity manifests in our very language. We ‘contribute to the conversation’ rather than challenge its premises. We ‘build on existing literature’ rather than point out its foundational cracks. We ‘extend current frameworks’ rather than show why they might be fundamentally flawed. It’s academic politeness taken to the point of intellectual paralysis. Meanwhile, the really interesting questions – the ones that might actually advance understanding – often require us to be academically impolite, to suggest that current thinking might not just be incomplete, but wrong.
Consider how gap-thinking manifests in different fields. In history: “No one has studied the daily routines of medieval peasants in this particular village.” In sociology: “There’s a gap in our understanding of how people choose their grocery store.” In literary studies: “Scholars haven’t examined the use of semicolons in early modernist poetry.” Each statement might be true, but none tells us why these gaps matter, what problems they create, what understanding they prevent.
The gap-as-justification approach particularly fails our junior scholars. PhD students, already struggling with impostor syndrome, grasp at gaps as safe harbors. “If no one has studied this,” the thinking goes, “at least no one can say I’m wrong.” But this safety comes at a cost: research that fills space rather than solves problems, that adds to knowledge without advancing understanding.
Compare these two openings: “While scholars have extensively studied memorial culture in Berlin, there is a gap in research about smaller diaspora communities’ commemoration practices.” Versus: “Current theories of memorial culture, developed through studying major ethnic groups, cannot explain how smaller diaspora communities successfully achieve recognition, revealing fundamental flaws in how we understand the politics of remembrance.”
The first tells us what’s missing. The second shows us why our current understanding is inadequate – and implies that this inadequacy matters. The gap version promises to add knowledge. The error version promises to fix flawed knowledge. One cautiously claims territory; the other boldly challenges assumptions.
This distinction changes not just how we write, but how we think about research itself. Instead of scanning for unstudied areas, we begin looking for problems in current understanding. Rather than asking “What hasn’t been studied?” we ask “What can’t current approaches explain?” Instead of promising to add another brick to the wall of knowledge, we commit to fixing structural problems in the wall itself.
The implications extend beyond individual research projects. Gap-thinking has shaped entire fields, leading to what might be called the ‘archipelago effect’ – isolated islands of research, each filling its own gap, but rarely connecting to form meaningful patterns of understanding. We see this in conference presentations: ‘Here’s my gap!’ ‘And here’s mine!’ ‘Look what unstudied area I found!’ – a chorus of scholars proudly displaying their isolated discoveries without addressing why anyone should sail to their particular island. We end up with more knowledge but not necessarily better understanding, an academic archipelago where each island might be meticulously mapped but no one’s building bridges between them. And this fragmentation through gap-filling creates what I call the “academic butterfly collection” – beautiful specimens of knowledge, carefully pinned and labeled, but ultimately lifeless.
The solution isn’t to completely abandon gaps – sometimes identifying unstudied areas is part of showing why current understanding fails. But gaps should be supporting evidence for problems, not problems themselves. They should help us show why existing frameworks are inadequate, not stand alone as justification for research.
The next time you’re tempted to justify your research with “no one has studied this,” stop and probe deeper. What breaks if this gap remains unfilled? What phenomena can’t current theories explain? What assumptions need challenging? Transform your gap into an error, and watch your readers’ interest transform too.
After all, gaps are passive – they just sit there, waiting to be filled. Errors are active – they create tension in how we think about something, suggest our current frameworks might be wrong, hint at costs of leaving things unresolved. Gaps invite completion; errors demand resolution. In a world drowning in information but starving for understanding, which would you rather contribute?