The uncompensated foundation of a billion-dollar scientific publishing sector
Recently, I received another “urgent” peer review invitation from a prominent medical journal. The email struck all the familiar chords: “We appreciate your expertise. Your input is vital to academic excellence. Kindly respond within 72 hours.”
I took a look at the journal’s website. Their open-access charge? $3,800. Reviewer remuneration? None.
This is the silent hypocrisy we’ve all accepted: Journals impose thousands in article processing fees (APCs) on authors, gather subscription funds from institutions, pay editors, pay publishers, invest in marketing, and then approach faculty to ask us to donate the one thing that truly gives their product credibility: peer review. And we do so. Without payment. Like clockwork.
The uncompensated foundation of a billion-dollar scientific publishing sector
Peer review is not a favor or a pastime, it’s work. It requires expertise, judgment, training, and, most importantly, time. And that time doesn’t arise from some concealed well of academic tranquility. It comes from the same dwindling hours we’re expected to allocate to mentoring students, writing grants, preparing lectures, designing curricula, or, on rare occasions, leaving the office before dinner.
Thus, we squeeze peer reviews into the cracks of our lives: before dawn, after clinics, between grading sessions, or in the quiet “invisible hours” after putting children to bed. The irony is glaring that faculty are already maximized, juggling an endless array of responsibilities: teaching or clinical workloads, research obligations, accreditation documentation, grant writing, student advising, committees, annual reviews, CV updates, promotions, and institutional metrics that continually multiply. Yet somehow, the academic machinery presumes we can offer even more labor, silently and unquestioningly, to sustain someone else’s publishing venture.
However, journals, many owned by large publishing corporations, are accustomed to treating our time as a free public utility. They offer no apologies for their lack of payment. They don’t even pretend to provide something in exchange. They merely assume faculty will continue to donate their work because “it’s what academics do.”
The open access illusion of altruism
Open access was marketed to us as a movement for democratization. But somewhere along the journey, it morphed into a revenue stream. Journals shifted expenses from readers to authors and retained reviewers as unpaid contributors. Let’s face it: this isn’t a virtuous academic ecosystem; it’s a business model reliant on faculty behaving like volunteers. When a journal charges $3,000-$10,000 in APCs but can’t spare $200 to express gratitude to a reviewer? That’s not mere oversight. That’s exploitation masquerading as tradition.
AI has exacerbated the issue, not resolved it
Journals now anticipate quicker reviews because “AI can detect plagiarism, grammar, and formatting.” But AI doesn’t assess scientific reasoning, ethical subtleties, methodology, or clinical relevance. The emotional burden has intensified; reviewers are expected to identify flawed statistics, recognize ethical dilemmas, and catch AI-generated sloppy work, all without payment or acknowledgment. Some journals even employ AI to send automated reminders when you’re “late” in returning your complimentary labor.
Why the system remains unchanged
The reason the academic publishing landscape has not evolved is brutally straightforward: We haven’t ceased our participation in our own exploitation. As long as we keep agreeing, journals have no motivation to alter their approach.
Publishers understand us all too well. They rely on the fact that most faculty feel guilty refusing a review request. They know we’ve been conditioned to think that peer review is a noble responsibility, a vague act of service to “the field.” They know we still cling to the notion that reviewing adds intangible value to our CVs, our reputations, our yearly evaluations, even when no one actually monitors or rewards it.
Meanwhile, the economics are unapologetic. Journals amass thousands of dollars in article processing fees from authors, invest in marketing teams, compensate editorial staff, and generate revenue for publishing companies, yet the reviewers, the very individuals who validate the science and assess quality, work for free. And not just for free; we do it during evenings, weekends, and in the gaps between other unpaid academic tasks.
The uncomfortable reality is this: The system isn’t broken. It’s operating precisely as it was intended for them. It will only change when we alter our behaviors. Until faculty begin to say no, journals will continue to label exploitation as “citizenship.”
So, what comes next?