In our Science Writing series, we’re sharing articles, stories, and more that students have created at UWA. Each post starts with a short rundown of what it’s all about—our purpose, audience, and message—tying it all back to the basics of science communication.
![A scientist using a device for the dilution of emulsions after microbial use. Sepia coloured photograph, [ca. 1940]. Created 1940.](https://thescicommcollective.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/Scientist.jpg)
“This piece is an adaptation of a blog entry originally written for the UWA Master of Science Communication unit SCOM5311: Science and Society.
Deconstructing our preconceived notions of science and the way we (science communicators) should talk about it should be accompanied by an understanding of the way science communication has been thought about. This piece is intended to share some of the questions and reflections that have accompanied me for the past couple of years, as evidenced by the often inquisitive tone of the post. It also hints at the question of whether a new science communication model is possible and what we, as a new generation of science communicators, can contribute – for instance, from the perspective of language and the recognition of different expertise and sources of knowledge. Perhaps some of these questions still sit at a rhetorical level, but hopefully, this piece can serve as a conversation starter.”
– Camila Pardo Uribe
Science is everywhere. It is the key to understanding the world and its phenomena.
The holders of scientific knowledge are, by this logic, the ultimate authority. If knowledge is power, then we should put all our trust in scientists.
Right?
But what happens when the veil is pulled and trust in science is lost?
What happens when the figure of the Scientist loses its halo and must confront a sceptical crowd, and must work hard to gain back its trust?
Then it relies on science communication to get the job done.
If we could pinpoint a moment in history when trust in science suffered immensely, it would have to be World War II.
During these years, humanity saw science and technology unleash unimaginable horrors, death, and an insurmountable amount of pain.
The feeling of hopelessness and mistrust in the scientists who had once been (almost blindly) trusted continued until the mid-1950s and early 1960s, when the legitimacy of science suffered another hit.
In the face of economic and political pressures such as those caused by the space race in the United States, scientists and policymakers saw the need for a citizenship that understood the value of science and technology and engaged in scientific debates.
Scholars then set out on a quest to understand how much people knew about science, or how scientifically literate they were.
Scientists and policymakers wanted to increase people’s scientific knowledge to get them to support political agendas and ‘sell’ science.
This task became even more pressing during the 1970s and the 1980s in the face of controversial topics like nuclear power and food technologies, which piled up towards a common feeling of scepticism and distrust towards science and scientific institutions.
Enter the deficit model of science communication.
The deficit model of science communication arose during the 1980s from the need to increase scientific literacy among the so-called general public.
This model is based on the idea that it is important to fill in the gaps in people’s scientific knowledge and enhance public understanding of science, as this will increase their trust in science and help them become more ‘educated’.
The deficit model also operates on the idea that ‘to know science is to love it’: if people understand scientific processes and ideas, then they will realise how good science is.
However, the deficit model is deeply problematic.
It presents an image of the general public as an ignorant and homogenous mass devoid of all scientific knowledge and scientists as those invested with a greater power to guide us all.
And have we forgotten about those who don’t formally label themselves as scientists who have been carrying out scientific activities for millennia as well, like First Nations peoples or farmers?
Secondly, how can we ascertain that simply passing on facts about science to the general public is actually helping them build the foundations they need to become more scientifically literate and gain more trust in science?
The deficit model has certainly raised more questions than it has answers, and, therefore, different science communication models have been proposed.
After the deficit model came the context model of science communication.
Its advocates draw on social constructivism to support the idea that the way that people learn and their attitudes towards knowledge are influenced by their social, cultural, and political experiences.
It is not as simple as a scientist or an expert merely passing on scientific facts to an audience.
People will interpret these facts based on what they’ve experienced throughout their lives, and this knowledge will keep shifting as we acquire more experiences.
In a similar fashion, literary theorist and critic H.J. Jauss spoke of horizons of expectation.
Translated in the ‘context model’ of science communication, horizons of expectation are the assumptions, experiences and tools that both the audience and the scientists possess when sharing or trying to make sense of scientific information.
All these lived experiences and a priori knowledge come into play when scientists communicate to their audiences, but also when people receive the information and how they interpret it.
There is no one way to communicate science, and there are as many interpretations as there are people.
Therefore, knowledge building and communication are both rich and dynamic processes, and there’s no more general public, but heterogenous audiences.
The lay expertise and public engagement models of science communication highlight the importance of local scientific expertise and knowledge – not just the scientist with a halo.
However, they’re both problematic in definition.
‘Lay expertise’ implies that there is a lesser category (lay) that exists as such because there is one category that precedes —and is therefore superior— to it (scientist).
Even public engagement model definitions seem to fail in delving into what engagement can be.
All of this to say that theorisation of science communication is still framed within the context of structuralism. It is still subject to fixed linguistical categories that precede us.
It also means that a shift towards a poststructuralist approach to science communication is pressing.
This entails being critical about the language used in the field of science communication, recognising our agency as science communicators, and not being afraid to redefine some of it.
This might just be the beginning of a different science communication model.
Camila is a PhD candidate at The University of Western Australia with an interest in transdisciplinary research and inclusive science communication. When not working on her research, you will find her at her yoga studio, crocheting cute animals or raving about her cool job at Perth Zoo.
All opinions on this website are representative of individuals and are not representative of The University of Western Australia. The University of Western Australia is not liable for content herein.
