You’ve probably seen it: a breakthrough discovery that could save millions, and it’s called something like PCSK9 inhibitor or Xiphophorus maculatus. Your brain glazes over. You click away. And somewhere a researcher wonders why nobody cares about their Nobel-worthy work.
Let’s be honest: scientists are amazing at discovering things and absolutely terrible at telling the world what they found. The same expertise that unlocks the universe makes you blind to the simplest words. It’s not a joke. It’s a structural flaw in how we train geniuses.
Think about Ebola. Catchy, terrifying, unforgettable. Now think about the scientific name for the fish that carries a similar virus: Xiphophorus maculatus. Which one spreads? Which one gets funding? The answer is obvious. But to a career scientist, the second name is more precise, more rigorous, more correct.
And that’s the problem. Precision is the enemy of accessibility. The more you specialize, the more you lose the ability to speak to anyone outside your bubble. The top comment on the original video nails it: ‘Scientists are hyper-specialized and generally can only do their one thing really well, with an inversely proportionate effect on all their other abilities, including common sense.’
I’ve seen this firsthand. A friend of mine spent a decade studying a protein that could stop a certain cancer. The day he published, he named it something like HBP-7α. I asked him why. He said, ‘That’s what the lab called it.’ No thought about the patient who would have to google it. No thought about the journalist who would have to explain it. Naming is not a scientific problem—it’s a branding problem, and scientists are structurally disincentivized to care.
This isn’t about blaming individuals. It’s about realizing that the system rewards internal consistency over external communication. A scientist who spends time on a catchy name is seen as frivolous. A scientist who uses arcane jargon is seen as rigorous. The incentives are backwards.
Here’s the twist: the best names in science often come from outsiders. Marketers, journalists, even patients. “Ebola” was named after a river. “HIV” was a public health compromise. “CRISPR” sounds like a kitchen gadget—and it’s now a household word. The best names are not the most accurate; they are the most sticky.
So what do we do? Stop asking scientists to name their own discoveries. Give them a naming committee that includes a poet, a marketer, and a 12-year-old. Make it a requirement for grant funding. Because the next cure for Alzheimer’s could be called Amyloid-β Cascade Inhibitor 7—or it could be called ClearMind. Which one will save more lives?
We need to stop pretending that naming is trivial. A bad name buries a good idea. A great name sets it free. And the geniuses who change the world deserve to be understood—not just admired from a distance.
FAQ
Q: Aren't scientific names supposed to be precise for reproducibility?
A: Yes, precision matters for scientists. But what you call a discovery in a peer-reviewed paper is different from what you call it when you want the public to care. The problem is using the same obscure name everywhere. You can keep the technical name for journals and create a separate, sticky name for the world.
Q: What's the practical implication of bad naming in science?
A: Bad names kill funding, public interest, and real-world adoption. A drug with a terrible name can fail commercially even if it works. A disease with a forgettable name gets less attention. Better naming could save lives by accelerating awareness and investment.
Q: Isn't the real problem that science is just complex, not that names are bad?
A: Complexity is real, but it's an excuse. 'Ebola' is not complex. 'CRISPR' is not complex. The best communicators simplify without dumbing down. The real issue is that scientists are trained to be accurate, not to be understood. That's a choice, not a law of nature.