Every age has its gatekeepers.

Sometimes they have worn robes. Sometimes they have worn powdered wigs. Sometimes they have worn academic gowns, editorial titles, or corporate logos. Whatever their appearance, they have often shared one characteristic: they controlled access to knowledge.

Today, artificial intelligence has disrupted that arrangement more profoundly than perhaps any technology since the invention of the printing press. Yet the resistance to AI often follows a familiar pattern. It is presented as concern over accuracy, reliability, ethics or quality. These concerns deserve serious discussion. But I wonder whether they are also masking something much older: a discomfort with the democratisation of knowledge itself.

To explore that possibility, we first need to ask a deceptively simple question.

What is knowledge?

The Greeks wrestled with this question long before universities, peer review or digital libraries existed. Plato famously distinguished between belief and knowledge, suggesting that genuine knowledge required more than simply possessing information. His Allegory of the Cave remains one of the most powerful descriptions of humanity’s struggle to move from shadows towards reality.

Aristotle shifted the discussion towards observation and experience, arguing that knowledge grows through careful examination of the world. Other Greek philosophers questioned whether certainty was ever fully attainable, reminding us that knowledge has always been something to pursue rather than something we permanently possess.

What is striking is that none of these debates assumed knowledge should belong only to an elite. The debate concerned how we know, not who was permitted to know.

For most of human history, however, access to knowledge became inseparable from access to power.

Books were scarce. Literacy was limited. Universities admitted only a tiny fraction of society. Libraries were often private collections. Education depended upon wealth, geography and social class. Learning frequently required finding a teacher, joining an institution or entering a profession. Knowledge was not simply discovered; it was accessed through permission. Foucault argued that power and knowledge cannot be separated. Knowledge does not simply emerge because it is true; it is recognised through institutions that decide which voices are heard, which evidence is accepted and which ideas become legitimate (Foucault, 1977; 1980). If Foucault is correct, then the question is not simply whether AI generates accurate knowledge. The more interesting question is whether AI disrupts the traditional institutions that have historically determined who is permitted to participate in the production, communication and legitimisation of knowledge.

Colonialism amplified this asymmetry.

Colonial power was never exercised solely through military or economic dominance. It also depended upon controlling maps, scientific knowledge, language, education and historical narratives. Those who defined knowledge frequently defined civilisation itself. Entire cultures found their histories rewritten, their expertise dismissed and their own systems of knowing regarded as inferior.

Knowledge became another resource to be extracted, controlled and monetised. And although formal colonial empires have largely disappeared, many of their intellectual structures remain recognisable today.

Access to scientific journals often depends upon paywalls. Editorial boards determine which voices become part of the academic record. Professional language can become a barrier as much as a means of communication. Expertise is essential, but expertise can also become institutionalised in ways that unintentionally exclude those without the financial or social capital to participate.

None of this necessarily reflects malicious intent. It is simply how knowledge institutions evolved.

Then the internet arrived.

Dictionaries became searchable within seconds. Encyclopaedias no longer occupied shelves but entire servers. Wikipedia emerged with an almost absurd proposition: perhaps millions of people could collaboratively build the world’s largest encyclopaedia.

Its critics were immediate and often dismissive.

“It can be edited by anyone.”

“It cannot be trusted.”

“It is too easy.”

These criticisms contained elements of truth. Wikipedia has made mistakes, suffered vandalism and required continual moderation. Yet many critics overlook the extraordinary sophistication that now exists behind the platform. Articles on politically sensitive or scientifically important topics are often protected, monitored by experienced editors, supported by extensive referencing requirements and subject to continuous review. In many cases, Wikipedia’s greatest strength is not that anyone can edit it, but that everyone can see the discussion surrounding those edits.

The criticism, then, cannot simply be that knowledge has become easier to obtain, but rather artificial intelligence may represent the next stage in this evolution.

Unlike a search engine, AI does not merely retrieve information. It helps people navigate it. It explains difficult concepts, translates specialist language into everyday English, compares competing viewpoints and adapts explanations to the learner rather than forcing the learner to adapt to the material.

That changes something fundamental.

For centuries, one of the greatest educational advantages available to privileged individuals was access to patient human tutors. Someone who could explain difficult ideas differently each time until understanding emerged. AI now provides a version of that experience at almost no marginal cost.

This is where I believe many current debates become philosophically interesting.

When critics argue that AI makes writing “too easy”, what exactly is becoming easier? Is it the thinking? Or is it simply the expression of thought?

These are very different things.

Having an original idea has never depended upon flawless grammar. Creativity has never belonged exclusively to those fortunate enough to receive elite educations or decades of editorial guidance. Many people possess remarkable insights but lack confidence in academic writing, formal English or professional presentation.

AI changes that balance.

It allows individuals to communicate ideas that may previously have remained trapped behind linguistic, educational or economic barriers. The technology does not generate originality by itself. Rather, it allows originality to become visible.

Seen this way, AI represents less a replacement for human intelligence than a redistribution of intellectual opportunity.

Of course, AI should not be treated uncritically. It hallucinates. It reflects biases in training data. It sometimes presents uncertainty with unwarranted confidence. These limitations require informed users and continued human judgement.

But none of those limitations justify resisting wider access to knowledge itself.

Perhaps the real question is not whether AI threatens expertise.

Perhaps it threatens monopoly.

Every technological revolution that has expanded access to knowledge has been criticised in similar ways. The printing press threatened scribes. Cheap paperbacks threatened traditional publishing. Public libraries threatened commercial lending libraries. Wikipedia threatened printed encyclopaedias.

Now AI threatens something even larger: the assumption that understanding should remain difficult primarily because access has been difficult in the past. If knowledge genuinely exists to improve humanity, then widening access should be celebrated rather than feared.

The democratisation of knowledge has never been comfortable for those who benefited from its scarcity.

Artificial intelligence may simply be the latest chapter in a story that began long before computers existed—a story not about machines replacing people, but about removing the gates that have too often stood between people and knowledge.

References:

Foucault, M. (1977) Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Translated by A. Sheridan. London: Allen Lane.

Foucault, M. (1980) Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972–1977. Edited by C. Gordon. Brighton: Harvester Press.