In 2009 a colleague handed me a magazine article about the 501st Legion—a global Star Wars costuming group. I’d never made a costume in my life, but I was running a design college in Singapore with fashion and product departments at my fingertips. I figured, why not? That moment kicked off my journey into a world where competence isn’t just about talent; it’s about how you learn, who you learn from, and how a community decides who counts as an “expert.
Everyone starts somewhere (and that’s okay).
Think back to when you first tried something new—cooking, coding, cosplay. At the very beginning, you don’t even know what you don’t know. Educators call this “unconscious incompetence.” I certainly had it when I started. But with time, feedback, and mimicking those around me, I picked up skills and confidence. Eventually, you reach a point where you can do things without thinking—what some call “unconscious competence” or the “expert stage.” It’s like riding a bike: you just do it.
Expertise is narrow (and that’s a good thing).
I can cut and glue plastic armor, understand vacuum-forming, and handle garments and accessories. But ask me to operate the heavy machinery to make the helmets? That’s not my wheelhouse. Competence means knowing your limits and being reliable in the areas you do own. You don’t have to master every single skill to be an expert in your niche.
The dark side of “expert” status.
In tight-knit, detail-obsessed communities like ours, claiming expertise can become a power play. I’m naturally wary of anyone who brands themselves an expert because expertise isn’t a permanent title—it requires continuous practice and staying current. If you stop learning, your knowledge decays. Yet the label often sticks, regardless. Worse, when someone claims expert status without accountability or ongoing participation, it can poison the group. Henry Jenkins wrote about how these “toxic authority structures” stifle discussion, limit creativity, and create exclusionary cliques. That’s not mentorship—that’s gatekeeping.
How the digital age reshaped expertise.
We used to learn through mentorship and workshops. Now, much of our interaction is digital. Followers, likes, and reposts have become a new form of “social currency.” In production-focused fan communities like cosplay, these metrics can create a false sense of expertise, detaching authority from actual demonstrated skill. You might have 10,000 followers but still not know how to build an armour. The community is still grappling with this shift.
What true expertise means to me.
Being an expert isn’t about ego or followers. It’s about recognizing that thorough research is crucial. You have to go far beyond just watching the movies to understand a character’s costume. I’ve had to redo entire costumes because my initial research wasn’t deep enough. Every mistake taught me something I wouldn’t have learned otherwise. As one mentor told me early on, embrace mistakes as they’re valuable learning opportunities. In a world where anyone can claim to be an expert, maybe the real mark of competence is humility: knowing what you know, knowing what you don’t, and being willing to keep learning.
This post is adapted from my doctorate research on the intersection of religiosity and fandom.