Friends and family think I’m a Star Wars genius. Need to know something about it? Ask me. The truth is, my expertise stops at a very specific line—costume design and screen accuracy. I don’t know everything, and I’m comfortable saying that. Real experts usually are.
The problem is, the internet has broken our understanding of expertise. Social media confers authority based on visibility, not knowledge. You post a confident take, rack up likes, and suddenly you’re a “prophet.” Baym and Burnett call this being a “productive cultural intermediary”—fans who gain influence through participation, not exhaustive understanding.
I saw this play out with The Acolyte (2024). Qimir used a metal called Cortosis to deflect a lightsaber. I dug into the encyclopedias—it’s been in Legends and canon for years, just never on screen. But self-proclaimed experts lost it online, insisting lightsabers are unbeatable and this “ruined” the lore. They didn’t know the transmedia history, but they sure sounded certain. That’s the Dunning-Kruger effect: people with limited knowledge overestimating their competence, amplified by algorithms that reward confidence over accuracy.
Social media makes it worse. Likes, shares, followers—they create a false sense of expertise. Matt Marwick’s research shows that people with no formal training can build massive social capital just by stating bold, contrarian opinions that resonate with niche audiences. And it works. Look at Andrew Tate, Ben Shapiro, Alex Jones—figures who’ve built empires on confidently wrong claims.
In my community, I’ve spent a decade earning a reputation for quality. I run KeepTrooping, a brand known for screen-accurate parts. That status means I have almost no room for error. I didn’t campaign for that label. It came from the quality of my work and the community’s response. That’s how true fan capital should work, your peers validate you.
This post is adapted from my doctorate research on the intersection of religiosity and fandom.