PhD studies are, in many ways, like life as Kierkegaard described it: it must be lived forwards, but can only be understood backwards. When my department recently asked me to speak with current PhD candidates about my experience of researching and publishing during my doctorate, I found myself reflecting on what actually worked for me—and what didn’t. It’s taken longer than I care to admit to fully grasp the habits, missteps, and lessons that shaped my journey. Instead of offering deterministic advice on how you must do—a tendency that’s perhaps too common in academia—I decided to share three questions that I believe every PhD student should, at some point, grapple with.
They’re far from the only questions that matter — questions about what scholar you want to become, who your research should matter to, and what topics you are interested in are three among many other good questions to ask. But, looking back, I wish I had asked these three questions much earlier. By sharing them here, I hope they might offer some guidance—or at least some companionship—for others navigating the long road of doctoral research.
Question 1: What’s the most surprising or thought-provoking result your dissertation could produce?
We are often taught to think about the “gap” in the literature. This basically means read tons of previous literature to figure out what is missing: what questions have not yet been asked? Which methods haven’t been used? What theoretical perspective have not been taken? In filling this gap, we are told, we contribute ot the literature and, in extension, to science itself. This is all well and good. But, ones we have filled the gap — do we know if anyone will actually be interested enough to read it?
Doing interesting research isn’t always the same as doing rigorous research—though ideally, we aim for both. As Gray and Wegner argue in Six Guidelines for Interesting Research, interesting work often begins with the phenomenon itself: what genuinely captures our curiosity, rather than merely what’s missing in the literature. Similarly, in his classic essay That’s Interesting! Davis suggests that what makes a theory interesting is its ability to challenge the assumptions of its audience, while uninteresting theories simply reaffirm what the audience already believes. Similar to Davis, I think that you probably have a really interesting — and good! — paper if you can summarize your article by saying something like “you all (in the literature) think it’s this, but in my research I find that it can actually (also) be this.”
So, ask yourself: what’s the most surprising or thought-provoking result your dissertation could produce?
Question 2: What is your unique selling point (USP) as a researcher?
During my year as a Fulbright scholar at Harvard, I often introduced my research by saying I studied how politicians reason about dilemmas, virtues, and vices in their representative roles. This usually earned a polite nod. But when I followed up with “I conducted 74 interviews with Swedish parliamentarians,” jaws dropped: “You did what?!” It became clear that my unique selling point (USP) wasn’t my theoretical departure, subject area or analysis—it was my data.
Knowing your USP can shape both how you present your research and how you work with it. As a professor at Harvard told me about my data, kindly but firmly: “Don’t mess it up.” His point (I think) was that when your data is strong, you don’t need to twist it into an overly elaborate theory or force it through unnecessarily complex models. Let it speak. Recognizing my USP helped me clarify what made my work valuable—and kept me grounded in how best to analyze it.
Your USP might be your data, your methodological skills, your analytical clarity, your writing, or even your ability to communicate complex ideas in a simple way. Whatever it is, let it guide your research.
Equally important is understanding what isn’t your USP. In my case, I use empirical methods to inform normative questions—what we ought to do, grounded in what we are doing. But I’m not a top-tier statistician, nor a Marxist scholar fluent in German. That’s fine. Knowing what you’re not allows you to collaborate wisely and focus your energy where you can truly contribute.
Your USP can of course evolve over time. In my next project, I’m designing a computer game—yes, an actual game—to collect data and teach ethical reasoning. In that project, the USP will be another kind of data: the game itself.
So, ask yourself: what’s your unique selling point, and how can you develop it into something that strengthens your research?
Question 3: Who are your academic heroes — and what can you learn from them?
Not all heroes wear capes—some just write really good articles. When I talk about academic heroes, it sounds more grand than it is. These are simply scholars I admire for different reasons. I say heroes, plural, because just like you have your own USP, scholars are good at different things. The goal isn’t to imitate one person in every way, but to learn from many who excel in different areas.
With this perspective, who are your academic heroes?
(No, you’re not allowed to pick your supervisors.)
Let me give two examples of my own academic heroes.
One researcher I admire is Sebastian van Baalen at Uppsala University. He studies among other things civil war, electoral violence, and protest movements in Côte d’Ivoire—topics and a region that is figuratively and literally far from from my own work. So why do I read most things he publishes? Because his writing is exceptionally clear and well-structured. I pay attention to how he frames problems, presents contributions, and builds conclusions. Even if we study different things, the craft of communicating research well is universal.
Of course, you should also seek out scholars who do the kind of research you want to do, in the way you want to do it. For me, that’s been Bernardo Zacka and Lisa Herzog. Early in my PhD, I wasn’t sure where I belonged—was I doing political theory or political psychology? I used empirical data, so didn’t that make me some kind of behavioral scholar? It wasn’t until I read Herzog and Zacka that I realized I didn’t have to choose: I could use empirical material to inform theory, not just the other way around.
So, ask yourself: What can you learn from your academic heroes, and are there scholars outside your field whose work might help you think, write, or research in new ways?
They’re far from the only questions that matter — questions about what scholar you want to become, who your research should matter to, and what topics you are interested in are three among many other good questions to ask. But, looking back, I wish I had asked these three questions much earlier. By sharing them here, I hope they might offer some guidance—or at least some companionship—for others navigating the long road of doctoral research.
Question 1: What’s the most surprising or thought-provoking result your dissertation could produce?
We are often taught to think about the “gap” in the literature. This basically means read tons of previous literature to figure out what is missing: what questions have not yet been asked? Which methods haven’t been used? What theoretical perspective have not been taken? In filling this gap, we are told, we contribute ot the literature and, in extension, to science itself. This is all well and good. But, ones we have filled the gap — do we know if anyone will actually be interested enough to read it?
Doing interesting research isn’t always the same as doing rigorous research—though ideally, we aim for both. As Gray and Wegner argue in Six Guidelines for Interesting Research, interesting work often begins with the phenomenon itself: what genuinely captures our curiosity, rather than merely what’s missing in the literature. Similarly, in his classic essay That’s Interesting! Davis suggests that what makes a theory interesting is its ability to challenge the assumptions of its audience, while uninteresting theories simply reaffirm what the audience already believes. Similar to Davis, I think that you probably have a really interesting — and good! — paper if you can summarize your article by saying something like “you all (in the literature) think it’s this, but in my research I find that it can actually (also) be this.”
So, ask yourself: what’s the most surprising or thought-provoking result your dissertation could produce?
Question 2: What is your unique selling point (USP) as a researcher?
During my year as a Fulbright scholar at Harvard, I often introduced my research by saying I studied how politicians reason about dilemmas, virtues, and vices in their representative roles. This usually earned a polite nod. But when I followed up with “I conducted 74 interviews with Swedish parliamentarians,” jaws dropped: “You did what?!” It became clear that my unique selling point (USP) wasn’t my theoretical departure, subject area or analysis—it was my data.
Knowing your USP can shape both how you present your research and how you work with it. As a professor at Harvard told me about my data, kindly but firmly: “Don’t mess it up.” His point (I think) was that when your data is strong, you don’t need to twist it into an overly elaborate theory or force it through unnecessarily complex models. Let it speak. Recognizing my USP helped me clarify what made my work valuable—and kept me grounded in how best to analyze it.
Your USP might be your data, your methodological skills, your analytical clarity, your writing, or even your ability to communicate complex ideas in a simple way. Whatever it is, let it guide your research.
Equally important is understanding what isn’t your USP. In my case, I use empirical methods to inform normative questions—what we ought to do, grounded in what we are doing. But I’m not a top-tier statistician, nor a Marxist scholar fluent in German. That’s fine. Knowing what you’re not allows you to collaborate wisely and focus your energy where you can truly contribute.
Your USP can of course evolve over time. In my next project, I’m designing a computer game—yes, an actual game—to collect data and teach ethical reasoning. In that project, the USP will be another kind of data: the game itself.
So, ask yourself: what’s your unique selling point, and how can you develop it into something that strengthens your research?
Question 3: Who are your academic heroes — and what can you learn from them?
Not all heroes wear capes—some just write really good articles. When I talk about academic heroes, it sounds more grand than it is. These are simply scholars I admire for different reasons. I say heroes, plural, because just like you have your own USP, scholars are good at different things. The goal isn’t to imitate one person in every way, but to learn from many who excel in different areas.
With this perspective, who are your academic heroes?
(No, you’re not allowed to pick your supervisors.)
Let me give two examples of my own academic heroes.
One researcher I admire is Sebastian van Baalen at Uppsala University. He studies among other things civil war, electoral violence, and protest movements in Côte d’Ivoire—topics and a region that is figuratively and literally far from from my own work. So why do I read most things he publishes? Because his writing is exceptionally clear and well-structured. I pay attention to how he frames problems, presents contributions, and builds conclusions. Even if we study different things, the craft of communicating research well is universal.
Of course, you should also seek out scholars who do the kind of research you want to do, in the way you want to do it. For me, that’s been Bernardo Zacka and Lisa Herzog. Early in my PhD, I wasn’t sure where I belonged—was I doing political theory or political psychology? I used empirical data, so didn’t that make me some kind of behavioral scholar? It wasn’t until I read Herzog and Zacka that I realized I didn’t have to choose: I could use empirical material to inform theory, not just the other way around.
So, ask yourself: What can you learn from your academic heroes, and are there scholars outside your field whose work might help you think, write, or research in new ways?