Certified to Death (With Distinction)

The modern pharmaceutical and scientific job market, dear reader, has developed a peculiar affliction—no, not another variant, but something equally transmissible: credentialitis. A creeping malaise in which individuals collect certifications the way Victorians collected venereal diseases: with surprising enthusiasm and an air of scholarly pride.

There is, of course, nothing wrong with continuing one’s education. As our parents used to remind us, "knowledge is power." But one begins to wonder whether completing "Introduction to Mitochondrial Bioenergetics" on Coursera (special badge!) quite equates to a postdoc. LinkedIn profiles these days read less like résumés and more like digital sticker albums—“Harvard,” “Wharton,” “MIT,” all proudly displayed next to “Certified in Conflict Resolution for Veterinary Staff.”

The delusion is often mutual. Some individuals genuinely believe that completing a 6-hour self-paced online course entitled Innovation and Leadership in the Age of AI means they “studied at Stanford.” That the university in question was offering its content for free to market its brand is beside the point. To these autodidacts, the mere act of pressing play constitutes enrollment. (Should one list “worked at Goldman Sachs” because one follows its earnings calls on YouTube?)

I, too, remember iTunes University. A lovely invention, when one could eavesdrop on the lectures of Oxbridge dons while commuting. It was like stealing education, but with Apple’s blessing. Still, not once did it cross my mind to list Philosophy 101, Yale under “Formal Education” on my CV.

But the disease has spread. There now exists a baroque industry of Executive MBAs, Professional MBAs, Mini-MBAs, Micro-Masters, Nano-Degrees, and—my personal favourite—Certificates of Advanced Studies (CAS), a title that suggests the owner has transcended mere knowledge and now floats among Platonic ideals. These can cost thousands, yet are consumed in bulk by mid-career professionals who suspect that the only thing standing between them and the C-suite is a €4,000 weekend in Lausanne.

So why did this become common practice?

Three reasons, really—each more dismal than the last.

First, the commodification of education. Universities, squeezed by declining public funding and growing global ambitions, realised they could sell the halo of their brands in digestible, certificate-sized chunks. Harvard and Oxford once conferred gravitas through selective admission and centuries of accumulated prestige. Now they flog it on edX and FutureLearn, sliced thin like academic prosciutto. Why admit you when they can invoice you instead?

Second, the bureaucratisation of hiring. In the golden age of labour markets (somewhere between the invention of penicillin and the demise of pensions), you got a job because someone thought you could do it. Today, you get a job because an algorithm thinks your CV has enough keywords. HR departments—bloated, risk-averse, and algorithmically inclined—have outsourced judgment to credentials. It is easier to tick a box than to trust a gut.

Third, the fear economy. In a market where layoffs spread faster than flu strains, everyone is trying to “stand out”—which increasingly means “stack up.” Degrees are no longer sufficient; one must now collect post-nominals like Pokémon. A PhD in pharmacology is fine, but wouldn’t it be better with an MBA, a Six Sigma Black Belt, a Data Science Bootcamp, and a CAS in Ethical AI Strategy for Mid-Level Managers?

And yet, this stacking comes with diminishing returns. As the joke goes in Better Call Saul, when Saul Goodman is pressed about his law degree, he proudly announces it was from the University of American Samoa—go land crabs!. It was, at least, a degree. Today, many applicants would list “Executive Legal Negotiation: Advanced Level” on their LinkedIn and imply that they, too, had been schooled in the art of lawyering—Harvard-adjacent, naturally.

There is a flipside to all this, and it is a bleak one: job markets are tighter than monoclonal antibody supply chains. In this climate, desperate applicants are forced to compete by credential inflation. A simple BSc in pharmacology once got you a job. Now you need an MSc, a project management certification, fluency in Python, and at least one certificate issued by an institution with a Latin name and a Helvetica logo. Some even list their LinkedIn Learning achievements, as if “Learning to Use Outlook More Efficiently” is a sign of scientific rigour.

Employers and companies are complicit. They demand certificates for things that used to be called “onboarding” or “training.” Hiring managers, terrified of making a hiring error, hide behind credentials like medieval peasants behind relics. The result is a field where candidates introduce themselves with their diplomas, and only after 12 months does anyone realise that—whoops—they’re not actually that useful outside academic case studies.

There is a need, as ever, for balance. Some courses genuinely enrich. Others pad. The trick is knowing the difference. And if one more person introduces themselves as having “studied at Harvard” based on a 3-hour edX module, I may be forced to invent a new certification: Postgraduate Certificate in CV Bullshit Detection. I would charge $2,999 and offer it fully online. Naturally.