Francisco Zambrano

I enjoy writing articles; it is part of what I do. In them, I reflect on my everyday life and my profession. I try to draw lessons from experience, turn those experiences into knowledge, and leave behind something that might endure and be useful to someone else in my field.

Yet, over the past few days, one thought has been circling in my mind: beyond the fact that writing articles helps me reflect on a subject and that writing makes me very happy—it is my hobby and, at times, even my motivation—do these articles serve any public purpose in a world overwhelmed by information, where AI now produces millions of articles, perhaps better than mine?

I publish an article, share it on LinkedIn, and get a few reactions. So far, so good. The uncomfortable part begins when I ask myself how many people actually opened it, who read it, and whether anyone found something useful in it. Because getting applause is one thing; earning attention is another.

Are blogs still useful for connecting with our key audiences?

Those of us who work in communications should ask ourselves that question before writing and adding yet another article to our content strategy.

Everyone’s an expert—but who’s reading?

LinkedIn has a peculiar quality: we are all expert professionals—or, let’s be honest, many of us present ourselves that way—and we all have something to teach. Lessons learned, methodologies, experiences, and keys to success. Sometimes it feels like a convention full of speakers where no one wants to sit in the audience.

My suspicion is that, among peers, simply recognizing the subject is enough to dismiss it: “I already know this.” But knowing the “keywords” does not guarantee that we understand the subject, much less that we are experts.

Rozenblit and Keil studied this gap: we tend to believe that we understand certain phenomena better than we can actually explain them. Our confidence begins to deflate when we are asked to provide the details. Their research was not about LinkedIn, but it raises a relevant question: how much do we avoid reading because we assume there is nothing left for us to learn?¹

Publishing without having something to say

We should also take a closer look at what we are offering.

Today, all it takes is asking AI: “Write me an article about crisis management in Mexico.” Within seconds, AI gives us an artificially polished article about the importance of transparency, damage containment, timely communication with key audiences, and five recommendations that could apply to any company, in any country. Mexico made it into the headline, but the article itself is generic—without soul, without human experience.

AI can be useful. It can help us research, debate, and refine an idea. But it also allows “expert professionals,” in a hurry to build a strong reputation, to produce a text without taking the trouble to develop an actual idea. That convenience can diminish the value of the work of those of us who still publish content grounded in our own experiences.

I have no data to blame the proliferation of AI-generated articles for the declining interest in blogs. I do have a suspicion: when so many articles feel interchangeable, readers have little reason to open the next one. Their time is valuable, even if producing content is becoming cheaper by the day.

Applause among colleagues: communication or courtesy?

A colleague may react because they found the argument interesting. They may also react because they like us, because we work together, or because yesterday we commented on their post. Professional courtesy has its place. The problem begins when we record it as influence.

Visible reactions can tell a very different story from what is actually happening with the text. Someone may read the entire article and remain silent; someone else may congratulate you without getting past the headline.

The gap between interaction and actual reading has been documented: a study published in Nature Human Behaviourfound that around 75% of the links shared in its Facebook sample were reposted without a prior click. These were news stories on Facebook, not blogs on LinkedIn. But the finding is enough to stop treating every interaction as proof that someone actually read the content.²

And then there is another question: who is reacting? Is it the communications director we are trying to reach, or the same consultants with whom we regularly exchange congratulations?

So what do I do—stop writing?

The 2025 Edelman–LinkedIn report offers a counterpoint: decision-makers say they value content that informs them and challenges their perspectives. It is a survey, not a guarantee of results for our next article. Still, it forces us to take seriously the possibility that there are readers out there looking for something useful.³

Before declaring the blog dead, I would take another look at what we are saying, whom we are trying to reach, and what evidence we have that we are actually connecting with them. A conversation with a potential client may tell us more than fifty congratulations. A question about the argument may matter more than a hundred impressions.

The bonfire of vanities also keeps us warm and, why not admit it, motivates those of us who write. Maybe I won’t get lucky. Maybe I’m a bad writer. Maybe my writing is full of obvious ideas. But no one can take away the joy I’ve had along the way.

¹ Rozenblit, L., & Keil, F. (2002). “The misunderstood limits of folk science: An illusion of explanatory depth.” Cognitive Science, 26(5), 521–562.

² Sundar, S. S., et al. (2025). “Sharing without clicking on news in social media.” Nature Human Behaviour, 9, 156–168.

³ Edelman & LinkedIn (2025). B2B Thought Leadership Impact Report.