In an age where typing a few words into a search bar seems more efficient than asking another human being a question, we’re faced with a peculiar dilemma: has Google become the new oracle? The mindset that we no longer need to ask—because all answers supposedly lie at our fingertips—feels modern, yet strangely archaic. It raises an important question: if we can learn anything online, why do we still go to school, chase certificates, or respect professionals? What happens to the value of expertise when a search engine is seen as its substitute?
It’s tempting to think Google knows it all. But I argue—passionately—that it doesn’t, and can’t.
I once wrote, “Even though information is readily available at the click of a button, we, as professionals, should challenge ourselves to retain knowledge, to understand deeply, and not to treat Google like a crutch for every question.” When a patient walks into a clinic, a doctor who constantly consults Google for answers is not just inefficient—it’s unsettling. The internet should be a resource, not a lifeline. A digital encyclopedia, yes. But it must be paired with wisdom, training, and good judgment.
True intelligence lies in the ability to simplify complexity—to translate abstract concepts into relatable, digestible knowledge. That’s why I once tried to explain a technical concept using politics. Why? Because when people care, they remember. And they care when something speaks their language. Learning is a continuous process—one that shouldn’t be diluted by the convenience Google offers. He once rebuked someone for suggesting that a curious group member should “just Google it” instead of asking the group. That moment stuck with me.
The confusion we face now is not about access to information—it’s about understanding what intelligence actually means. Everyone can now find data, copy it, and paste it into an assignment. One student candidly told me, “I just tell the café guy to download it and leave a blank for my name.” That’s not education; that’s delegation of intellect. It’s why many lecturers now demand handwritten work, hoping to see at least a flicker of originality—some sign that the student has engaged with the topic beyond Ctrl+C and Ctrl+V.
We all know something. But knowing is not enough. The world isn’t just looking for facts—it’s hungry for how we present them. The mark of intelligence isn’t merely remembering; it’s in reimagining. In repackaging the familiar to make it more beautiful, more useful, more impactful.
Abraham Lincoln’s definition of democracy endures not because it’s complicated, but because it’s disarmingly simple: government of the people, by the people, for the people. If Lincoln had merely copied from others, we wouldn’t have this elegant truth etched into history. His brilliance was in taking a complex political idea and expressing it with clarity and poetic power. That’s what great minds do—they refine, not repeat.
There’s always been a debate about who deserves more praise: the inventor or the improver. The one who builds a machine, or the one who makes it faster, sleeker, more user-friendly. Truth is, both matter. But the one who improves—who adds value through ingenuity—often changes the world in quieter, deeper ways.
That’s what we should strive for. To take old ideas and breathe new life into them. To use creativity, context, and clarity as tools of transformation. Google can’t do that. It can show you the recipe, but it can’t cook the dish. It can give you quotes, but it can’t give you voice. It may be a powerful library—but without the librarian’s mind, without critical thinking and personal insight, it becomes a maze.
Yes, Google gives you data. But not always the right data. Its algorithms, clever as they are, don’t grasp context or nuance. They can’t tell you which medical advice is outdated or which legal information is relevant to your unique case. For those, you need experts—people who can think critically, adapt, and advise with experience and empathy.
To use Google effectively, you must be vigilant. Cross-check sources. Ask: Who wrote this? What’s their motive? Is it credible? Is it current? These questions are not optional—they’re essential.
Albert Einstein once said, “If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough.” Simplicity is the true language of genius. Not simplification, but distillation—the boiling down of vast knowledge into clear, compelling insight.
Across history, the most influential figures have been those who could take complex ideas and speak them plainly, beautifully. Richard Adams used rabbits to talk about freedom in Watership Down. Benjamin Zander makes classical music feel like magic. Marie Curie didn’t just discover radioactivity; she made us rethink the invisible. Einstein didn’t just shake up physics—he made relativity relatable.
Steve Jobs redefined how we use technology, not just by inventing, but by refining—simplifying the complex until it felt intuitive. Martin Luther King Jr. moved millions with a dream, not a dissertation. Clarity changed the world.
I recall Dr. Gimba Mohammed once challenged us to summarize 50 pages of material onto a single sheet. Not because he wanted to torture us, but because he believed that true understanding lives in brevity. That challenge forced us to think, reinterpret, and communicate with precision. It was painful—but powerful.
I’ve met teachers whose magic lies in simplifying tough concepts using metaphors, stories, and humor. They make the abstract feel human. Their strength isn’t in knowing everything, but in making others know something—and enjoy knowing it.
In the end, relying solely on Google—even as professionals—cheapens the art of thinking. It dulls the blade of originality. Education is not about gathering information; it’s about transformation. It’s about refining what exists and making it shine in new light.
Google is a wonderful tool. But it must never become a substitute for the human mind. Because answers are easy to find. Understanding, however, is earned.
