The Lost Art of Not Knowing

I was listening to a podcast the other day, a very popular one, with millions of listeners, and the host was interviewing a Nobel Prize–winning economist. As he was listing his guest’s accomplishments, he said, “and then you won the Nobel Peace Prize.”

The economist corrected him, gently, “Not the Peace Prize,” he said, “The Nobel Prize in economics.”

The host paused. “Oh,” he said, “there’s more than one prize?”

And the economist explained, “Yes, there’s a prize for peace, literature, economics, medicine, and more.”

I was really surprised the host didn’t know. And even more, that he hadn’t done the research on his guest and could make that mistake. Just as I was flexing my judging muscles, the host said, “Oh, I didn’t know that. Interesting.”

He didn’t make an excuse, or get defensive, or try to pivot. He just said, “Oh, interesting,” and kept going. With millions of people listening. I was amazed by how graceful he was in his ignorance.

And I couldn’t help but contrast that with another well-known podcaster, one with millions of listeners. The one who is famous for finding some random, unvetted piece of information somewhere on the internet and presenting it as established fact. The one who dives into dubious research without any acknowledgment of the broader science, no acknowledgment of competing views, and no humility about what he might be missing.

What struck me about the difference between these two podcast hosts is their relationship with what they don’t know, and how much that matters when you have a platform.

Their large platforms don’t just share information; they shape the epistemic reality of millions of people. Platforms are power. What you say, what you ask and don’t ask, and what you promote tells millions of people what counts as worth knowing and what questions are worth asking. And you’re also demonstrating what intelligence looks like, or can look like.

When you don’t admit you’re wrong, when you paper over your ignorance, or when you claim confidence about facts without subjecting them to rigorous evaluation, you’re not just getting things wrong. You’re also modeling a lack of intellectual honesty and humility. You’re showing people that there is no “wrong,” that they can be confident of anything, regardless of its veracity.

It reminds me of the distinction organizational theorist Chris Argyris makes between advocacy and inquiry. Advocacy is the mode most of us default to. We campaign for our ideas. We state our position. We defend our mental models. I know I do this. I was brought up to defend my position, so it’s natural for me to assert before being curious about another’s view.

Inquiry is rarer and harder. It’s more open, more curious. It states the thought, the position, but keeps the door open: “Here is what I’m thinking, and here’s what I’m not sure of yet.” Argyris makes the point that advocacy without inquiry is how we stop learning altogether. We end up performing knowledge instead of building it.

The podcast host who said “oh, interesting,” showing his ignorance to millions, did something remarkable. He demonstrated inquiry in real time. He let himself not know—and be corrected—in public, live. And probably millions of those listening didn’t know there was more than one Nobel Prize either. And more than just a new piece of information, he gave his audience permission to not know.

This is so important, and especially important for people with the power of a platform, for leaders, for people who are looked to as models.

I think of a client I worked with, a senior leader who had just been promoted to run a highly technical engineering team. She wasn’t an engineer. In her first few months, she was terrified her team would figure out what she didn’t know and conclude she had no business leading them.

But her team didn’t need another engineer. They had plenty of those. What they needed was a leader, someone who could help them think together, ask questions they might be missing, and consider their work in the context of the organization, not just the technology.

Her “ignorance,” when she embraced it, wasn’t a gap in her leadership, but became an essential tool of her leadership.

The best leaders don’t try to be another expert on a team of experts, but use their curiosity, even their ignorance, to open up inquiry. They ask better questions. They’re not embarrassed by what they don’t know, because they understand that their job is to lead people who do know, not to become them.

Listening to the podcast, I thought to myself: being ignorant, and knowing you’re ignorant, has become a lost art.

We live in an information-rich environment, with facts at our fingertips, but without the discipline or understanding that information and facts are not the same as knowledge. Our culture rewards certainty and confidence over competence. Algorithms surface bold, declarative statements, but not the small print: the context, the questions, the unknowns and uncertainties surrounding them.

In this world of unlimited information and alternative facts, the ability to say “I don’t know” with ease and grace was one of the most radical and important things I’ve heard in a while.

We know that knowledge and expertise are power. But now I’m thinking, so is ignorance, when it’s held rightly. When it’s named, ignorance can be used to deepen a conversation, and allow us to be learners in public.

I’m wagering that the host who said “oh, interesting” didn’t lose credibility with his 20 million followers. If anything, he gained more respect, by showing that real authority isn’t in always knowing, but in knowing when you don’t, and being willing to let that be seen.