Over the past years, we have had many discussions within our research group and with colleagues at other universities about the changing culture in academia. These conversations often revolve around funding, publication pressure, career perspectives, or the increasing complexity of modern research. Yet another topic repeatedly emerges, often in informal conversations after meetings, field campaigns, conferences, or when reflecting on the development of our MSc and PhD students.
Many of us sense that the way young scientists approach research is changing. This observation is not meant as criticism, nor as an attempt to romanticize the past. Rather, it reflects the impression that dedication to science today often takes different forms from what many of us experienced during our own early years in academia.
Having said that: we only can judge it from our perspective and that is the one student who stayed in the university, did not leave it on purpose, hence we have our own mindset and it would rather be interesting to ask for the opinion of our former fellow students now working in companies or ministries.
And we also do not want to talk about students or colleagues not understanding the simple principle that the funded project is paying the money while the research is just a part of it. We also struggled as young PhDs to accept annoying intermediate reports, lengthy project meeting and wanted to get back to our very own research – but we understood it after a while, that this is part of our paid work.
What we want to talk about is our very subjective observation over the past years and it was all triggered by a young EAGLE student discussing some research for a student project (nothing relevant, just one of the mandatory student tasks for 5 ECTS) with us and we expected her to come back a week later with maybe half of it – but the opposite happened, she did not only finish everything but she put a lot of thinking into the research approach and made it better than we could have imagined. This surprise triggered the discussions why we are surprised about it.
What makes this observation particularly interesting is that it has very little to do with skillset or technical capability. That would not allow a differentiation between our students. The students entering our EAGLE programme today are exceptionally bright. They learn new methods at impressive speed, quickly become proficient in programming, understand complex Earth Observation workflows, and often master machine learning and deep learning techniques that did not even exist when many senior researchers started their careers. Given the right environment, they can acquire an astonishing range of technical skills within a relatively short period of time.
As lecturers and supervisors, we know that most of these things can be taught. We can teach remote sensing methods, statistics, programming, scientific writing, project management, and increasingly sophisticated approaches to data analysis. We can help students learn how to formulate research questions, conduct experiments, process large datasets, and communicate their findings. With motivation, support, and effort, talented students can become excellent scientists from a technical perspective.
What appears much more difficult to teach is something else entirely: the deeper scientific curiosity that makes a person continue thinking about a problem beyond the immediate requirements of a course, thesis, or project. It is the desire to understand a phenomenon simply because it is interesting. It is the excitement that comes from discovering something unexpected in the data, following a new idea, or reading a paper late in the evening because one wants to understand a concept more deeply. In short, it is the scientific attitude itself.
This also includes a sense of responsibility toward research projects: the commitment to bring a funded project to completion, to meet deliverables, and to carry out necessary work even when it involves tedious analyses, revisions, or unexpected complications. Similar differences can sometimes be observed during application interviews for PhD positions or our EAGLE M.Sc. programme. Some applicants are visibly nervous because they very much want to be accepted, while others appear more relaxed and treat the interview quite lightly. Of course, such differences are partly a matter of personality, cultural background, confidence, or interview experience. Still, they raise broader questions about how young people perceive academic training, opportunity, and commitment today.
At the same time, we should be cautious in how we interpret these impressions. Every generation of scientists may be tempted to view the next (or previous) generation through a critical lens. Perhaps senior researchers have always felt that students were more dedicated in the past. Perhaps memory selectively preserves the most passionate colleagues while gradually forgetting those who treated research primarily as an ordinary job. This possibility should make us careful before drawing simple conclusions.
It is also undeniable that the academic environment has changed substantially. Discussions about work-life balance have become more prominent, and in many respects this is a positive and necessary development. Career paths have become less secure, competition has increased, and young researchers today face uncertainties that previous generations may not have encountered to the same extent. Many students and early-career researchers are also more aware of mental health, sustainability, fairness, and the need to build a life beyond work. These are not weaknesses. They are signs of a generation that is asking important questions about how academia should function.
For this reason, it would be unfair to interpret changing attitudes simply as a lack of commitment. In many cases, younger scientists are not less dedicated; they may simply express dedication differently. They may be more careful about boundaries, more strategic about career choices, and less willing to accept unhealthy academic norms as inevitable. This can be a strength for science, not a threat to it.
Yet there remains an important distinction. Work-life balance and scientific dedication are not opposites. One can maintain a healthy personal life while still being deeply passionate about research. The issue is not whether people work sixty hours per week instead of forty. The issue is whether scientific questions continue to spark their curiosity when no external pressure exists. Whether they are motivated only by requirements and career considerations, or also by a genuine desire to understand, discover, and contribute.
Science has never been a profession that attracts people primarily because of financial rewards. Anyone whose main objective is maximizing income can usually find more attractive opportunities outside academia. Research has always depended on individuals who are motivated by something that cannot easily be quantified: the desire to understand how the world works and the willingness to invest substantial effort in answering questions whose solutions are uncertain.
When we look back at the scientists who inspired us during our own education, what often stands out is not their technical expertise alone. Rather, it was their enthusiasm. They were fascinated by their subject. They spoke about ideas with energy and conviction. Many of us have met internationally renowned Earth Observation scientists whose motivation was not fame, but a deep commitment to understanding and protecting our planet. Their curiosity was contagious. As young students, many of us were drawn into science precisely because we encountered people for whom research was not merely a job, but an intellectual passion.
This raises an important question for those of us involved in educating the next generation. If technical skills can be taught more easily than scientific curiosity, what is our role as supervisors and teachers? Perhaps the best we can do is create an environment in which curiosity can flourish. We can expose students to exciting questions, encourage independent thinking, and demonstrate through our own behaviour why research remains such a rewarding endeavour. We can provide opportunities, mentorship, trust, and inspiration. We can show that science is not only about methods, outputs, and deliverables, but also about curiosity, persistence, and discovery.
At the same time, we should not expect the next generation simply to reproduce the academic culture we experienced ourselves. Perhaps they will develop a different model of scientific dedication: one that combines curiosity with healthier boundaries, ambition with collaboration, and excellence with a more sustainable working culture. If so, this would not mean that the scientific attitude is disappearing. It may mean that it is being reshaped.
The future of science will certainly depend on new methods, new technologies, and increasingly powerful analytical tools. Yet none of these developments can replace the fundamental human qualities that have always driven scientific progress. Curiosity, persistence, intellectual courage, responsibility, and genuine fascination with unanswered questions remain as important today as they were decades ago.
Perhaps this reflection says as much about ourselves as it does about younger generations. Perhaps every generation worries about the future of its profession. Nevertheless, it is worth continuing to ask how we can educate and support a new generation of outstanding scientists. Universities can successfully teach remote sensing, programming, artificial intelligence, and many other technical skills. But the ingredient that remains most difficult to teach is also the one that often defines exceptional scientists: the spark that transforms knowledge into discovery.
Our task, then, may not be to demand this spark from young scientists, but to help create the conditions in which it can emerge, grow, and endure..
