Table of Contents
- Introduction
- The Structure of the Academic Publishing Cartels
- Universities as Clients and Enablers
- Why Collective Action Has Been So Elusive
- The Moral Responsibility of the Academy
- What Can (and Should) Be Done?
- Conclusion
Introduction
For decades, academic publishers have operated in a closed, profitable ecosystem where knowledge is packaged and sold back to the institutions that produce it. Scholars write, review, and edit academic content largely without compensation, only to have their own universities pay subscription fees or exorbitant open access charges to access the same work. Critics often liken this to a cartel, dominated by a handful of commercial giants such as Elsevier, Springer Nature, Wiley, and Taylor & Francis. The term “cartel” may be provocative, but in this context, it underscores the industry’s uncompetitive practices, consolidated power, and profit margins that rival those of Big Tech.
It’s tempting to point fingers at these publishers and stop there. But should universities themselves—repositories of learning and supposed champions of open knowledge—bear some of the blame for the persistence of this system? They fund it, they depend on it, and, perhaps most importantly, they rarely coordinate to resist it. The academic publishing model, unsustainable for libraries and inequitable for researchers in the Global South, remains intact largely because of institutional inaction. It’s high time universities unite to stand against these academic publishing cartels.
The Structure of the Academic Publishing Cartels
Let’s not beat around the bush: academic publishing is an oligopoly. A few companies control a majority of the market, and their services are locked behind expensive paywalls or “gold” open access charges that can run into the thousands per article. Elsevier, for example, boasts profit margins north of 30%—not bad for a business where the raw materials (research articles) and quality control (peer review) are provided mostly for free.
The issue isn’t merely the pricing. It’s the structural hold these publishers have over academia. Journal prestige, impact factors, citation metrics—all are tied to these commercial platforms. For early-career researchers, publishing in a “high-impact” journal isn’t just good for the CV; it can be career-defining. Universities reinforce this ecosystem through hiring, promotion, and funding decisions that prioritize papers published in elite journals, many of which are owned by the usual suspects.
Thus, the academic cartel doesn’t operate in isolation—it thrives because it is embedded in the reward systems of the very institutions it exploits. Publishers dangle prestige; universities chase it.
Universities as Clients and Enablers
Universities are the primary customers of these commercial publishers, yet they often act like reluctant addicts rather than powerful clients. Collectively, higher education institutions funnel billions of dollars annually into subscription packages—often negotiated in secrecy and shrouded in non-disclosure agreements. These “Big Deal” bundles tie libraries to hundreds of journals, many of which see little actual use, but whose cancellation risks losing access to high-demand titles.
Even when libraries attempt to push back, institutional resistance can be muted. Consider the University of California system’s high-profile standoff with Elsevier in 2019. After walking away from negotiations, the UC system eventually struck a new agreement in 2021. While some hailed it as a victory, others criticized it for embedding article processing charges (APCs) that could further burden researchers and entrench the pay-to-publish model.
The broader issue is that such acts of defiance are rare. Most universities prefer quiet compliance over public confrontation, often due to internal fragmentation between libraries, academic departments, and administration. The consequence? Commercial publishers retain the upper hand, and reform remains piecemeal at best.
Why Collective Action Has Been So Elusive
If universities are so burdened by rising journal costs and structural inequality in publishing, why don’t they rise up collectively? The answer lies in a mix of practical constraints, conflicting incentives, and good old-fashioned academic inertia.
Firstly, academic institutions are not monoliths. Within any single university, there are varying levels of awareness and concern over publishing models. Researchers may be concerned with impact factors, librarians with cost containment, and administrators with rankings. Aligning these interests is hard enough within a single institution—coordinating them across countries and continents is exponentially harder.
Secondly, there is the issue of fear. Canceling subscriptions risks faculty backlash, especially when access to a key journal is lost mid-project or during teaching. Administrators, understandably risk-averse, fear reputational damage or internal revolt.
Third, there’s the problem of incentive misalignment. Many researchers, especially those under pressure to publish or perish, remain behind paywalls for the most prestigious journals. Until tenure committees and grant agencies shift their metrics, researchers will continue to favor “high-impact” journals over open alternatives, and universities will continue to pay for access to them.
Finally, geopolitical asymmetries complicate things. Universities in high-income countries often have the resources to sustain subscription payments or negotiate transformative agreements. But for institutions in the Global South, these costs can be prohibitive. Ironically, while they suffer most from exclusion, they also have the least bargaining power.
The Moral Responsibility of the Academy
Universities love to talk about their commitment to open knowledge, inclusion, and the public good. Yet their actions often betray these principles. By propping up exploitative publishing models, universities indirectly support a system that locks out readers, marginalizes authors from underfunded regions, and commodifies access to research that was often publicly funded in the first place.
There’s a moral contradiction here. The academy exists to generate and disseminate knowledge, yet it perpetuates a system that restricts that very dissemination. This is not a passive failure; it is an active complicity.
And let’s not ignore the hypocrisy of some university-based presses and academic bodies. While advocating for open access in principle, some still rely on commercial partnerships with the very cartels they critique, or mimic their pricing structures in their own offerings. Fighting the system means more than publishing manifestos—it requires introspection, risk-taking, and operational change.
What Can (and Should) Be Done?
Despite the bleakness, the tide may be turning. Initiatives like Plan S in Europe, the OA2020 movement, and community-driven platforms such as the Public Knowledge Project or Open Library of Humanities represent cracks in the cartel’s armor. But for these efforts to scale, they need sustained support, particularly from universities.
Here’s where institutions must step up. First, they need to re-examine their internal reward structures. As long as hiring and promotion hinge on publishing in commercial journals, researchers will keep submitting to them. Universities must shift toward valuing the quality and accessibility of research over the journal’s prestige.
Second, more universities must pool resources to support non-commercial infrastructures. Scholarly publishing can be run by consortia, libraries, and universities themselves. The arXiv model, for instance, shows what’s possible when academia controls the distribution platform.
Third, transparency is key. Universities should publish the terms of their publishing contracts and APC expenditures. Sunlight is a powerful disinfectant, and collective awareness is the first step to collective resistance.
Finally, leadership matters. University administrators must be willing to accept short-term disruption, like access loss or faculty frustration, for long-term gains. This requires courage, vision, and a willingness to challenge the status quo.
Conclusion
Blaming commercial publishers for the broken state of academic publishing is easy—they certainly deserve their share of the ire. But letting universities off the hook misses the point. These institutions have the power, the resources, and the moral responsibility to reshape the publishing landscape. So far, they’ve chosen appeasement over action.
True change will not come from individual researchers opting for preprints or green open access alone. It requires coordinated, institutional resistance. The academic publishing cartel didn’t build itself; it was enabled, sustained, and legitimized by the very institutions it exploits.
If universities are serious about open access, equity, and the democratization of knowledge, then the question isn’t if they should fight the cartel. It’s why they haven’t already—and when they finally will.