Generative AI has taken scam emails targeting academics to a new level. The poorly written messages that once immediately raised suspicion are giving way to carefully crafted emails that seem to know who you are, what you research, and what might stroke your ego.
In the old days, there was the classic “Nigerian prince” scam: an unexpected email from a stranger claiming to have inherited or gained access to a large fortune and asking for your help in transferring it. All you needed to do was provide some personal information or pay a small fee upfront – with the promise of a generous reward later. The stories varied, but the formula became so familiar that it was a genre of its own. These scam mails are, unfortunately, still known in the Nordic languages as ”Nigerian letters”.
Even academics became targets, and needed to develop their own version of scam literacy. We became accustomed to emails inviting us to submit to dubious journals, attend questionable conferences, or publish with less-than-reputable publishing houses. Over time, the warning signs became relatively easy to spot: generic praise, awkward language, irrelevant references to your research. Suspicious links, and promises that sounded too good to be true. Today, many such messages do not even reach us; they disappear into spam folders without receiving a second glance.
But something is changing. The new generation of scam emails can be remarkably specific, thanks to generative AI.
It Begins with Praise
Let’s look at some of the scams that landed in my own inbox during the summer break.
Some rely on impersonation. For example, the non-fiction publisher Penguin Random House had published a fraud alert warning that scammers are impersonating its employees during the summer months.
In my own such impersonated message, the “acquisition editor” told me how impressed they were of the truly interdisciplinarity of my work and asked whether I had ever considered working with a literary agency.
Another invitation supposedly came from a host of The Book Show at ABC Radio National in Australia. I was told they would be “honored to host you for an in-depth, remote interview”, “to discuss the changing architecture of public discourse, your meditations on how newsrooms can actively empower audience media literacy, and the challenge of maintaining civic trust in an increasingly fragmented digital ecosystem”. It sounded impressively well informed. Fortunately, one detail rather spoiled the illusion: the sender was using a Gmail address containing the misspelled word “nationall”.
Then came the “author visibility strategist”. He had supposedly discovered my work and was “genuinely impressed by the structural clarity and practical urgency” of it. What made the message striking was its level of detail. Several paragraphs discussed the content and themes of my latest book, drawing quite convincingly on information available online. The sender asked whether I had observed how different audiences were engaging with my research and then proposed what he called “a focused reader replacement”. Sounds truly academic – or did he actually mean audience engagement or audience development?
If I was interested in having the book featured, “a brief response would be greatly appreciated”, and they would be “happy to share the next steps”.
Another message appeared to come from an actual literary author with positive reviews on Goodreads – except that the real author was almost certainly not the person behind the email. She claimed to have been “immediately drawn” to my new book and wanted to hear more about the writing process. The message was warm, personal and tailored to me: precisely the kind of correspondence between authors that would not necessarily seem suspicious at first glance. Below her signature, she asserted to “always welcome the opportunity to connect with fellow authors and share in the creativity, challenges, and rewards of the writing journey”. Unfortunately – or, should I say, fortunately? – the initials of her name were different in her email address and signature, which, again, spoiled the illusion.
And then there was the book club. Its supposed coordinator – complete with a photograph in the email signature – reached out to thank me for the “meaningful contribution” I had made with my book and to say that their book community wanted to feature it. My book had apparently stood out for its Fall 2026 line-up because it felt timely and important, followed by a lengthy explanation of exactly why the book was such a good fit for the community. If I was interested in having the book featured, “a brief response would be greatly appreciated”, and they would be “happy to share the next steps”. Of course, we never got there.
Sales Pitches
There are also other types of uninvited callers. They are not necessarily scammers, but they are selling something.
One increasingly common approach comes from publishing companies – describing themselves as “alternative publishers” or alike – that claim to have discovered your work and would like to feature you as an author or scholar. What they are offering is essentially paid visibility dressed in journalistic form: a professionally produced profile, an interview, perhaps even a magazine cover.
The price? Around €3,500.
Do not reply, and they may come back later with a special offer. Suddenly, the same visibility can be yours for just €2,500.
And who would not be tempted by a magazine cover? A full-length profile devoted to your work? Professional photographs and pages explaining why what you do matters? The appeal is obvious in an environment where praise is scarce and recognition hard won.
Who would not be tempted by a magazine cover? A full-length profile devoted to your work? Professional photographs and pages explaining why what you do matters?
Another category has been around for longer: companies offering to popularise academic research. They propose podcasts, animated videos, infographics or other professionally produced formats that promise to bring your research to a wider audience. Even here, the initial email often focuses on the importance of your work and the visibility they could generate. The price may not be mentioned at all. Instead, you are invited to “a short call” to discuss the possibilities.
The Declining Trust
There is nothing inherently wrong with selling communication services, of course – researchers and universities pay for professional communication all the time. The problem arises when a commercial offer is presented in a way that resembles independent recognition, editorial interest or a genuine invitation. The hook comes first; the scam can come later.
Everyone must decide for themselves which messages deserve a response. But there is a more troubling consequence to all of this. As our inboxes fill with increasingly sophisticated scams, impersonations and carefully personalised sales pitches, we learn to become suspicious of almost everything.
My biggest fear is that one day I will delete a legitimate request because it looks too much like all the bogus ones. Or my own requests for acting as a peer reviewer or collaborator will be dismissed as scams.
And that places a new responsibility on legitimate senders. Journalists, publishers, editors, research communicators and others approaching academics may need to become even more transparent about who they are, why they are making contact, and what they are offering.
If an academic does not respond to your perfectly genuine email, do not be too surprised. You may simply have been caught in the crossfire of an inbox that has become much harder to trust.
How to recognise a scam
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