Are There Facts About What You Know, or Do We Just Make Them Up?
The Argument That Started It All
Maya insists she knows the secret level’s unlock code. Liam says she doesn’t — she only thinks she knows. Each is sure. So who’s right? Is there a real fact about whether Maya knows, like there’s a fact about how many desks are in the room? Or is “knowing” just something people decide, like a house rule in a board game?
This everyday squabble opens the door to a deep question: when we say “I know,” are we pointing to a real fact in the world, or are we just signaling how we feel? The branch of philosophy that wrestles with this is called metaepistemology — it’s not directly about what we know, but about what we’re doing when we claim to know something. And at its heart is a fight over epistemic facts: facts about what counts as knowing, being justified, reasoning well. Are such facts out there, like mountains, or are they more like the rules of Monopoly — real only because we agree on them?
The Commonsense Voice: Yes, Knowledge Facts Are Real
Most of us go through life assuming minimal realism about knowledge. Paris is the capital of France: either you know that or you don’t. The fact doesn’t depend on your culture, your mood, or what your friends think. If two people genuinely disagree about whether a detective has enough evidence, both can’t be right. That’s the default view most scientists, journalists, and kids on the playground use every day.
But some philosophers push further. The philosopher Paul Boghossian (born in the 20th century) defends a stronger position he calls absolutism. He argues that there is a uniquely correct set of epistemic principles — general rules for when a belief is justified. All rational agents are bound by them. Boghossian wrote his book Fear of Knowledge partly to challenge what he saw as a trendy idea in the humanities: that different ways of knowing — science, astrology, folk wisdom — are all “equally valid.” He calls that idea Equal Validity, and he thinks it’s mistaken and dangerous. A core part of his argument is that if equal validity were true, then there’d be no fact of the matter about what’s rational to believe, and genuine disagreement would become impossible.
Another philosopher, Terence Cuneo (born in the 20th century), defends epistemic realism for an unusual reason: he thinks it’s needed to save morality. Cuneo argues: if moral facts don’t exist, then epistemic facts don’t exist either. But epistemic facts do exist — we really can be justified or not. So moral facts must exist. He’s using the seeming obviousness of knowledge facts as a stepping stone to defend the reality of right and wrong. Both Boghossian and Cuneo agree that without real, mind-independent epistemic facts, our whole practice of reasoning and arguing falls apart.
The Bombshell: What If There Are No Knowledge Facts?
Not everyone is convinced. A more radical camp of philosophers embraces metaepistemological error theory. Error theorists say that when people claim “Maya knows the code,” they’re trying to state a fact — but that fact doesn’t exist. All such claims are false, because there are no epistemic facts at all. The philosopher Jonas Olson (born in the 20th century) uses a mirror image of Cuneo’s strategy. First he argues that morality is an error: there are no moral facts. Then, using a parity premise, he concludes the same for epistemic facts: there are no facts about what you ought to believe. A different approach, defended by Bart Streumer (born in the 20th century), goes even wider — a universal metanormative error theory that denies any real reasons for belief, action, or anything else.
Error theory sounds wild, but it can feel weirdly tidy. However, it faces a sharp catch: if error theory is true, then there’s no epistemic reason to believe error theory. It undercuts itself. Some critics say you can’t even genuinely believe it — you’d be trying to hold a thought while claiming that thought has no rational support. This puzzle has kept philosophers busy.
A slightly less explosive position comes from metaepistemological non-cognitivism. Non-cognitivists claim that when we say “That’s a justified belief,” we aren’t describing a fact at all. We’re expressing a pro-attitude, a bit like cheering for a sports team. The philosopher Hartry Field (born in the 20th century) argued that calling a belief justified is just endorsing a policy, not stating a truth. Mark Heller (born in the 20th century) put it bluntly: “‘Knowledge’ is our word for saying that S’s epistemic condition is good enough.” These thinkers say that epistemic talk works like saying “Hooray for believing based on evidence!” rather than “There is a fact about evidence.”
One famous reply is that non-cognitivism can’t be argued for without secretly using epistemic norms. Michael Lynch (born in the 20th century) argued that to even ask whether epistemic facts exist, you must already be committed to epistemic values like good reasoning. You can’t step outside inquiry, so you can’t consistently deny the reality of inquiry’s rules.
The Middle Path: Facts, but Only Relative to Us
Some philosophers want to keep talk of epistemic facts without saying they’re absolute. Epistemic relativism holds that facts about knowledge and justification are real but mind-dependent — they depend on cultural frameworks, personal standards, or contexts of assessment. The American philosopher Richard Rorty (1931–2007) famously suggested characters like Galileo and Cardinal Bellarmine were each right “according to” their own “epistemic grids.” This is sometimes called replacement relativism: the raw claim “X knows” gets replaced with “X knows according to system C.” Once you fill in the system, the resulting statement is absolutely true or false. So Galileo knew heliocentrism according to scientific criteria, and Bellarmine knew geocentrism according to theological criteria — both true.
Critics say this isn’t truly relativistic. A newer strand, called new-age relativism and defended by John MacFarlane (born in the 20th century), goes further. MacFarlane argues that a knowledge claim like “She knows there is a barn” doesn’t have a truth value until you specify the standards of the person assessing the claim, not just the speaker’s context. If the assessor is a skeptic, the claim might be false; if they’re relaxed, true. There’s no once-and-for-all fact. Knowledge becomes like a wave that shifts with every observer. This view preserves the idea that we’re talking about something, but makes that something slippery — what you know depends on who’s asking and from where.
So, Why Does This Fight About Knowing Matter?
The debate over epistemic facts isn’t just a puzzle for philosophers in armchairs. It shapes your everyday life. If there are no real facts about what counts as good evidence, then arguing with someone who says climate science is a hoax becomes a clash of personal tastes, not a search for truth. News anchors, juries, and friends all rely on the assumption that some beliefs are justified and some aren’t, and that this isn’t just a matter of opinion.
At the same time, relativist ideas can encourage humility. Recognizing that others live inside different cultural “grids” can make you more patient and curious. But it can also paralyze: if every way of knowing is as good as any other, why bother doing hard research or correcting someone who’s wrong?
So the next time you’re in a shouting match with a friend about whether a certain fact counts as known, you’re not just having a temper tantrum. You’re taking a stand on one of philosophy’s liveliest questions — without even realizing it. And which side you lean toward can quietly shape how you learn, whom you trust, and how you treat people who see the world differently.
Think about it
- If two people from different cultures disagree about whether someone knows the cause of an illness, could one be right and the other wrong? Why?
- Imagine you discover that every one of your beliefs is just a habit taught to you by your community, and there’s no objective fact about which beliefs are better. Would you still argue with people who disagree?
- If we took relativism seriously, would it make people kinder to one another, or would it make solving important problems harder? What would you lose and what would you gain?
