This story was originally published by Reasons to be Cheerful
11 min read
In the early-ish days of Wikipedia, my college friends and I had an ongoing contest to see who could introduce a lie into an entry that would stick the longest. If your goal is to smuggle mistruth into the internet’s encyclopedia, you quickly learn to leave the well-known stuff with hard-and-fast facts alone. Try to change the Battle of Hastings to 1068, or claim Thomas Jefferson wrote Flowers for Algernon, and the Wiki editors swoop in to excise your lies within minutes. It was oddly inspiring to see that the online compulsion to be right, and for things to be right, could become a kind of immune system for upholding the truth.
Observing the editors’ behaviors, I conjured up a new strategy. I found a less-trafficked page — the entry for club sandwich — and located a sentence that was already conjecture, and which notably had a citation affixed to its end. The line read:
It is thought that the club sandwich was invented in an exclusive Saratoga Springs, New York gambling club in the late 19th Century.
I changed this by adding my buddy Danny as the sandwich’s inventor:
It is thought that the club sandwich was invented in an exclusive Saratoga Springs, New York gambling club in the late 19th Century by a maverick line cook named Danny Mears.
It’s unlikely that John McPhee had stumbled across our Wikipedia sandwich lie when he wrote that “any error is everlasting” in his 2009 New Yorker piece about the magazine’s fact-checking department. But he was right. “Maverick line cook Danny Mears” hardened into sturdier fiction with each repetition, appearing in poorly researched blog posts and online recipes, each mention making the lie seem more true. Wiki editors pulled it down a few times; we snuck it back in. In the end, Mears’ reign as the sandwich’s inventor persisted on Wikipedia for more than three-and-a-half years. An annoyed editor even added a Wiki “talk” comment exposing our misdeeds, titled Danny Mears Did Not Invent It. A couple years later, a friend texted the group to say she’d seen “maverick line cook Danny Mears” go up on the flatscreens as a bar-trivia answer.
McPhee goes on to describe the job of fact-checking as a kind of noble guardian, holding back a teeming horde of mistruths: “With drawn sword, the fact-checker stands near the end of this bridge.” We’d camouflaged our lie past a few of these sentries for what amounted to a joyride, but eventually the guards got us. What I’ve been wondering ever since, and especially lately, is: Who’s still guarding that bridge?
One may initially concede that our defenses seem to be diminishing in the present moment. You don’t have to look far to find a commentator mourning a “post-fact” world or worrying that we swim in toxic waters online when it comes to bad actors and misinformation.
Consider that 20 percent of Americans surveyed by Pew Research said they regularly get their news from TikTok, up from three percent in 2020. Last year, Meta ended its U.S. fact-checking program, while the courts have decided that social media platforms are private providers of forums for speech and so can set their own content rules, or remove the guardians from the bridge entirely, depending on their business incentives.

