Soccer purists have long feared the “Americanization” of the game. But in one key respect, it is already happening: ownership.

Americans now own more than 40 European soccer clubs, including current English Premier League champion Arsenal, Italian Serie A champion Inter Milan and storied teams such as Manchester United and Liverpool. Americans are also investing heavily in the lower leagues, taking ownership of two dozen clubs outside the top division, including Birmingham City, whose ownership group includes former NFL star Tom Brady, and Norwich City, purchased by Milwaukee Bucks owner Mark Attanasio in 2022.

And while global fans may carp at superficial changes that hint at the growing influence of American culture – halftime shows, cheerleaders and the use of “soccer” over “football – the reality is, it is at the level of ownership where Americans have the biggest capacity to change the game. It is a trend my colleagues and I have been charting for several years.

The yanks are coming, the yanks are coming!

U.S. sports ownership norms and rules differ greatly from the traditional European model: U.S. owners tend to operate like "emperors” who can move franchises from city to city in pursuit of bigger profits; European owners are more inclined to act as “caretakers” and traditionally come from the local business community. They see their teams as passion projects that they’re willing to sink money into.

But the global rise of soccer has seen wealthy Americans increasingly take an interest in European teams. It began in earnest in 2005 when American businessman Malcolm Glazer bought Manchester United. The Glazer-leveraged buyout sparked protest from the club’s supporters trust at the time and has grown as the owners sucked out more than 1 billion pounds from the club to pay back debt interest, repayments, dividends and fees.

But such opposition, which has only accelerated since 2018 with the entrance of U.S. private equity groups, has done little to put off American owners.

Today, there are 11 American ownership groups in the English Premier League – and they are more accustomed to the U.S. way of doing things. Combined, they own six NFL teams, four NBA teams, two MLB franchises and four NHL clubs. Stan Kroenke, the owner of English champion Arsenal, also owns the Los Angeles Rams, the NBA’s Denver Nuggets and the NHL’s Colorado Avalanche.

Ownership of these franchises has made some very rich men ever more wealthy as the value of top teams grew. But traditional soccer fans are increasingly concerned about this shift toward a profit-driven style of ownership.

The ups and downs of the pyramid system

But there is a potential barrier to these American owners making megabucks: the structure of soccer itself. It represents a battle between U.S. “closed” leagues – that is, with fixed franchises – and a European pyramid structure in which teams can drop down divisions, wiping millions of dollars off their valuation in the process.

To understand why U.S. and English leagues have these different models, you need to look back to how professional sports leagues in the two territories were originally designed. Until the late 19th century, sports in England and the U.S. followed similar trajectories, with the baseball teams in America and soccer teams in England playing in organized leagues with predictable schedules.

Then, in 1876, baseball’s National League was founded with territorial exclusivity for teams and, by 1891, a constitution that enshrined eight permanent members. New franchises were not absorbed into the National League but instead formed the American League. Underperforming professional baseball teams could not be ejected or relegated to a minor league even if they lost every game. Meanwhile, franchises could relocate to new cities at will.

Other U.S. sports adopted baseball’s monopolistic system of fixed teams with all-powerful owners – a system that, by the 21st century, produced regular profits, the world’s highest-valued sports teams and absolute power for owners.

In contrast, England’s Football League, which began life in 1888, had a fluid membership – exchanging its weakest teams with the strongest teams from the rival Football Alliance to create a two-tier system. The English pyramid system took shape after another rival league was absorbed in 1894 as the third tier.

From the outset there was the possibility of teams moving up – or being promoted – based on their performance on the pitch. Conversely, teams could be demoted if they played badly.

This pyramid structure quickly became the norm for soccer around the world and enshrined in FIFA statutes.

A fans’ revolt

Promotions and regulations create drama, romance, season-long tension and fan passion that help make soccer the most popular sport in the world.

But it also terrifies many American owners.

Burnley and West Ham, English clubs with significant American investment, were recently relegated to the second tier of the English pyramid – a move that will likely devastate their budgets and valuations. American-owned Hellas Verona and Pisa in Italy and Girona and Mallorca in Spain were likewise demoted to the second divisions.

Spooked U.S. owners have begun to lobby for change – and the safeguarding of their lucrative sporting investments. And it was little surprise that American fingerprints were all over the April 2021 announcement of the “closed” European Super League. The elite competition would have guaranteed permanent participation for 12 to 15 teams, plus a handful of rotating annual participants, in a new, multibillion-dollar continental competition.

The breakaway league was to be financed with $4 billion from U.S. banking giant JPMorgan. Four of the teams – AC Milan, Arsenal, Liverpool and Manchester United – are American-owned.

The European Super League would have Americanized elite European football in one fell swoop, with fixed franchises, no threat of relegation and league control by the owners or presidents of the permanent teams.

But fans, coaches and former players from the six English Premier League teams involved revolted against an elite competition without relegation, calling it an “ultimate betrayal.” All six formally withdrew within 72 hours of the league’s announcement, joining Germany’s two biggest teams, Bayern Munich and Borussia Dortmund, which refused from the outset to join. France’s Paris Saint-Germain also refused an invitation.

While the effort to create fixed franchises in Europe has, for now, been foiled, Americanization is still happening in smaller steps. Many of the changes are benign, such as cheerleaders and halftime entertainment. Other changes are more profound. American professional sports leagues often tweak rules to increase scoring, and FIFA is now experimenting with a new offside rule that would lead to more goals, reduce major upsets and benefit wealthier clubs.

Todd Boehly, co-owner of the Los Angeles Lakers and Los Angeles Dodgers, Strasbourg FC in France’s Ligue 1 and Chelsea in the U.K., is one of the American cheerleaders for this type of change.

He argues that the English Premier League should learn from American sports to increase revenue, including by introducing all-star games and postseason playoffs. Much of this is self-interest: Boehly’s Chelsea FC needs all the additional revenue it can find as the club announced record pre-tax losses of US$349 million for the 2024-25 season.

Welcome to … where now?

Some American franchise owners have given up on trying to change the European game and are looking elsewhere. U.S. capital is now being invested in a potential fixed-franchise league in Mexico. Mexico’s first division, Liga MX, whose television viewership in the United States exceeds that of the English Premier League and MLS combined, paused relegations for six seasons in 2020 due to the financial uncertainty brought on by COVID-19. Five of the 18 Liga MX clubs are now American-owned, and a return to relegations looks increasingly unlikely.

Hollywood actor Rob Mac (formerly McElhenney), who co-owns Wrexham FC in the U.K. with Ryan Reynolds, documented the romance of promotions in the TV documentary “Welcome to Wrexham.” But as a co-owner, with Eva Longoria, of Liga MX club Necaxa, Mac appears less enamored of the pyramid system in Mexico, pointing out “the potential value and devaluation of the clubs.”

Liga MX could soon become the first soccer league to fully transition from an established promotion and relegation system to a fixed-franchise model.

And that would be a significant step toward the global Americanization of the beautiful game.

Kirk Bowman does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

At the 2026 World Cup draw, FIFA Peace Prize recipient and U.S. President Donald Trump announced that the game should really be called “football.”

“There’s no question about it. We have to come up with another name for the NFL. It really doesn’t make any sense,” said Trump, an apparently new convert to the round-ball game.

He isn’t alone. The word “soccer” is, in some parts of the world, shunned by some fans.

Indeed, as a scholar of the sport who teaches a course called Soccer and Global Politics, I am bombarded with comments that the word “soccer” does not make any sense, and that people who use that term obviously know nothing about the beautiful game.

To me, this disparagement of the word “soccer” is not only petty and tiresome – it is also incorrect. It ignores the roots of the sport and the development of the language of the game.

Rather than making the word taboo, the football ecosystem should embrace it. To understand why, let’s go back to the beginning.

Associated to ‘assoc’ and then ‘soccer’

The game has been around in various forms for centuries, but it began to be codified in the mid-19th century.

“Association Football” was coined in 1863 to distinguish the game from rugby football, which, somewhat ironically, is played largely with the ball in hand.

British university students created their own slang at the time by abbreviating words and adding “-er” to them. Thus, “rugby” became “rugger” and “association football” was shortened to “assoc” and slanged to “soccer.”

And this term “soccer” was freely and proudly used in the British press and in public for nearly a century, until the 1980s.

In countries with other established codes of football – American football, Australian rules football and Gaelic football in Ireland – “soccer” became the dominant term. But British fans began abandoning the word in the 1980s, largely as a response to the embrace of the term in the States. And now, in the U.K. especially – but also among fans in the U.S. and Canada who present as “true” fans of the game – there are attempts to shame those who use the very term that the British invented and proudly used.

And that’s a pity. After all, using the word “soccer” has benefits. The British press continues to use “soccer” and “football” interchangeably to avoid repetitive writing. The shorter word is useful for tabloid editors when creating tight headlines. And using both words does not reveal that a person is ignorant but rather cosmopolitan.

The widespread use of “soccer” in Britain is still evident in the ongoing success of authoritative magazine World Soccer, founded in London in 1960; the TV show “Soccer AM,” which ran every Saturday from 1994 to 2023; the annual British charity match Soccer Aid; and Sky Sports’ “Soccer Saturday.” All document the enduring legacy of the term in Britain, despite the naysayers.

A shared vernacular

The beautiful game is also a universal one with a language shared by some 4 billion people.

Language evolves, and fans today equally understand “football,” “soccer,” “calcio,” “futebol” or “fútbol.”

Embracing all the variations of the beautiful game enriches the conversation. It illustrates the sport’s globalization and universal language, a shared vernacular that cuts across identities.

And besides, nobody wants the war that would ensue if American football fans were forced to find another name!

Kirk Bowman does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

On May 22, 2026, the Pentagon released a second batch of previously classified photos and videos showing what appear to be unexplained flying objects. These file dumps were the culmination of a process that was set in motion back in July 2023, when a group of government whistleblowers testified before Congress that the U.S. government was secretly in possession of extraterrestrial spacecraft and suspected alien body parts.

That congressional hearing marked the beginning of a cultural shift in which UFO reports are increasingly treated as a matter for serious discussion, both within the government and the scientific community.

But is this newfound legitimacy deserved? As an aerospace scientist who studies aircraft and spacecraft design, I approach this question using math, physics and the principles of engineering. To assess the plausibility of alien visitors, it’s necessary to understand the obstacles that an extraterrestrial vessel would need to overcome to reach Earth.

The tyranny of distance

There is no evidence of intelligent alien life in our solar system. So any extraterrestrial visitors would likely have to come from another star system within our Milky Way galaxy.

Proxima Centauri, the star closest to our Sun, is located 4.25 light-years (about 25 trillion miles or 40 trillion kilometers) away.

For perspective, if Earth were the size of a pea, the distance to Proxima Centauri would roughly equal the distance between New York and Sydney, Australia.

Since only a fraction of stars are thought to host intelligent life, the nearest alien civilization – if one exists – is surely much farther away than Proxima.

A need for speed

Given the scale of interstellar distances, it’s inevitable that any alien voyage to Earth would span many years and possibly several centuries. But as the time spent in transit increases, so does the risk of catastrophic accidents or system malfunctions that could jeopardize the mission. So it’s important to avoid an overly lengthy journey by traveling as fast as possible.

No object can reach or exceed the speed of light (roughly 186,000 miles or 300,000 kilometers per second). But well before approaching that threshold, engineering constraints begin to assert themselves. Limited fuel availability and the potential for structural damage will restrict the spacecraft’s peak velocity.

There is no universally accepted upper limit on interstellar flight speeds, but studies tend to converge around 19,000 miles per second (30,000 km/s) – 10% of the speed of light – as a realistic cruise velocity. At this speed, a journey of 10 light-years will take approximately 100 years to complete.

Fueling the dream

Finding a way to accelerate the ship to its target cruise speed is the central challenge facing any would-be alien explorers.

Interstellar space is unforgivingly vast, but the emptiness has some advantages. The lack of atmosphere means there is no aerodynamic drag. So when the ship reaches its cruise speed, it can shut down its propulsion system and coast toward the final destination. Unfortunately, the lack of atmosphere also means there is nothing to slow the ship down prior to arrival. So ideally, the propulsion system would be used for both acceleration at the start of the trip and deceleration at the end.

One of the more exotic propulsion strategies employs high-powered laser beams to push the ship through space. The beam is projected from a stationary array near the travelers’ home planet and directed toward a thin reflective sail attached to the ship. The beam’s photons exert radiation pressure on the sail, propelling the ship forward.

This approach has a major advantage in that it requires no onboard fuel. But the amount of energy and infrastructure needed to operate the laser would be staggering. Also, beamed propulsion provides no mechanism for deceleration. At best, this method could be deployed as part of a hybrid strategy that uses a separate system for deceleration.

A more practical approach is to use rocket propulsion. Rockets generate propulsive force, also known as thrust, by expelling high-velocity exhaust in a rearward stream. By reversing the direction of the exhaust, rockets can also be used to slow the ship down.

Their main disadvantage is that rockets must carry their own fuel in addition to carrying the passengers, the habitat and other life-sustaining systems. The extra load necessitates even more fuel. In other words, you need fuel to transport your fuel. The result is a costly snowball effect that can cause the total fuel requirement to balloon to absurd proportions.

Rocket propulsion can be divided into three broad categories.

Chemical propulsion uses chemical reactions – typically combustion – to extract energy from the bonds between atoms. All human space missions thus far have used chemical propulsion. The problem with this method is that it accesses only a tiny fraction of the energy contained within the fuel.

Consequently, using chemical propulsion on a spacecraft with a cruise velocity of 19,000 miles per second (30,000 km/s) would require more fuel than all the mass in the observable universe.

Antimatter propulsion is theoretically the most efficient option. When antimatter comes into contact with ordinary matter, the two undergo mutual annihilation and 100% of their combined mass is converted into energy. This makes it possible to achieve the same cruise velocity – one-tenth the speed of light – with fuel accounting for less than a quarter of the ship’s total mass. This is science fiction-level fuel efficiency, which makes antimatter an attractive option for interstellar propulsion.

The downside is that antimatter is extremely unstable and difficult to make. To date, particle physicists have produced less than 20 billionths of a gram of antimatter. Moreover, these particles had lifespans lasting only fractions of a second and a price tag in the hundreds of millions of dollars.

Nuclear fusion offers a more viable alternative to antimatter. This approach harvests energy stored inside the nucleus of an atom using the same process that powers the Sun. With current technology, fusion engines remain aspirational, but they could, in theory, produce 10 million times more energy per kilogram than chemical rockets.

Still, a fusion-powered ship with a cruise velocity of 19,000 miles per second (30,000 km/s) would require fuel equivalent to 150 times the mass of the ship itself.

A delicate balancing act

These numbers assume that our extraterrestrial visitors have figured out how to efficiently convert the energy released by their reactor – whether nuclear fusion or antimatter – into thrust.

Just as importantly, they must be able to create optimized fuel tank structures that are ultra lightweight yet highly secure. Designing the structure of the ship, from the fuel tanks to the hull, would be one of the biggest engineering challenges of the entire mission.

Interstellar space contains a sparse smattering of hydrogen atoms and microscopic grains of cosmic dust. At 19,000 miles per second (30,000 km/s), dust particles would smash into the ship’s hull with the energy of a .22-caliber bullet. The bombardment of hydrogen atoms would produce a violent cascade of radiation that could erode even the most resilient engineering materials.

Surviving the onslaught would require no less than a flying fortress with complex magnetic shielding. This would increase the total mass of the ship, which further drives up the demand for fuel.

This example is just one of the hundreds of delicate design trade-offs that would plague any interstellar vessel. Each individual design requirement acts as a filter, reducing the number of feasible solutions.

Finding a single system that simultaneously satisfies all the requirements is analogous to shopping for a car online. With each new filter you apply – four-wheel drive, black exterior, less than 10,000 miles on the odometer – the number of available options dwindles.

When design requirements are in tension with one another – for example, requiring a structure that is lightweight but also supremely durable – the number of feasible solutions can drop to zero.

No single law of physics prohibits an interstellar voyage to Earth. But the combined effects of hundreds of extreme, often conflicting engineering requirements may render it physically infeasible.

It’s also possible that alien civilizations have discovered novel technologies that outperform anything currently known to humans. But like the examples discussed here, any such technology will inevitably encounter its own engineering hurdles.

The trillion-dollar question

Ultimately, engineering challenges are just some of the many barriers to interstellar travel. Any prospective alien visitors must also have sufficient cognitive ability, technological maturity, physical resources, collective desire and proximity to Earth.

That said, if the stars were to align and an alien vessel made it to Earth intact, it would trigger a torrent of burning questions: Where are they from? What do they want? What are they made of?

But the question that would go furthest in shedding light on the deeper mysteries of the universe is, “How on Earth did they get here?”

Kai James does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

The coordinated U.S.-Israeli strikes at the outset of the war in Iran killed Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei, along with other key regime figures. In doing so, the United States and Israel crossed what The New York Times and others described as “a new Rubicon”: the deliberate, overt killing of a head of state.

President Donald Trump and Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu framed their war not simply as retaliation or coercion, but as an opening for political collapse. Remove enough of the leadership, the logic ran, and the structure beneath it either breaks apart or becomes vulnerable enough for a public uprising to finish the job.

Yet as a former senior U.S. intelligence officer who held leadership roles at the CIA and National Counterterrorism Center, I believe such triumphalist logic masks the strategic shortcoming of such targeted killings.

Disruption is not the same as collapse

Most scholars, too, have concluded that targeted killings or assassinations, often referred to as leadership decapitation, can disrupt operations and degrade organizational effectiveness. Under some conditions, they can even force the targeted side to capitulate. But they rarely lead to collapse.

The work of Jenna Jordan, a scholar of international relations at Georgia Tech, remains one of the clearest warnings against inflated expectations about anticipated effect of such strikes. Across a large body of cases of targeting killings of non-state militant groups, she found that older, larger, more institutionalized organizations are harder to break down through leadership removal than small, young, weakly structured ones.

Patrick Johnston, a former director of the Counterterrorism Center at West Point who has studied counterinsurgency campaigns, found more evidence that decapitation can help end conflicts than Jordan did. Other research has backed-up Johnston’s conclusion that some terrorist groups are vulnerable to leadership targeting.

But even these more favorable studies point to only conditional gains; they do not treat decapitation as a path to automatic political success or as a substitute for broader strategy.

Targeting heads of state is even more fraught

In counterterrorism efforts, disruption may be a good enough outcome for policymakers. Indeed, if the objective is to delay attacks or degrade operational effectiveness, leadership removal can have value. That was how the U.S. campaign against al-Qaeda was generally understood by American policymakers. Even Osama bin Laden’s death and repeated strikes against senior deputies were treated as major blows, not as proof that the organization had ceased to exist or no longer mattered as an operational threat.

Yet when the target is a state, the political bar is even higher. Tactical disruption is, again, not the same as political collapse. It is also not the same as creating a more favorable bargaining environment for the country relying on assassinations.

That distinction matters because recent scholarship has found that killing or capturing leaders may weaken an adversary on the battlefield but does not necessarily tell us how an adversary will respond politically — whether it becomes more willing to bargain, less able to negotiate, or more determined to keep fighting.

Removing another country’s leaders may weaken it in the short term, while changing who is left to negotiate, compromise or escalate. A strike could therefore succeed operationally while narrowing the political options that follow.

Iran’s response to the initial killing of senior leaders in the opening days of the current conflict illustrates the point. Khamenei’s death staggered the government, but it did not break it. Within little more than a week, Iran’s Assembly of Experts appointed Mojtaba Khamenei, his son, as supreme leader.

The government redistributed authority through institutions built to survive political shock: the clerical establishment, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, and the broader security bureaucracy.

The assassinations did not create a pathway for coercion, negotiation, or popular uprising. Indeed, as the ongoing lack of a long-term resolution to the conflict shows, the Trump administration is not now dealing with a more pliable Iran. Rather, it is facing a state steered by a successor leadership with an agenda even more hostile to U.S. policy in the Middle East, stronger incentives to prolong the conflict and a demonstrated willingness to absorb the pain of defiance.

Israel has long used targeted killing to disrupt adversaries — most visibly in its recent campaigns against Hamas and Hezbollah — but the Iran case shows the danger of turning the tool into a theory of political transformation.

A broader phenomenon

That same gap between tactical achievement and strategic effect appears in other settings as well.

Recent scholary work on criminal organizations in Latin America finds that state decapitation campaigns are often associated with short-term increases in violence, including clashes with state forces, even when they damage the targeted organization.

For example, in February 2026, Mexican forces killed Nemesio Oseguera Cervantes, better known as El Mencho, the head of the Jalisco New Generation Cartel. Yet, according to reporting, the organization continues to operate, with its core operations and networks largely intact. Meanwhile, reprisals followed quickly: 25 members of Mexico’s National Guard were killed and blockades and arson was seen across several states.

Leadership removal imposed a tactical cost, but it did not translate neatly into strategic collapse.

And yet the appeal persists

So why does decapitation remain so attractive? James Walsh, a scholar of political violence, intelligence and armed conflict at the University of North Carolina in Charlotte, suggests targeted killing gives policymakers a means to measure progress in a conflict where success is otherwise difficult to define. It produces a name and a result — often a photo and, in some cases, footage of the strike that can be shown at a press conference. It may not be less complex than diplomacy in operational terms, but it is often easier to explain politically: a strike can be presented as action, while negotiations require patience, trade-offs and the risk of appearing to compromise with an enemy.

In the case of El Mencho, his death gave Mexican President Claudia Sheinbaum a political trophy as well as a tactical victory. It allowed her to show action against cartel power at a moment of domestic strain over cartel violence and sustained U.S. pressure for Mexico to take a harder line. A named target and a confirmed death are easier to present as progress.

A similar dynamic may be present in the Ukraine-Russian war. Russian President Vladimir Putin is reportedly hunkered down in fear of an assassination attempt, most plausibly from Ukraine. But Putin’s death would not, by itself, end Russia’s war or dissolve the Russian state.

A successful strike against the man most identified with the invasion would, though, have an immeasurable rallying effect for Ukrainians after years of sacrifice. The reverse would also be true if a Russian operation killed Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy. The political and symbolic shock would be enormous, but neither country’s war effort would necessarily crumble.

High-level decapitations can impose costs, degrade an organization or state’s capacity and force adversaries to operate under sustained pressure. But they cannot, according to the evidence, translate tactical achievement into the political outcomes that leaders invoke to justify such targeted killings.

That is, I believe, the lesson the war in Iran should have reinforced. Whatever the arguments for or against assassination as a matter of state policy, decapitation is a tool of disruption not of transformation. It becomes a strategic error when leaders treat it as the latter.

Brian O'Neill does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Across corporate earnings calls, investor presentations and marketing pitches, “artificial intelligence” has become the buzzword of choice. Yet a troubling pattern lies under the hype. Many claims vastly overstate actual AI sophistication, misleading people about true capabilities, future outcomes and potential harms.

A case in point is the recent 600% share price surge of Allbirds, after the once-trendy sustainable footwear business issued a vague announcement in April 2026 that it would pivot to AI. In the coming months, the company plans to rename itself NewBird AI and give up its status as a public benefit corporation.

As a scholar who studies corporate sustainability, I see parallels between this “AI washing” phenomenon – when companies oversell the benefits of AI while glossing over the risks – and the greenwashing trend in the recent past, when companies claimed to commit to sustainability but didn’t enact fundamental change. Widespread deception was rampant, with businesses spending far more on green marketing than on actual sustainability improvements. And those efforts often backfired on both the companies and the communities they served. Even more worrisome: AI washing’s rapid rise and widespread adoption will likely eclipse the greenwashing trends.

How we got here

AI washing is thriving because companies and policymakers ignore four important principles. These shortfalls, in the past, also characterized greenwashing.

First, AI guidelines lack standardization. By 2019, 84 sets of AI ethics principles and guidelines had already been published. By 2023, this number had exploded to more than 200 – a mess of voluntary frameworks from companies, research institutions and public organizations.

Making matters worse is that the U.S. currently relies on fragmented AI rules, with most being voluntary. The Trump administration has generally sided with Big Tech to push back efforts at state or federal regulation. At a global level, one of the few exceptions is the European Union AI Act, perhaps one of the most comprehensive frameworks, but its implementation won’t be fully phased in until 2027 or later.

In the early 2000s, corporate sustainability faced a similar credibility crisis. Every company measured sustainability differently, making comparisons impossible and greenwashing easy. The breakthrough came only when standardized, industry-specific metrics allowed meaningful benchmarking. Initiatives such as the Global Reporting Initiative and Sustainability Accounting Standards Board established common metrics for measuring environmental impact, social responsibility and quality of governance, known by the shorthand ESG.

When companies must report carbon emissions using the same methodology, for example, or disclose labor conditions using identical categories, investors can compare performance, identify laggards and allocate capital accordingly. This push made comparisons possible and deception harder, although it still wasn’t foolproof. For example, a 2023 United Nations Environment Programme report on the fast-fashion industry found that many companies continue to make “vague and inflated” sustainability claims.

Second, there are no comprehensive frameworks in the U.S. that require businesses to judge how AI affects them in a material way and publicly disclose those impacts. Examples of AI-driven material impacts include whether algorithmic bias shapes business outcomes, or whether decisions on how to use AI systems carry significance for shareholders and the public.

Instead, AI governance remains dominated by the narrow inner circle of companies that build the AI systems, while affected communities rarely have a say in determining which AI impacts are material enough to warrant public attention. For example, Big Tech companies like Google, Microsoft, Apple, NVIDIA and others adhere to their own AI governance guidelines, with relatively little public input.

The development of sustainability principles offers some examples of how to build these frameworks. The EU’s Corporate Sustainability Reporting Directive requires over 50,000 companies to formally evaluate which sustainability topics are material to their stakeholders, and then disclose that information. These efforts try to ensure that accountability is clear across entire supply chains.

While nowhere nearly as comprehensive, U.S. regulations such as the 2010 Dodd-Frank financial reform and California’s law requiring reporting on statewide greenhouse gas emissions provide a similar blueprint that U.S. policymakers could build on if they chose.

A third problem is the general lack of third-party verification, making AI washing trivially easy. Effective disclosure means reporting all material impacts – not just cherry-picked successes.

In practice, AI audits can vary dramatically in rigor, scope and methodology. One auditor might conduct extensive testing across demographic groups, analyze decision-making and validate the quality of training data. Another might simply review documentation and accept company explanations at face value. Given the variety of AI auditing models out there, different auditors may use incompatible methodologies, making results impossible to compare. If companies adopted third-party accreditation systems to assess how they use AI, they would help ensure the accountability that self-reported claims cannot match.

By contrast, there was reasonable progress in this respect as companies adopted ESG principles. For example, institutions such as the Carbon Disclosure Project and Global Reporting Initiative have a network of partners that offer independent verification. These providers, certified under international standards, verify corporate sustainability data against rigorous criteria. That way, they provide the assurance that lets companies show the progress needed to unlock sustainable finance and mitigate legal risks. Third-party audits are far from perfect, but they offer a clear path for improvement.

The fourth principle is robust enforcement. Early ESG initiatives relied on reputational pressure and stakeholder goodwill – things that corporations routinely ignored when profits were at stake. When change came, it was because regulations established legal liability and financial penalties.

These consequences changed how corporations assess risk and continue to shape sustainability practices today. Volkswagen’s 2015 ‘Dieselgate’ scandal, for example, cost the company over US$30 billion in fines, settlements and criminal charges after U.S regulators found that the carmaker was cheating emissions tests. BP faced billions in penalties and liabilities for the 2010 Deepwater Horizon disaster, the biggest oil spill in the history of marine oil drilling operations.

The current enforcement gap in AI creates a predictable dynamic. The expected value of AI washing – like potential investment gains, competitive advantage, and market valuation increases – far exceeds the expected cost in terms of penalties and risk of detection. Until enforcement imposes consequences that exceed benefits, AI washing will persist as a rational business strategy rather than a risk to a business’s reputation.

Fortunately, investors are beginning to step up. The Federal Trade Commission, for example, launched Operation AI Comply in 2024, targeting deceptive AI claims, although this effort has been partially scaled back by the current Trump administration.

New standards for a new era

Until businesses address these four principles, AI washing will continue. Without standards and audits, even well-intentioned companies can’t know if their work meets adequate rigor. Without assessments of material impact, some groups of consumers or shareholders will be hurt. And without liability, even thorough auditors won’t be able to identify whether a business’s claims about AI are truthful.

These principles, applied broadly, also help explain why greenwashing persists. For example, the lack of universal reporting standards continues to leave some gaps, with data-quality issues persisting even as reporting frameworks emerged. More fundamentally, political buy-in for ESG has diminished significantly, particularly in the U.S., where over 150 bills were introduced across multiple states by 2023 to disincentivize firms from adopting ESG. Major financial institutions – including JP Morgan, State Street, BlackRock and PIMCO – have retreated from their earlier climate commitments amid political pressure as well as antitrust concerns.

This trend shows that even well designed accountability measures require durable political support to succeed. After all, corporate sustainability took more than 25 years to develop from an initial framework to mandatory standards, and it still remains a work in progress. AI, by contrast, is advancing exponentially in terms of its reach and societal impact. There may not be 25 years to catch up – but at least there are lessons from the recent past.

Suvrat Dhanorkar does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

With gasoline prices still high – averaging over US$4.50 a gallon in mid-May 2026 – President Donald Trump said he wanted Congress to suspend the federal gas tax, which is 18.4 cents a gallon for gasoline and 24.3 cents a gallon for diesel. A bill has been introduced in the Senate, and one is expected to follow in the House, according to Politico, but their fate is unclear.

States also charge their own taxes, ranging from 70.9 cents a gallon for gas in California to 8.95 cents in Alaska. Indiana, Georgia and Utah have suspended their gas taxes for at least some of 2026, and other states are considering similar measures.

As an energy economist, I have seen how suspending those taxes does reduce prices, but not as much as politicians – or drivers – might hope. Research on past gas tax holidays has found that consumers get about 79% of the reduction in gas taxes. That means oil companies and fuel retailers keep about one-fifth of the tax cut for themselves rather than passing that savings to the public.

Suspending the federal gas tax, which would require Congress to pass a law, wouldn’t help consumers much anyway. Even if oil companies passed on the whole savings to consumers, national average gas and diesel prices would drop only about 4%. The percentage reduction in high-cost states such as California would be even smaller.

Gas taxes are just one part of what drives gas prices. Overall, the price of a retail gallon of gas is the sum of four things: the cost of crude oil, refining, distribution and marketing, and taxes.

In nationwide figures from January 2026, crude oil accounted for about 51% of the pump price, refining roughly 20%, distribution and marketing about 11% and taxes about 18%. That mix shifts with conditions: When crude oil prices spike, that can drive more than 60% of the price; when the price drops, taxes and logistics are larger shares of the cost.

Crude oil is the biggest ingredient

Because the price of crude oil is the largest element, most of the price at the pump is derived from the global oil market.

Usually, big swings in crude prices come mainly from shifts in global demand and expectations – not from supply disruptions, according to widely cited research in 2009 by the economist Lutz Kilian.

But what is happening in early 2026 with the war in Iran is one of the exceptions: a classic supply shock. Severe disruptions to shipping through the Strait of Hormuz and attacks on Middle East oil infrastructure have taken millions of barrels a day off the global market.

Most drivers generally can’t quickly reduce how much they drive or how much gas they use when prices rise, so gasoline demand doesn’t change much in the short run. That means a jump in crude costs tends to result in people paying more rather than driving less.

Refining, regulations and the California puzzle

Refining turns crude into gasoline at industrial scale. The U.S. doesn’t have a single gasoline market, though. Roughly a quarter of U.S. gasoline is a cleaner-burning blend of petroleum-derived chemicals called “reformulated gasoline,” which is required in urban areas across 17 states and the District of Columbia to reduce smog.

California uses an even stricter formulation that few out-of-state refineries make. California is also geographically isolated: No pipelines bring gasoline in from other U.S. refining regions.

California’s gasoline prices have long run above the national average, explained in part by higher state taxes and stricter environmental rules. But since a refinery fire in Torrance, California, in 2015 reduced production capacity, the state’s prices have been about 20 to 30 cents a gallon higher than what those factors would indicate.

Energy economist and University of California, Berkeley, professor Severin Borenstein has called this the “mystery gasoline surcharge” and attributes it to the fact that there isn’t as much competition between refineries or gas stations in California as in other states. California’s own Division of Petroleum Market Oversight says the surcharge cost the state’s drivers about $59 billion from 2015 to 2024. It’s not exactly clear who is getting that money, but it could be gas stations themselves or refineries, through complex contracts with gas stations.

Getting the gas into your car

The distribution and marketing category covers the costs of everything involved in getting the gasoline from the refinery gate to your tank.

Gasoline moves by pipeline, ship, rail and truck to wholesale terminals, and then by local delivery truck to service stations.

At the retailer’s end, the key factors are station rent and labor, the cost to buy gasoline in bulk to be able to sell it, credit card fees of as much as 6 to 10 cents a gallon at current prices, and franchise fees paid to the national brand, such as Sunoco or ExxonMobil, for permission to put their branding on the gas station.

Most gas station operators net only a few cents per gallon on fuel itself – which is why many gas stations are really convenience stores with pumps out front. Borenstein and some of his collaborators have also documented that retail gas prices rise quickly when wholesale costs climb but fall slowly when wholesale costs drop.

The question of gas tax holidays

Gas tax holidays reduce funding for what the taxes are designed to pay for, typically roads and bridges. That pushes road and bridge upkeep costs onto future drivers and general taxpayers.

There is an additional problem, too: Taxes on gasoline are supposed to charge drivers for some of the costs their driving imposes on everyone else – carbon emissions, local air pollution, congestion and crashes. But Borenstein has found that U.S. fuel tax levels are already far below the true cost to society. Removing the tax on drivers effectively raises the costs for everyone else.

The Jones Act: A small number that adds up

The 1920 Jones Act is a federal law that requires cargo moving between U.S. ports to travel on vessels built and registered in the U.S., owned by U.S. citizens, and crewed primarily by U.S. citizens and permanent residents. Of the world’s 7,500 oil tankers, only 54 meet this requirement. Only 43 of these can transport refined fuels such as gasoline.

So, despite significant refining capacity on the Gulf Coast, some U.S. gasoline is exported overseas even as the Northeast imports fuel, in part reflecting the relatively high cost of moving fuel between U.S. ports.

Economists Ryan Kellogg and Rich Sweeney estimate that the law raises East Coast gasoline prices by about a penny and a half per gallon on average, costing drivers roughly $770 million a year. In light of the war’s effect on gas prices, the Trump administration has temporarily suspended the Jones Act requirements – an action more commonly taken when hurricanes knock out Gulf Coast refineries and pipeline networks.

What moves the number

The result of all these factors is that the price that drivers see at the pump mostly reflects the global price of crude, plus a stack of domestic costs, only some of which are inefficient.

Tax holidays give a partial, short-lived rebate. Jones Act waivers trim pennies, though permanent repeal may cause more fundamental changes, such as reduced rail and truck transport of all goods, which could lower costs, emissions and infrastructure damage associated with cargo transportation. Harmonizing fuel blends across states and seasons may lower prices somewhat, but likely at the expense of increased emissions.

Ultimately, the best protection against oil price shocks is a more efficient gas-burning vehicle, or one that doesn’t burn gasoline at all. In the meantime, the best I can offer as an economist is clarity about what that $4.50 actually buys.

This article includes material previously published on May 1, 2026.

Robert I. Harris does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

When was the last time you paid attention to your commute? And I don’t mean a couple of feet in front of you, at the car merging into your lane without a blinker. I mean really paid attention to the route you take.

Did you see the landmarks in the distance that make up the city skyline? Did you drive right past the grocery store you promised to stop by at the corner of this Peachtree Street or that Peachtree Street, a struggle Atlanta locals know well?

“Oops! Force of habit,” you might say to yourself as you miss your turn and begin to think about when and where you can turn around.

Relying on familiarity can either facilitate or impede daily navigation. As a researcher studying memory and navigation, I aim to understand how the brain supports spatial navigation and what happens if the cognitive mechanisms for choosing the best route home begin to decline, such as during stress or with aging.

Humans are creatures of habit – at least that’s what people tell themselves when wary of trying something new. But what if a new route is faster or safer than the one you usually take? Would you try it?

Research from my team suggests that people balance between exploration and habit – that is, trying something new or sticking with the familiar – when deciding what route to take. Which navigation strategy someone chooses depends not only on their spatial abilities but on their network of brain regions that support navigation.

A spatial blueprint

Spatial navigation refers to the cognitive ability that helps you travel from one location to another. It may sound simple, but it requires using cognitive functions such as memory, attention, decision-making and assessing potential rewards – never mind the ability to simply perceive the environment itself.

Spatial navigation uses memories of things you consciously experienced. Two types of memory relevant to navigation are what scientists call episodic and semantic.

For example, you might retrieve an episodic memory about a specific event: remembering a detour you took a week ago to drop a package off at the post office, including the traffic and weather that day.

You might also retrieve a semantic memory that’s more factual and knowledge-based: remembering how many blocks away the post office is from the park and the turns you need to make to get there.

Together, these kinds of memory inform your spatial memory, which allows you to retrieve location information. This could be where buildings are in relation to each other or where objects are situated in your house. Spatial memories help form your cognitive map, which is essential for getting around in the world.

Often, these different ways of remembering interact, and you can use one type of memory to inform the other. For example, you’ve become accustomed to your commute to work and know it’s relatively short (semantic memory), but over the past three days you’ve been arriving late due to heavy traffic (episodic memory), so you choose to take a different route next time.

Research from my team has found that disagreements in your brain over possible routes can happen. Different types of memory can come up with different solutions for what route you can take, and this conflict is a big factor in how hard your brain needs to work when navigating an environment.

Responding to new and familiar memories

Habits stem from what researchers call stimulus-response memories. These include the knee-jerk reaction you might have to familiar landmarks – when you perceive these places, your brain signals you to make a turn along your commute without needing to consciously think about it.

Habits are rigid, but they can also be beneficial: By taking care of the navigation for you, habit frees up your brain to have a conversation with someone or plan what to make for dinner when you get home.

When navigating less familiar routes or environments, where habit doesn’t kick in automatically, you rely on brain regions such as the hippocampus to call on detailed memories from recent experiences to help guide the way.

But let’s say you’re shopping at a new grocery store where most things are where you expect them to be, even though you’ve never been in this particular store before. What happens when your brain experiences both something new and something familiar about an environment?

Researchers have shown that when something about an environment is familiar and aligns with your prior experiences, the prefrontal regions of your brain – those responsible for executive functions such as decision-making – become more active. They can bypass or even inhibit your hippocampus’s ability to form new memories about specific events.

In other words, your brain can weave information about a new experience into your database of existing knowledge, rather than storing it as completely new information with little relation to the past. This process may help fast-track your understanding about new experiences.

Updating cognitive maps

Researchers know that cognitive maps of the environment depend on the hippocampus and its database of memories about specific events. However, I and other researchers argue these maps can also function as a schema – a collection of memories made up of associations between environmental details. You can add new information to these collections and use it to infer new relationships.

Say a new pedestrian bridge is built between the park and the post office. Your brain can more easily weave this new route information into your existing memories compared with learning a new environment from scratch. Similarly, if you just moved to a new town and know very little about the spatial layout, you might rely on your past experiences of towns to infer where something is.

Using neuroimaging techniques as well as virtual reality programs designed to test a participant’s ability to navigate different routes, my team found that there is likely an interdependent relationship between the brain areas that store memories of specific events and areas that store related information across memories when planning to navigate less familiar places.

New routes are more difficult to follow when they differ from your prior experiences. Thus, a stronger schema helps integrate your knowledge of the spatial relationships between locations and landmarks (such as the distance between the post office and the park) with more general knowledge (such as prior route difficulty). This all informs how you choose to navigate.

Navigating daily life

These memory principles help explain why inconsistencies with your previous experiences can make it so difficult to navigate many aspects of daily life.

Imagine you woke up tomorrow and the GPS on your smartphone was no longer available. How will you plan your route to get to your destination?

You might be used to navigating north from your home to the grocery store – but have you ever tried to navigate to that grocery story from a different location? It’s much harder!

Factors such as stress, aging and general cognitive decline can affect brain function and human behavior. Imagine how much harder that new route to the grocery store is for an older adult.

Relating new information to your prior experiences may help strengthen your schema and make navigation easier. And understanding what processes the brain needs to go through to solve these navigation problems can help you understand why getting around can be challenging.

This work was supported in part by grants from the National Institute on Aging of the NIH.