Teachers First - Thinking Teachers Teaching Thinkers

This is my second post examining the argument Dr. Jared Cooney Horvath has been making about educational technology. In my first post—Let’s Talk About What the Research on K12 EdTech Actually Shows—I looked closely at the evidence behind his claims and what the peer-reviewed research actually says.

This post asks a different question, and one I think is particularly relevant for educators and professional learning communities: not whether the argument is right, but how it worked so effectively. Horvath’s influence offers a case study in how audience targeting, format choice, and platform amplification can move a message far beyond the strength of its evidence. That case study connects directly to the communication skills we teach every day.

It started in our OK2Ask chat window. A teacher who has shown up every week for more than three years—someone whose engagement I know well enough to read even in text—typed a question that stopped me mid-session. She wanted to know what Horvath’s Senate testimony meant for her second graders. Before I could respond, several others had already asked to be included in any resources I could share.

These are educators who come voluntarily, week after week, because they care about getting it right. The fact that this question had reached them told me how far the message had traveled—and how effectively.

So let’s talk about how it got there.

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He Knew His Craft

Before Jared Cooney Horvath studied neuroscience, he earned an undergraduate degree in cinema and television production. The book he published before The Digital Delusion was called Stop Talking, Start Influencing: 12 Insights From Brain Science to Make Your Message Stick—a practical guide to shaping messages for specific audiences. He runs LME Global, a consulting company focused on translating complex science into accessible communication for educators and organizations.

His Harvard Medical School credential—a research fellowship in neuroscience, not a degree in education—is real, and the neuroscience he draws on is his strongest academic footing.

But his communication expertise predates his neuroscience training. He had already studied, practiced, and written professionally about how to make a message land with an audience and stay there. That context matters for understanding what followed—because the skills he applied are ones educators recognize immediately. We teach them.

If you’ve ever asked students to consider how media messages are constructed and for whom, you already have the framework needed to read this story clearly.

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He Knew His Audience

In November 2024, Horvath published his central argument not in a peer-reviewed journal or an education policy publication, but on Jonathan Haidt’s Substack platform, After Babel. That choice deserves attention—because it wasn’t just a distribution decision. It was an audience-identification decision.

Haidt had spent years cultivating a large, engaged readership of people deeply concerned about screens, social media, and children’s well-being. His book The Anxious Generation had primed that audience to be receptive to exactly the kind of argument Horvath was making.

When Haidt introduced Horvath’s piece to his readers—calling it “powerful and well sourced”—that introduction functioned as a trust transfer, extending Haidt’s credibility, to a new voice making a compatible claim.

Your middle school ELA students know this concept: identify your audience. Understand what they already believe, what concerns them, and what they’re primed to receive. Write to that reader—not to an imagined general audience, but to the specific person on the other side of the page.

Horvath did this with precision. He didn’t write a research paper. He wrote a compelling, accessible, emotionally resonant argument for readers already inclined to trust the platform delivering it.

It’s worth naming explicitly: concerns about children’s well-being and screen time use are legitimate. This post is not asking whether those concerns are real. It’s asking how a specific argument moved through specific channels to shape policy—and what that process looked like.

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He Matched Format to Purpose — Every Time

The Substack post established the argument. The self-published book, The Digital Delusion, gave it permanence, scope, and the authority that a multi-hundred-page treatment confers. Each format was chosen for what it could do—not for what was most rigorous, but for what would reach and persuade the intended audience.

This is a standard your students learn early: match your format to your purpose and your audience. A text message and a formal letter can carry the same information, but they do very different things for the reader who receives them.

A Substack post reaches people already engaged with a topic. A book signals that an argument is substantial enough to sustain two hundred pages of treatment.

Think about the word choice in the title of his After Babel piece: “The EdTech Revolution Has Failed.” Not “my analysis suggests modest negative adjusted effect sizes in certain technology categories.” Not “the evidence on educational technology is mixed and context-dependent.” Failed. Present tense. Declarative. Final. That word choice tells the reader what to feel before they’ve read a single sentence.

Tone, word choice, and the feeling a message is designed to produce — these are tools of effective communication. They were all present and working here. This kind of craft analysis belongs in any serious conversation about why media literacy matters.

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How a Substack Post Earns a Senate Invitation

This is the part of this story I find most instructive.

The Substack post and the book circulated. They were quoted, shared, forwarded, and discussed widely enough that Horvath—a neuroscientist based in Australia for over a decade, with no peer-reviewed research in educational technology—was invited to testify before the United States Senate Commerce Committee specifically about K-12 educational technology, a field outside his research expertise.

Pause on that.

How does that happen?

One plausible explanation is that audience-aware, purposefully crafted communication builds momentum that policy channels can respond to. Each piece of the message—the Substack post, the book, the interviews, the citations in parents’ social media feeds—reached its intended audience. Accumulated attention created the conditions for a Senate invitation.

The invitation didn’t validate the argument’s evidence base. But it conferred the appearance of authority—enough to earn a seat at one of the most visible policy tables in the country.

This is what effective communication can do at scale.

Your students learn to identify their audience and purpose, to craft messages that reach specific readers, to use language and style appropriate to their topic and their listener. Those skills, applied with professional sophistication across multiple platforms over months, can move an argument from a Substack post to a chamber of the Senate. That is not an abstraction. That is the pattern the publicly visible sequence suggests.

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The Coalition That Saw It Coming

Two days before the testimony, seventeen national education and library organizations—including the National Education Association (NEA), the American Federation of Teachers (AFT), the American Association of School Administrators (AASA), the National Association of Elementary School Principals (NAESP), the National Association of Secondary School Principals (NASSP), and the American Library Association (ALA)—sent a joint letter to the Senate Commerce Committee.

Getting those particular organizations on the same letter is itself worth noting. The NEA and AFT represent over four million classroom teachers and bring a labor-union identity and policy agenda. AASA, NAESP, and NASSP represent the superintendents and principals those teachers work with daily. These groups collaborate regularly on infrastructure and funding questions—such as E-Rate, broadband access, federal appropriations—but rapid consensus across all of them on a question of classroom pedagogy is not routine. It reflects how seriously the educators and leaders closest to classroom practice viewed what was coming.

Their letter was precise, professional, and carefully reasoned. They asked the committee to distinguish between unsupervised, entertainment-driven technology use at home and the intentional, monitored, carefully curated use of technology in schools. That distinction is exactly what decades of research and professional practice in educational technology supports.

This letter was written for a Senate committee audience. It was not designed for the broader public audience that had already been shaped by months of platform‑targeted communication. The coalition’s argument was better aligned with the research—but it arrived without the infrastructure to carry it as far, or as fast, as the narrative already circulating.

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The Testimony, the Clip, the Cascade

What happened next is worth understanding as a sequence, not just a single event—because cumulative amplification matters more here than any one moment.

Horvath testified before the United States Senate Commerce Committee in January 2026. The chamber itself did communicative work: a witness at a table, senators leaning forward, the formal architecture of a hearing room. That visual language signals authority and importance before a single claim is evaluated.

The testimony was clipped and uploaded to YouTube, where it reached over two million viewers (NBC News, March 2026). Those clips were shortened again for multiple social platforms—thirty seconds, credential and conclusion, with little context or qualification. Then quoted on other platforms. Forwarded between colleagues. Shown at school board meetings.

Each format shift altered the argument. As the message moved from long‑form writing to testimony to clipped video, the evidentiary scaffolding narrowed while expressive emotional certainty remained intact. This is a pattern students need help learning to recognize: format does not merely carry ideas—it reshapes them.

By March 2026, lawmakers in at least sixteen states were debating legislation to restrict or ban educational technology in classrooms (K-12 Dive, March 2026). Some proposals were sweeping—banning digital devices from elementary classrooms entirely, prohibiting digital textbooks, or capping all technology use at 45 minutes per day regardless of subject, grade level, or instructional purpose. Two states had already signed legislation into law.

Richard Culatta, CEO of ISTE+ASCD, argued that proposals failing to distinguish math software from Netflix or assistive technology from TikTok “guarantee that the students who can least afford to fall behind will be the ones hurt most.” A New America policy analysis reached a similar conclusion from a different angle: blanket bans miss the mark precisely because they make no distinction between harmful and beneficial uses—the same failure the coalition letter had tried to prevent.

At no point in that chain—from Substack post to enacted policy—did the argument appear to pass through the kind of independent expert scrutiny that peer review requires.

What moved instead was a message whose clarity and expressive emotional conviction survived compression, while its complexity did not. By the time that message reached policy spaces, its momentum was strong enough that the coalition letter—despite its professional weight and evidence base—could not slow it. This fall, teachers who have spent years learning to use technology thoughtfully will be preparing for policies shaped by that trajectory.

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What This Means for What We Teach

We teach these communication skills because they are powerful. This story shows that power in action.

Audience identification. Purposeful format choice. Strategic word selection. Platform amplification. Confidence paired with credentialing. These are not abstract concepts. They are the mechanics through which ideas travel, gain authority, and shape public response—executed with precision by someone who had studied communication craft explicitly before he ever picked up a neuroscience textbook.

These are also the same constructs we ask students to grapple with every day: audience awareness, purpose, evidence evaluation, and the difference between credibility and authority. When students analyze how an argument is shaped, circulated, and reframed across platforms, they are practicing the same critical reading, writing, and media‑literacy skills embedded in ELA standards, civic education goals, and research‑based argument instruction.

If you teach these skills, this story belongs in your curriculum—not as a cautionary tale about one specific claim, but as a live case study in how communication works, and why teaching students to analyze media messages is as important as teaching them to create them. There’s more to say about that companion skill — and the next post in this series takes it up directly.

The teacher who paused during our OK2Ask session and asked what the testimony meant for her students was already practicing exactly what we hope learners will do: slow down, examine a claim carefully, and look for the fuller picture before acting.

The message traveled a long way to reach her.

The fact that she questioned it when it arrived is the point.

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