Beyond Critical Thinking

Teaching Students How to Argue

Last week, I wrote a 200-word letter to The New York Times responding to an article on the Los Angeles fires, insurance companies, and toxic smoke.

Something about the piece unsettled me.

I’m no shill for the insurance industry, but the article framed the disaster in prosecutorial terms: victims (homeowners), defendants (insurers), and a failure of duty (denied coverage, inadequate remediation).

That framing felt incomplete. The fires were products of climate and geography at a scale no insurer could realistically plan for. The health effects of widespread urban wildfire smoke at this level are an emerging environmental hazard—one that science itself is still struggling to fully understand.

Expecting insurers to adjudicate evolving science and absorb open-ended remediation costs effectively assigns them a public-health role they were never designed to play.

Meanwhile, the article largely bypassed harder questions: decades of public policy that encouraged settlement in fire-prone areas; failures of mitigation and land-use planning; zoning rules that prioritize rebuilding over relocation; and the reality that comprehensive remediation can cost hundreds of thousands of dollars per home while schools, parks, and ambient air remain contaminated.

A more complete account, I argued, would clarify what insurers can and cannot do while confronting what governments should have prevented—and what sustainable responses, such as buyouts, land-use reform, and higher-density housing in safer zones, might require.

Then the reporter wrote back.

She shared evidence I hadn’t known: insurers had anticipated smoke-contamination risks for more than a decade, tried to exclude coverage as early as 2015, and turned to “science for hire” after courts blocked those exclusions. What I had framed as insurers being asked to absorb unpredictable costs was, in fact, insurers avoiding claims they had already priced into premiums.

She was right. I was wrong.

And that exchange taught me more than a week of passive reading could have.

Writing that letter—staking a public claim, being corrected with evidence, revising my understanding—captured what critical thinking actually is. Not certainty. Not winning. But careful engagement with incomplete information, intellectual humility, and a willingness to be corrected without defensiveness.

This is what students need to learn. Not how to be right, but how to enter debates responsibly, test their thinking against others’, and recognize that correction is not failure—it’s how learning happens.

200 words of serious public argument can turn “critical thinking” from an abstraction into a lived civic skill.

The Problem with “Critical Thinking”

College students are constantly told they need to “think critically.” But what does that actually mean?

In practice, critical thinking often reduces to one of two things: finding fault (”identify what’s wrong with this argument”) or stating opinions (”take a position and defend it”).

Neither approach is sufficient. Fault-finding and critique, without constructive suggestions, leads to cynicism. Opinion-sharing becomes noise. And neither prepares students for what intellectual work actually requires: entering debates they didn’t start, engaging positions they don’t hold, and making claims that can survive serious disagreement.

This gap has become harder to ignore. Artificial intelligence can now generate competent essays, literature reviews, and lab reports on demand.

Traditional assignments—the research essay, the position paper, the problem set completed at home—are increasingly difficult to evaluate with confidence.

Meanwhile, students graduate without having learned what academics, scientists, journalists, and policy analysts actually do: intervene in live controversies where the stakes are real and the answers are contested.

We need a different approach. Not to replace lectures, readings, or exams, but to complement them with a set of teaching strategies that develop capacities traditional assignments often leave underdeveloped.

What follows are eleven such strategies, designed to be practical, scalable across disciplines, and focused on active learning that cultivates intellectual virtue.

Why Traditional Assignments Are Not Enough

Most college assignments ask students to do one of three things: Summarize what others have said. Apply a theory or method to a case. Or take a position and defend it.

These skills are valuable, but they allow students to remain spectators. A student can write a competent paper on climate policy without ever grappling with the actual trade-offs scientists and policymakers debate.

A philosophy student can defend utilitarianism without confronting the strongest objections Kantians raise.

A literature student can interpret a novel without engaging competing readings or articulating what makes one interpretation better than another.

Intellectual work—across disciplines—is not primarily about having opinions. It is about intervening in debates. Scientists don’t just “do experiments”; they argue about methods, interpretations, and implications.

Historians don’t just “study the past”; they contest how events should be understood and why narratives matter.

Even mathematicians argue—about proofs, elegance, and which problems are worth solving.

Students too rarely learn this. They learn to perform academic tasks, not to do what practitioners do. The result is that they can complete assignments without ever experiencing what it feels like to have their thinking genuinely tested, to recognize the limits of their own frameworks, or to argue in ways that others must take seriously.

The strategies below are designed to change that. They teach students to argue as scholars, scientists, and public intellectuals argue: not by asserting conclusions, but by entering controversies, weighing evidence, acknowledging trade-offs, and making claims that hold up under scrutiny.

Eleven Ways to Teach Students How to Argue Well

1. Swapping Positions

One of the most powerful things you can ask students to do is to argue—seriously and fairly—for a position they initially reject. The goal is not to change their minds or push them into relativism. It’s to help them understand what a real argument looks like from the inside.

A biology student might make the strongest possible case against aggressive climate intervention. A literature student might defend the idea that The Great Gatsby celebrates the American Dream rather than criticizing it. An economics student might argue for tariffs or protectionism.

The goal is fairness. If someone who actually holds that position wouldn’t recognize themselves in the argument, the student hasn’t done the hard work. When done well, this exercise teaches students that disagreement doesn’t come from stupidity or bad faith, but from different priorities, assumptions, and values.

What this builds is intellectual empathy—the ability to understand perspectives you don’t share. That capacity is the foundation of any serious engagement across difference, in college or beyond.

This works in almost any class and at any scale: as a short in-class exercise, a homework assignment, or a structured debate.

2. One Claim, Multiple Angles

Another useful approach is to take a single claim and examine it through multiple lenses. Take something like “college should be free” or “the death penalty is unjust” or “we should use gene editing to prevent disease.”

Then ask: What does this look like from an ethical perspective? An economic one? A historical one? A legal one? A scientific one?

Students quickly discover that intelligent people often disagree not because they’re ignorant of the facts, but because they’re asking different questions. Economists worry about incentives and costs. Philosophers worry about fairness and desert. Historians look at long-term consequences and unintended effects.

The lesson is not that every perspective is equally right, but that no single framework tells the whole story. This builds intellectual humility—an awareness that your own disciplinary tools reveal some things clearly while leaving others in shadow.

This approach works especially well in general education and interdisciplinary courses, but it can be adapted to any discipline by showing students both the power and the limits of that field’s methods.

3. Asking What Would Make an Argument Fail

Instead of asking students whether an argument is right or wrong, try asking a different question: What would have to be true for this argument to fail?

This small shift changes everything. Students stop asserting conclusions and start analyzing conditions. A claim that renewable energy can replace fossil fuels by 2035 depends on assumptions about technology, political will, infrastructure, and cost. If those assumptions don’t hold, the argument collapses.

This mirrors how thinking actually works across fields. In science, it resembles hypothesis testing. In history, counterfactual reasoning. In philosophy, thought experiments. Across disciplines, it teaches students that arguments are conditional, not absolute.

What this cultivates is precision—the ability to specify exactly what a claim depends on. That precision is what separates serious thinking from slogans.

This can be done quickly in class or developed into longer written work, in STEM courses as easily as in the humanities.

4. Paragraph-Level Engagement

Instead of racing through readings, ask students to spend time with a single paragraph. What claim is being made? What evidence supports it? What assumptions are buried inside it? What is implied but not said?

This slows thinking down. It teaches close reading, which matters just as much when reading scientific papers or policy reports as when reading novels or philosophy.

Students learn that intellectual rigor often happens at small scales—that a single sentence can carry enormous weight, and misunderstanding it can distort everything that follows.

The habit this builds is attention. In a culture of skimming and scanning, the ability to read carefully is rare—and increasingly valuable.

This works in any course that assigns reading and requires very little time or technology.

5. Making Hidden Assumptions Visible

Every argument takes something for granted: about human behavior, causation, values, or evidence. Students are rarely trained to notice this.

Ask them to identify what an argument assumes but does not defend. A policy proposal assumes certain incentives will work. A scientific model assumes a particular causal structure. An ethical argument assumes a view of the good.

Once students learn to see these assumptions, disagreements become clearer and less personal. They also learn how to strengthen their own arguments by making commitments explicit rather than treating them as self-evident.

What this builds is reflexivity—the ability to examine one’s own intellectual starting points instead of mistaking them for common sense.

This works across disciplines and can be used in discussion, short writing, or peer review.

6. Owning the Trade-Offs

Students often write as if good ideas have no downsides. Trade-off analysis forces honesty.

Ask students not only what their preferred position achieves, but what it sacrifices. A policy that reduces inequality may slow growth. A rigorous scientific method may narrow scope. A literary interpretation that highlights one theme may downplay another.

Acknowledging costs doesn’t weaken an argument. It makes it believable.

The virtue this cultivates is intellectual honesty—the willingness to admit that real choices involve loss as well as gain. That habit is essential in ethics, policy, science, and professional life.

This can be built into almost any persuasive assignment in any field.

7. Letting Thinkers Talk to One Another

Have students stage a conversation between thinkers from different eras or disciplines: Plato and Rawls, Darwin and a modern geneticist, Adam Smith and Keynes.

This approach treats ideas as living traditions rather than fixed doctrines. It also counters presentism—the assumption that contemporary views are automatically superior.

Students begin to see intellectual work as cumulative: arguments evolve, get revised, and are answered over time.

What this builds is historical consciousness—an understanding that ideas are shaped by context and that serious thinking means situating claims within longer conversations.

This works well in courses with an intellectual or theoretical component and can be done creatively or analytically.

8. Starting with What an Argument Gets Right

Before criticizing a position, ask students to identify what it does well. What problem does it solve? What insight does it offer? What evidence supports it?

Students are often trained to attack first. This strategy reverses that sequence. It models how serious scholars engage work they respect but do not fully accept.

The discipline here is charity: giving opposing views a fair hearing. That doesn’t mean agreeing—it means understanding before judging.

This practice separates scholarship from polemic and can become a discussion norm or a formal assignment in any discipline.

9. Changing the Question

Many debates persist because people are answering different questions without realizing it.

Ask students to reframe an issue: from political to ethical, from individual to structural, from technical to human. Is affirmative action about fairness or outcomes? Is climate change about personal behavior or systemic reform?

Students learn that intellectual work is not just about answering questions—it’s about asking better ones.

This builds creativity: the ability to see problems from new angles, which often leads to the most original thinking.

10. Writing for the Public—and Defending It Scholarly

Ask students to write a short public-facing piece—an op-ed, policy memo, or blog post—paired with a longer scholarly explanation that lays out evidence and engages counterarguments.

They learn that clarity does not require oversimplification, and that accessibility and rigor can coexist.

This prepares students for the writing most will do after college: persuasive, evidence-based prose for non-specialists.

The habit this approach builds is intellectual responsibility—the obligation to communicate complex ideas clearly in a world that badly needs trustworthy expertise.

11. Thinking on the Page, in Real Time

Finally, use short in-class writing: responding to a claim, interpreting data, analyzing a passage, or framing a question.

In an age of AI-generated essays, this isn’t just about surveillance. It’s about authenticity. It lets you see students thinking as it happens—messy, partial, but real.

Ask a biology student to interpret a graph. A philosophy student to respond to a thought experiment. A history student to analyze a primary source. A political science to assess a policy’s trade-offs.

What this cultivates is intellectual spontaneity—the ability to think clearly without scripts or templates. That’s what thinking looks like in the world beyond college.

This works in any class size, takes little time, and can be graded lightly or used formatively.

These strategies don’t necessarily replace traditional essays or exams. They complement them. They shift the focus from performing intelligence to practicing it—from producing answers to learning how to think, argue, and listen across difference.

Why These Strategies Work Across Disciplines

These approaches aren’t “humanities methods” applied to other disciplines. They reflect how serious thinking actually works in every field.

Scientists argue all the time. They debate methods, interpret messy data, and disagree about what results mean. Asking students to swap positions or identify hidden assumptions mirrors exactly what happens in research seminars and peer review.

Engineers live in the world of trade-offs. Every design choice sacrifices something—cost, efficiency, durability, safety. Learning to analyze trade-offs isn’t an add-on to engineering thinking; it is engineering thinking.

Social scientists constantly ask counterfactual questions: What would have happened without this policy? What evidence would undermine this claim? Counterfactual reasoning isn’t a rhetorical trick. It’s how causal claims are tested.

Mathematicians practice intellectual charity by necessity. Before they can criticize a proof, they have to reconstruct it carefully and understand why it works as far as it does. Often, understanding where an argument succeeds is harder than spotting where it fails.

Across disciplines, intellectual work is contested. It means entering debates, making claims that others will challenge, and allowing your reasoning to be tested. These strategies don’t simulate that process—they are that process.

What These Approaches Actually Teach

The aim of these strategies is not to get everyone to agree. It is to help students learn how to disagree well.

Students learn that an argument is not just an opinion, a feeling, or critique. It is a claim supported by reasons and evidence, built on assumptions that can be examined and questioned. To evaluate an argument, you have to figure out how it works, not just whether you like it.

They also learn that disagreement is not the same as disrespect. Taking someone seriously means responding to what they actually say, not dismissing the person or reducing their view to a caricature.

Students begin to see that being confident is not the same as being thoughtful. Saying “I’m not sure,” or “that depends on what we mean,” often reflects careful thinking rather than weakness.

They learn that listening is an active skill. Understanding another person’s argument takes effort. It requires slowing down, paying attention, and resisting the urge to respond before you’ve fully grasped the point being made.

Over time, students come to understand that good thinking depends on habits. Being precise, honest about limits, fair to opposing views, and attentive to detail are not natural talents. They are skills developed through repeated practice, just like writing clearly or solving problems.

Why This Matters Now

Higher education is facing two overlapping crises.

The first is AI. Many traditional assignments—especially take-home essays—are now hard to evaluate with confidence. A polished paper may reflect a student’s thinking, a machine’s output, or some combination of the two.

This isn’t a problem we can solve with better surveillance or detection software. We need assignments that capture thinking as it happens and assess capacities AI struggles to replicate: real-time analysis, contextual judgment, and spontaneous reasoning.

The second is civic. Public discourse has become brittle and polarized. Disagreement often slides quickly into outrage or tribalism. This isn’t mainly a failure of goodwill. It’s a failure of intellectual infrastructure—the shared habits and skills that allow people to disagree without falling apart.

College should prepare students for both realities. Not by training them to be sharper debaters in the superficial sense—more aggressive, more performative—but by teaching them to argue the way scholars argue: carefully, honestly, with awareness of limits and respect for opponents.

These strategies aren’t magic. They won’t transform every student or fix all of higher education’s structural problems. But they do something crucial: they give students repeated practice in thinking that is demanding, disciplined, and real. They show students what intellectual work actually feels like.

And they prepare students for a world where the ability to engage disagreement without collapsing into tribalism, revise beliefs under pressure, and make arguments others must take seriously isn’t an academic luxury. It’s a civic and professional necessity.

A Practical Note

The good news is that none of this requires elaborate preparation, special training, or institutional overhaul. These strategies can be implemented right away, in any discipline, in large lectures or small seminars. They cost nothing. Often, they take less time than traditional assignments.

What they do require is a shift in how we think about teaching. Not as delivering content or encouraging self-expression, but as apprenticing students into the actual practices of intellectual life: entering controversies, testing claims, acknowledging uncertainty, and making arguments that can withstand scrutiny.

This isn’t about making classes harsher or more punitive. It’s about making them more honest—about what thinking really involves, what it demands, and why it matters.

Teaching students how to argue is not the same as telling them what to think. It’s teaching them how to think in ways that others—including those who disagree—have reason to respect.

And that is what a college education ought to do.