Welcome to the scientific knock-off conference. ‘I feel cheated’

“At least you’ll be able to say you attended a strange presentation about mobile phones on buses.” Researcher Rand Raheem from Middlesex University (England) tried to laugh off her discomfort as she wrapped up her talk. For twenty minutes, she had discussed the challenges of unstable internet connectivity on high-speed transport such as trains and buses, and the technical solutions for these issues.

A normal enough topic for an academic conference, if it weren’t for the fact that Raheem was presenting at a specialist neuroscience conference, NeuroTalk Budapest. She wasn’t the only misfit in the session titled ‘Latest Breaking Research of Basic Neurosciences’. The next talk was on the role of bone loss in dental procedures. Even the presentations that somewhat touched on neuroscience were unrelated, ranging from the importance of filler words for sentence comprehension to electrical stimulation of spinal nerves for intervertebral disc recovery.

Such variation is unusual for conference sessions, which are typically thematically cohesive, allowing peers to meet, discuss, and learn within their field of expertise. Conferences are vital for scientists as places to network, showcase research, and gain new ideas.

What’s happening here in Budapest? NeuroTalk2024Europe – the conference’s official name – is a so-called predatory conference. It’s like unknowingly buying fake Nikes: they look real from a distance but turn out to be low-quality imitations on closer inspection.

These conferences are a kind of counterpart to the more well-known predatory journals – academic ‘predator’ publications mainly serving as cash cows for their publishers. Anyone can publish in them, provided they pay (hundreds to thousands of euros), but without peer review, making their scientific value nil. The publishers profit while scientists (knowingly or not) embellish their CVs.

Copycat conferences – often run by the same companies (see box) – operate similarly. Anyone can attend, provided they pay the (steep) registration fees. The result: a hodgepodge of unrelated content. Public (tax) money is wasted, benefiting only the organiser. It’s nothing less than a new, albeit less known, branch of academic fraud.

Time to take a closer look at this peculiar form of profiteering. The NeuroTalk conference, held last June at a hotel in Budapest, provided the perfect opportunity. Several Dutch researchers were on the programme. What brought them here, and were they aware of this new type of academic malpractice? There was no press accreditation, but by booking a room at the conference hotel, reporting was still possible.

The three-day event at the luxurious Radisson Blu Beke Hotel was organised by BITcongress, a somewhat shady company from China listed as a suspicious conference organiser. Based in Dalian, BIT claims to host conferences in Europe, Japan, and China. Participants are recruited through flattering invitations, asking them to present their ‘important’ research. Scientists often receive dozens of such emails monthly – usually filtered into their spam folder (this reporter, a former scientist, also received an invitation for Budapest). These emails often praise the recipient’s ‘remarkable research’, earning these conferences the nickname vanity conferences. Most researchers who accept don’t realise they’re being deceived.

Alexander Minnaert from the University of Groningen accepted such an email invitation, he explained after the last morning session of NeuroTalk, held in the Britannia II hall of the Budapest hotel. The professor of orthopedagogy had just given an enthusiastic presentation on how deafblind children can learn to communicate. “I initially planned to attend an earlier edition in Singapore, but it was cancelled due to COVID. I couldn’t get a refund, so I came here instead.”

These costs – between 1,650 and 3,050 dollars per person, according to the website – are covered by his university, he said. Minnaert also combined the conference with a visit to colleagues in the region as part of a research project.

He admitted that many presentations were substandard. “Since I was chairing a session, I made suggestions to create more coherence, but little was done with them.” The talks were sometimes hard to follow. “They went in all directions. The conference opening was dismally poor.”

At first glance, however, it’s hard to label NeuroTalk outright fraud. Real scientists were present, delivering genuine presentations and voluntarily signing up. The logistics and hospitality on-site were professional, with abundant free lunches and drinks to pamper attendees. Every researcher knows that some small, legitimate conferences can also be weak in content.

But upon closer inspection and speaking with attendees, clear signs emerged that things weren’t right. These are characteristics noted in other reports on knock-off conferences (recently in Nature), warnings in journals like Science and again in Nature, and on university and conference software company websites: ‘Predatory meetings and how to avoid them‘

Consider, for instance, researchers listed on the programme without their knowledge. One of them was trainee anaesthesiologist Marije Wijnberge (Amsterdam AMC). “I’m absolutely not a speaker”, she wrote indignantly when asked about her planned presence in Budapest. “I may have once inquired about it, but it’s ridiculous they put me on the programme.”

This is not an oversight by the organisers but appears to be an intentional strategy. Anyone who responds in any way to an invitation risks finding their name in the preliminary programme, used as bait for colleagues.

A second red flag: the complete absence of presentation abstracts on the conference website. These summaries help determine which talks are worth attending at genuine conferences. Add to that the fact that the organiser is not a professional association but a vague Chinese company, and that anyone willing to pay can present, and you know something is amiss.

One last warning sign is how organisers ‘bundle’ conferences. Alongside NeuroTalk, there were eight other conferences at the Radisson Blu Beke Hotel under BITcongress’ umbrella, spanning topics from cardiology to dentistry, with grand names like Annual World Cancer Congress (where Wijnberge was scheduled) and Annual World Congress of Smart Materials.

None of the attendees interviewed knew about this. “I had no idea”, said American surgeon Jenny Choi, attending the Annual World Congress of Digestive Disease (AWCDD). According to the on-site organisers, there were about 400 attendees in total, masking the fact that some conferences were negligible. For instance, Choi’s AWCDD had only two sessions.

Despite this, Minnaert didn’t consider the Budapest meeting a scam. “People always call for more cross-pollination between scientific disciplines. That’s present here. Personally, I found the broadening into medical fields interesting, and I made a few new contacts. After my presentation, someone asked if I’d attend the afternoon session. They wanted to continue our discussion.”

His colleague Behrooz Alizadeh, an epidemiologist at the University Medical Center Groningen (UMCG), was less impressed. “If the interdisciplinary aspect were professionally developed, it could be interesting, but it’s not at all”, he said, sitting in a lounge area on the hotel’s first floor. Like many other attendees, the Groningen epidemiologist was unimpressed with the scientific quality. “Many speakers aren’t top-tier in their field, not even the keynote speakers. It mainly benefits their own CVs, which is dubious.”

Why did he attend? “I wanted to try it out.” Before the conference, he had defensively stated it was a legitimate event via email, but on-site, he was more candid. “This isn’t the kind of conference I would typically attend, but the organisation covered my registration and one hotel night.”

A major reason for accepting the invitation was that he was initially scheduled to speak at the overarching keynote forum, which all four hundred attendees could attend. But this plan fell through. “I was disappointed; that wasn’t what we agreed on.”

Besides the two from Groningen, a handful of other Dutch researchers were on the programme. Apart from the absent Wijnberge, one was Parkinson’s researcher Ciska Heida from the University of Twente (UT). She explained after her talk that she found the broad programme of NeuroTalk appealing. “More prominent conferences often invite the usual suspects.”

Her professional-looking presentation on recent research into how virtual reality and special vibrating socks help Parkinson’s patients walk better stood out compared to many others. These were far from state-of-the-art, often discussing studies from five or more years ago.

That’s not surprising, considering the average age of the speakers was high, with some already retired. One such speaker was Roberto Avola, a 73-year-old Sicilian professor. He shuffled to the front, sat behind his laptop, and read his slides verbatim, in a heavily accented voice. “It’s a bit of a retiree event”, Heida noted.

No wonder some attendees felt downright cheated, like Marisol Hernández from the University of Chile. “I came because I was invited and there were supposed to be interesting talks on leadership and health. But the topics are too varied. At other conferences, you make new connections that are truly useful for academic development. I gained nothing from this conference. I feel cheated.”

Her visit cost her thousands of euros – a significant expense for Chilean researchers compared to their Western counterparts.

Dutch scientists, too, were financially stung. “I fell for it. Now I’m out 1,000 euros”, said Niels, a postdoctoral researcher from Utrecht University, preferring not to disclose his surname. He had initially signed up for NeuroTalk, he recounted by phone a month before the conference, because the website mentioned industry speakers.

This aligned perfectly with his intended shift from fundamental to more applied research. “I hoped to meet people further along in this transition.” He was unfamiliar with the conference but felt reassured seeing Groningen researchers on the programme.

He was pressured to decide quickly to get an early registration discount – another common tactic. “Only after paying over a thousand euros did I research the conference organisers and found many online warnings. By then, it was too late. I wanted to cancel but could only get part of my registration fee back.”

Niels paid the 1,000 euros himself, as his department hadn’t covered his registration. “I feel really foolish, but I hope my experience warns as many people as possible about these scams.”

BITcongress’ local representatives appeared unaware of any wrongdoing. A handful of Chinese staff managed the event logistics over the three days. Mr Liu, one of them, confirmed that scientists indeed receive email invitations and that anyone responding positively and paying the fees is welcome to speak. He presented it as entirely normal.

According to Liu, the conference aligns with his organisation’s objectives. “My boss is a doctor and entrepreneur who started these conferences to connect scientists and industry professionals.” How much profit BIT makes is unclear, but with registration fees alone, turnover likely approaches a million euros. The hotel stated that their fees were confidential.

BITcongress reacted indignantly when I emailed them the criticism of these conferences. “Are you kidding?”, replied Anna Li on behalf of the organisation. “We have high costs. We’ve been organising these conferences for ten years and have invited nearly 100 Nobel laureates. Speakers value us greatly.”

None of the attendees plan to visit future editions – in Dublin and Stockholm, according to the programme book. “Once, but never again”, said UT researcher Heida. “If I had known this beforehand, I wouldn’t have come.” The same goes for Alizadeh from UMCG. “But it’s good to experience this for awareness.”

For the organisers, it probably makes little difference. They’ve already profited. The group photos and names of attendees in Budapest will serve as marketing for future editions, keeping the system going and ensuring continued interest. After all, there are always enough scientists worldwide to approach.

This reporter soon received another email inviting them to speak at NeuroTalk Dublin. Those registering now receive a 50 per cent discount: 750 dollars. A proposal for a nonsense presentation on the influence of aliens on brain activity was accepted without issue. Registration fees, it turned out, were negotiable. “How much can you afford?”