COMMENT | Learning shrinks when assessment becomes the point

COMMENT | In recent columns, I have written about how we often mistake the signals produced by assessment systems for learning itself, our fixation on examination rankings, and assessment design that prioritises comparison over information.

These debates can sound abstract and even academic, but their effects are felt most acutely not in policy documents or score reports, but in everyday classroom interactions, including mine.

Every semester, a familiar pattern repeats itself. As assignment deadlines approach, my inbox fills with questions - not about substantive ideas, arguments, or how to bridge theory and practice, but about margins, word counts, phrasing, and very particular, minute things to check if they are “correct”.

I take a deep breath and answer the questions as well as I can, but collectively, they tell a troubling story.

Many students are not thinking primarily about how to produce good work in the sense of their authentic, universal qualities (what makes a presentation engaging and clear, an argument cogent, a lesson well-delivered), but more so on how to reverse-engineer the assessors who wield the red pen.

These are very different mindsets: one is someone who understands safe driving habits and seeks to practice them; the other is someone whose eye is mainly on speed cameras and police roadblocks.

I don’t think students are being lazy or cynical. On the contrary, it is evidence of rational behaviour in a system saturated with assessment. When grades matter, students attend carefully to whatever they believe might influence them.

Scoring but not learning

The problem lies not with their attentiveness, but with what that attentiveness is being trained towards.

Broadly speaking, there are two ways a student can approach an assignment.

One is to ask: What do I need to do to score well? This way of thinking is strategic, cautious, and externally oriented.

It involves trying to infer what the assessor wants, where the boundaries lie, and how to avoid costly mistakes. It values fidelity and conformity, and it is very sensitive to risk.

The other approach is to ask: What would a really good example of this look like? This question is harder.

It requires judgement, ownership, and a willingness to accept that excellence does not always look the same from one piece of work to another, not just based on singular templates.

It invites creativity, not in the sense of being flamboyant, but in the sense of having ownership over the final product.

These two impulses pull in very different directions. The first is about optimisation under constraint; the second is about learning what standards of good work actually mean.

When assessment stakes are high, it is hardly surprising which impulse tends to dominate.

Distortion of learning

I recall that when I was an undergraduate, it was part of the institutional culture for lecturers to offer “tips” about what would come out in the exams towards the end of the semester.

Certain chapters were flagged as safe to ignore; others were strongly hinted at as likely to appear. The message was clear: do not study the curriculum as a whole - study strategically.

I remember finding this deeply unsettling. Studying, to my mind, was meant to consolidate what I had learned, to deepen understanding and connect ideas.

Turning it into an exercise in prediction and omission felt like a distortion of its purpose.

Going back to the example of traffic laws, it’s like making a public announcement that the Road Transport Department and the police will only be on the LDP highway, but not on Lekas or NKVE - do whatever you want there.

I remember being so unsettled then that when lecturers started dropping hints, I would walk out of the room, or put my earphones on, because even as an 18-year-old, I recognised the difference between short-term reward and long-term gain.

As an aspiring educator back in the day, I refused to accept the subversion of my values, even (or especially) by authority figures.

The principle is this: assessment does not merely measure learning; it shapes how students think about learning itself.

Over time, it teaches them what counts. When success depends heavily on performing well on tightly specified tasks, students learn to value precision over exploration, safety over ambition, and compliance over ownership.

They become adept at spotting cues, following templates, and reproducing expected forms - all of which are useful skills, but only up to a point.

This is the quiet cost of assessment saturation. Learning narrows, not because anyone intends it to, but because behaviour adapts to incentives.

Students who constantly ask “Will this be penalised?” are not being intellectually timid; they are responding sensibly to an environment in which penalties matter.

Students learn exactly what we teach

Yet the habits of mind that are cultivated under these conditions (risk aversion, external validation, and a reluctance to depart from exemplars) sit uneasily with what universities often claim to value: independence of thought, intellectual curiosity, and original judgment.

None of this is an argument against assessment per se. As argued previously, modern societies require mechanisms for certification and selection. Universities must credential students in ways that are broadly comparable and publicly legible.

The problem arises when assessment ceases to be an instrument of education and becomes its organising principle.

When every task is treated as a high-stakes performance, classrooms begin to orbit the assessment itself rather than the subject matter. Teaching narrows, rehearsal displaces inquiry, and students quite sensibly optimise for marks rather than for understanding.

At that point, we risk mistaking the accumulation of graded artefacts for education itself.

Assignments pile up, transcripts thicken, and learning management systems fill with submissions, yet it remains an open question what kind of thinkers students are becoming in the process.

The irony is that the very qualities we hope graduates will possess (judgment, adaptability, and intellectual confidence) are difficult to cultivate in environments that reward only compliance and error avoidance.

The ultimate product of a university education is not a pile of assignments, but the person who emerges on the other side, and into the wider world.

Long after specific topics are forgotten, graduates carry with them habits of thought: how they approach unfamiliar problems, how they evaluate claims, and how willing they are to take responsibility for the quality of their work without constant external prompting.

These dispositions are not easily assessed, but they are precisely what matter most beyond the university.

If students focus narrowly on scoring well rather than on learning well, it is not because they lack integrity or curiosity. It is because we have taught them, repeatedly and convincingly, that this is what matters.

If we want them to think differently, we must be honest about the messages our assessment practices send.

Until then, we should not be surprised when the question “Will this get marks?” crowds out the more demanding, and ultimately more valuable, question: “Is this good work?”

TIONG NGEE DERK is a Cambridge-trained researcher who cares about improving education for the many, and not the few.

The views expressed here are those of the author/contributor and do not necessarily represent the views of Malaysiakini.

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