Imagine you are a new parent, bleary-eyed and scrolling through Facebook at two in the morning, trying to figure out what is best for your baby. You are not anti-science, not anti-vaccine, just genuinely unsure because there is so much conflicting noise online. A post appears: “Protect the community and your kids by booking their vaccinations today.” It sounds official, maybe a little impersonal, like something from a public health brochure. Another message asks: “Do you know all the effects of childhood vaccinations on your babies?” It feels different, softer, more like a friend who understands your worries. Both messages link to the exact same reliable vaccination information. In our recently published research, that second message was about 52% more likely to be clicked on. That finding might seem small, but it points to something important: in a world drowning in information, the way we say a fact can matter as much as the fact itself. This is especially true when we are trying to reach people who have learned to distrust official voices. We wanted to test whether changing the presentation of factual information online could help it reach audiences who might otherwise scroll right past it. The answer, it turns out, is that wording matters enormously, even when the information itself stays exactly the same. And that has real implications for how we fight misinformation, not by shouting louder, but by learning to listen and speak in ways that actually connect.
Misinformation, at its most basic, means false information shared without the intention to cause harm. Disinformation, on the other hand, is false information deliberately created and shared to deceive. But the problem is messier than those definitions suggest. In our earlier research, we spent a long time watching Australian Facebook communities that shared anti-vaccination and far-right narratives. What we found surprised us: false claims were only part of the story. People in these communities also shared articles from moderate, mainstream news sources, but they selected a very narrow range of topics that fit their existing world views. That meant even mostly accurate news articles could reinforce a skewed perspective, because the selection itself told a story. This makes it harder to get reliable information to people, but it also has a more human cost. We described people withdrawing from loved ones and from mainstream information as they became more involved in these fringe communities. They weren’t just losing access to facts; they were losing relationships. The “misinformation minefield” is not just a battlefield of bad claims versus good claims. It is a social landscape where people find belonging, identity, and comfort. Governments provide factual resources, researchers investigate misleading claims, and fact-checkers try to explain why something is wrong. That is all useful, but facts only work if people trust the source and feel understood. Social media platforms have also tried removing false content or making it less visible. Research on Meta’s pandemic response found that many Facebook pages regulated by Meta declined in performance, but some kept growing. Users found ways around restrictions using coded language and links to less moderated platforms. Meta stopped using independent fact-checkers in the United States in April 2025 and began introducing Community Notes, where users write and rate explanations that appear alongside posts. These approaches have had some impact, but they leave a central question unanswered: how do you get reliable information in front of someone who isn’t looking for it?
That question led us to try something different. For months, we observed Australian Facebook communities that shared anti-vaccination and far-right narratives. We did not go in with assumptions; we listened. One of the most striking things we noticed was that these communities offered companionship alongside information. Messages could sound like a friend sharing worries about a child, not like a government advisory. That emotional tone was part of the appeal. So we used our observations to develop three fictional audience profiles, or personas, to guide our experiments. Jennifer was a young mother concerned about vaccination. Patrick was a retired teacher worried about his grandchildren’s future. Aaron was a young man interested in fitness and technology. These personas helped us choose audiences for Facebook advertisements and write messages in styles that felt familiar to each group. For Jennifer, we used personal, caring language, like a friend sharing worries about her children. For Patrick, we used an authoritative, explanatory tone that respected his desire for thorough understanding. For Aaron, we used a motivational tone, encouraging him to take charge and check the facts for himself. Then came the crucial part: we compared those messages with neutral versions of the same ad. Each pair used the same image, linked to the same government or government-affiliated resource, and had the same sponsor and advertising settings. The only thing that changed was the wording. We wanted to isolate the effect of language itself, and we did.
The results were striking. In 11 out of 12 comparisons, people were more likely to click on an ad when its wording reflected the language used in the communities we studied. Consider the ads about school education. When they used familiar language, they received clicks 6% of the time. The same ads with neutral wording only received clicks 1.1% of the time. That means the language inspired by the communities we were trying to reach was roughly five times more likely to be clicked on. For vaccination ads, the effect was smaller but still meaningful: those with familiar language were clicked on 0.98% of the time, compared to 0.65% for neutral wording, which is about 52% more clicks. These numbers may sound small, but in public health communication, even a small increase in engagement can translate into thousands of people accessing credible information. We have to be honest about the limitations. Our findings do not show that we changed anyone’s mind. We do not know whether people actually read the linked pages or whether they understood or accepted the information. Facebook’s delivery system also influenced who saw each advertisement, and we changed several features of the wording together, so we cannot identify exactly which feature made the difference. It is possible that one word or phrase did more work than others. But even with all these caveats, the clear direction of the results is hard to ignore: when you speak to people in a voice that sounds like their own, they are more willing to stop scrolling and pay attention.
So what can we do with this now? The most immediate application is for public health teams and other communicators. Instead of assuming that a well-designed government website is enough, they could listen to how people actually describe their concerns, in their own words, on social media, in parenting groups, in community forums. They could then test different ways of presenting the same evidence, not by inventing new science, but by changing the framing and tone. This does not mean impersonating community members or pretending to be someone you are not. It does not mean amplifying fear to attract attention or using manipulative tactics. It means adopting language that speaks directly to the questions and concerns of the people you are trying to reach. For a vaccination campaign, this could mean testing messages like: “You want to keep your little one safe. Wondering what vaccinations will mean for your baby?” That sentence acknowledges a parent’s love and worry at the same time. It does not lecture. It does not shame. It invites curiosity. A follow-up study could then examine whether readers actually understood the information and felt better able to make a decision. This approach could be used for any contested topic, not just vaccination. It could be used for climate change, for public health guidelines, for elections. The principle is the same: if you want someone to read what you have written, you first have to make them feel that you see them, and that you are speaking to them as a person, not as a target.
At its heart, this research is about empathy. The people in these online communities are not simply “misinformed” or “ignorant.” They are often worried parents, grandparents, and young people looking for identity, belonging, and certainty in a confusing world. If we want reliable information to compete with misinformation, we need to meet people where they are, not just with facts, but with a tone that acknowledges their fears and hopes. We cannot force anyone to click, read, or trust. A single ad will not reverse someone’s worldview, and we should not pretend it will. But we can make it more likely that someone will pause, click, read, and think. That is the first step toward rebuilding the trust that misinformation has eroded. Our research shows that communication style can help attract attention to reliable information, even among people who might otherwise overlook it. That is a small, practical tool that public health teams, researchers, and communicators can use right now. It costs almost nothing to change a few words. But those words can make a meaningful difference in who gets reached and who gets left behind. We are Jooyoung Lee, Emily Booth, and Marian-Andrei Rizoiu from the University of Technology Sydney, and we believe that fighting misinformation is not just about debunking false claims. It is about learning to speak to people with honesty, respect, and a little more humanity.