Thinking critically about rhetorical questions
Everyone loves a good rhetorical question, don’t they?
Well, do they? Are we really so quick to nod along to these comforting prompts? The answers might surprise you, and that’s where the critical thinking comes in.
It’s natural to want to build consensus. We all occasionally fall into the trap of assuming that what we think is reasonable or true will naturally be seen the same way by others. But more often than not, what we decide is true is either wishful thinking, lazy thinking, or - more often than we’d care to admit - bullshit.
As I’ve discussed before, spotting and avoiding bullshit (especially our own) isn’t always easy. It requires a sharp eye and a critical mind. And we should be especially alert when that bullshit comes dressed as rhetorical generosity. “Who wouldn’t want to make learning more joyful?” sounds appealing, self-evident, almost irrefutable. Yet this kind of rhetorical trick can conceal more than it reveals. By inviting agreement without scrutiny, such questions can smuggle in assumptions without needing to defend them. Rhetorical questions, especially when used this way bypass the hard graft of constructing an argument and instead lean on shared sentiment or moral certainty. We nod along, not because we’ve been convinced, but because we haven’t been given the space to think. So yes, ideally learning should be joyful, but if that’s our claim, we should be willing to explain why, not rely on the seductive shortcut of the leading question.
For my part, I think it’s important to acknowledge that sometimes learning isn’t fun. Sometimes it can be hard graft. Sometimes the ‘joy’ has to be deferred until the point we’re able to wield are hard won knowledge to spectacular effect. But what if I simply asked a series of manipulative questions designed to make you agree?1
If joy is the measure of a lesson, what happens to the knowledge that demands struggle before it yields delight? Isn’t the real joy of learning found not in the moment of confusion, but in the moment clarity finally clicks into place? Why should we apologise for asking students to work hard, when it’s precisely that hard work that turns effort into expertise?
Are you persuaded?2
By inviting the reader to agree without pause, rhetorical questions act as shortcuts, avoiding the depth of thought required to genuinely consider an argument on its merits. One way to resist the manipulative force of rhetorical questions is deceptively simple: answer them.
In Intuition Pumps, Daniel Dennett suggests that one of the most effective ways to defuse rhetorical sleight of hand is to take the question at face value. When someone asks, “Who wouldn’t want to make learning more joyful?” the most effective - and subversive - response might be, “That depends on what we mean by joyful, and whether joy is the most reliable compass for meaningful education.”
Rhetorical questions rely on the illusion of consensus. They work best when left unanswered, because the moment they’re treated as real questions, their persuasive spell begins to break. Dennett calls this “reversing the polarity” of a rhetorical device: treating a cue to agree as an invitation to think. By answering a rhetorical question, we reassert our agency as thinkers rather than passive recipients of implication.
This practice exposes the soft underbelly of arguments that lean too heavily on insinuation. When rhetorical questions are forced to stand as actual propositions - with premises, evidence, and consequences - many collapse under scrutiny. Answering them shouldn’t be seen as pedantic. It’s a discipline of clarity. It reminds us that if a claim matters, it should be defended openly, not bundled in behind a question mark.
Of course, rhetorical questions are - used effectively - a powerful tool in writing. After all, that’s why we use them, isn’t it?3 But their impact depends on how they’re used. Research by Ahluwalia and Burnkrant (2004) shows that rhetorical questions encourage deeper cognitive processing, making messages more persuasive. Similarly, Blankenship and Craig (2006) highlights that, when used strategically, rhetorical questions engage readers and strengthen arguments. However, overuse can lead to fatigue and disengagement, as the audience may become weary or disinterested, diminishing the persuasive power of the message. Another study from Ibri College found that students respond positively to rhetorical questions when they are used sparingly to provoke thought and enhance the message, rather than overwhelm the audience. But, again, overuse risks turning them from an engaging tool into a repetitive device that weakens the impact of the message.
All three studies plough a clear furrow: when used strategically, rhetorical questions can deepen engagement, enhance thinking, and drive persuasion. But the idea that overuse dilutes the effect is interesting. I suspect that too many rhetorical questions alerts us their manipulative presence and puts us on guard. We may think we’re being engaged and prompted to think critically, but - if we don’t notice how we’re being manipulated - how would we know if this was illusory?4
It’s perhaps worth acknowledging that there are several different types of rhetorical questions. The Greeks, with their unparalleled attention to detail in matters rhetorical, categorised every aspect of persuasive speech, and were certainly not content with having just one type of rhetorical question. They had five: erotesis, aporia, antiphrasis, hypophora and eperotesis. Let’s review each in turn to consider how they’re used and what we should be wary of when we spot them being employed.
Erotesis
A question that expects no answer because the answer is either self-evident or implied. It’s often used to emphasise a point:
“How many more times do we have to tell students to bring their books?”
“Do I look like I have time to mark thirty essays every week?”
The implied answers are obvious. While erotesis can effectively highlight a point of frustration, critical thinking encourages us to look beyond the immediate frustration and ask: What’s behind the behaviour? Why does the teacher feel so overworked? Is the system to blame? Are students equipped with the tools or motivation to consistently follow through? Do teachers see the value of providing feedback? Critical thinking should push us to probe deeper rather than simply reinforcing the obvious.
Aporia
Expresses doubt or confusion, often used to highlight a paradox or problem without offering a direct answer:
“If schools can’t fix poverty, what’s the point of trying to raise standards?”
“What hope do we have of closing the attainment gap when so many children arrive at school already behind?”
While aporia can help open up a critical dialogue about educational shortcomings, we should’t just leave the question hanging in the air. These questions express despair, not curiosity. They name a real problem but stop short of probing solutions. What mechanisms deepen or narrow that gap? What interventions have shown promise? What can schools do to buffer the effects of disadvantage, and how can policy support that work? The challenge with aporia is that it can leave us feeling stuck without providing any path forward so trying to answer these questions has some ethical urgency
Antiphrasis
A question that uses irony, often asking a question whose answer is obvious in a sarcastic manner, thereby emphasising the opposite of what is stated:
“Isn’t it just brilliant that we’ve added yet another layer of bureaucracy to the system?”
“Why wouldn’t we base all teaching decisions on this year’s Ofsted framework?”
While antiphrasis can effectively convey frustration or sarcasm, we should evaluate the underlying reasons for such frustration. What is the actual impact of this bureaucracy? Is the added layer serving a purpose, or is it indeed an obstacle to progress? What are the unintended consequences of the bureaucracy? How should accountability frameworks inform - but not dictate - professional judgment? What’s the risk of allowing external metrics to displace internal expertise? Instead of simply resigning to sarcasm, we should seek solutions or alternatives to these issues.
Hypophora
A question where the speaker immediately answers their own question, often used to introduce a new idea or argument:
“Why are behaviour policies important? Because without clear expectations, chaos reigns.”
“Why move away from coursework? Because exams are more objective and reliable.”
Does the evidence support these claims? They sound plausible, but the binary framing oversimplifies a complex issue. What kind of expectations? How are they communicated and enforced? Is consistency alone enough, or do relational dynamics and classroom culture matter just as much? What does “objective” mean in this context? Are exams really free from bias? What about pupils who perform poorly under timed conditions despite having deep knowledge? Hypophora can be persuasive, but it requires scrutiny to ensure that the answer given is well-supported by data and not just a presumption.
Eperotesis
Used to prompt deep reflection, often asking a question that seems obvious but encourages further contemplation:
“Don’t all children deserve an education that meets their individual needs?”
“Shouldn’t every classroom be a place where all students feel safe, valued, and inspired?”
While these questions encourages reflection on shared values, we should question the assumptions: which needs? Academic, emotional, social? Are we equipped to identify and meet them all? What trade-offs arise when trying to personalise provision at scale? What happens when safety and challenge seem to conflict? How do we respond when students feel valued but are not being pushed academically? Eperotesis pushes us to consider the details and realities behind what may seem like an obvious duty, ensuring that we don’t just accept the statement at face value.
Rhetorical questions are everywhere: in classrooms, policy documents, CPD sessions, even casual conversations in the staffroom. They can spark thought, drive persuasion, and create momentum. But they can also manipulate, obscure, and close down the very thinking they pretend to invite. Recognising the different forms - from the weary complaint of erotesis to the seductive moral prompt of eperotesis - might help us stay alert to the rhetorical moves being made both around us and by us.
The challenge is not to abandon rhetorical questions altogether, but to treat them with the respect they demand: as tools that should serve inquiry, not replace it. So next time you encounter one - especially one that feels too easy to agree with - don’t just nod along. Pause. Ask yourself what’s being assumed, what’s being left unsaid, and what the real question might be.
A well considered answer is always more powerful than the most persuasive rhetorical question.
See what I did?
This one’s an actual question. Please feel free to answer it in the comments.
I hope you’re spotting all these.
And again! But, ask yourself: is this question an attempt to persuade (erotesis) or an invitation to reflect (eperotesis)? Is it manipulative?
Isn't it obvious that we need more blogs like this?
Thoughtful. Rhetorical questions demand our active thought. Does that count as an assertion....an equally dangerous tool of the "informed". Would be fascinated to read a blog on the prevalence and dangers of these too. Thank you. Bryan