Special Interests’—It’s Deep Knowledge and Expertise
Bridgette Hamstead
When autistic people develop deep, passionate knowledge about a subject, it’s often called a “special interest.” But when a neurotypical person dedicates years to studying history, science, or art, we call them an expert. Why the double standard? The term "special interest" is infantilizing. It suggests that autistic knowledge is quirky or excessive rather than what it truly is—intellectual depth, expertise, and a unique way of engaging with the world.
Autistic people have always been the deep thinkers, the pattern recognizers, the ones who see connections others miss. Our ability to hyperfocus, retain vast amounts of information, and develop innovative ideas is a strength, not a symptom. But too often, instead of being encouraged to pursue our areas of knowledge, we are dismissed, underestimated, or told to "talk about something else." The result? Autistic kids grow up feeling like their interests are embarrassing instead of valuable. Autistic adults are overlooked in the workplace, their expertise overshadowed by outdated perceptions of what professionalism should look like.
It’s time to stop calling it a “special interest” and start recognizing it for what it is—deep knowledge, valuable insight, and an asset to every field. Autistic people do not just fixate on topics. We become the experts the world depends on. Let’s start treating autistic intelligence with the respect it deserves.
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For as long as I can remember, I have been deeply, intensely passionate about the things that interest me. When I find something that captures my mind, I want to know everything about it. I want to research, analyze, compare, and make connections that others might not see. I want to talk about it, write about it, and immerse myself in it until I understand it fully. Yet, when autistic people exhibit this same kind of dedication to learning and expertise, society labels it as a “special interest.” This term is often used to set autistic passion apart from neurotypical interests, positioning it as something childish, obsessive, or socially inappropriate rather than as what it truly is—deep knowledge and expertise.
The phrase “special interest” is infantilizing. It suggests that an autistic person’s passion is somehow less valuable or meaningful than the interests of neurotypical people. When a neurotypical person spends years studying history, literature, or engineering, they are seen as an expert. When an autistic person does the same, they are often dismissed as having a quirky fixation. If an autistic child memorizes the entire periodic table, it is treated as an amusing party trick rather than a demonstration of intellectual potential. If an autistic adult can recall in-depth details about classical art, aviation, or marine biology, they are viewed as eccentric rather than knowledgeable. The language used to describe autistic interests matters because it shapes how society perceives our intelligence, curiosity, and contributions.
The term “special interest” also carries the assumption that autistic passion is somehow abnormal or excessive. This assumption is rooted in the medical model of disability, which frames autistic traits as deviations from the norm rather than as natural variations in human cognition. It implies that there is something unusual about wanting to learn everything possible about a subject, when in reality, this kind of deep engagement is a strength. In many fields, from science and mathematics to art and philosophy, groundbreaking discoveries and innovations have come from individuals who devoted their lives to intense, focused study. The world benefits from people who think deeply, who notice patterns, who make connections that others miss. When autistic people engage in this kind of intellectual pursuit, it should be recognized as an asset, not a symptom of a disorder.
The idea that autistic interests are inherently different from neurotypical interests is also inaccurate. Neurotypical people have strong interests too. Sports fans memorize statistics and team histories. Film enthusiasts analyze cinematography and follow directors’ entire careers. Scholars dedicate years to researching specific historical periods. The difference is that when neurotypical people have deep interests, they are socially validated. They are encouraged to pursue careers in their areas of passion, to join communities of like-minded individuals, and to engage in discussions where their knowledge is valued. Autistic people, on the other hand, are often shamed for their passions, told to “talk about something else” or “not be so intense.” Many of us learn early in life that sharing our interests will lead to social rejection, so we suppress them or only discuss them in safe spaces. Instead of being celebrated for our knowledge, we are treated as though we are indulging in something childish or unimportant.
This perception leads to real consequences for autistic people, particularly in education and employment. Many autistic students struggle in traditional school settings, not because they lack intelligence or curiosity, but because their interests are not integrated into the learning process. Instead of allowing autistic students to explore their areas of deep knowledge, schools often focus on forcing them to conform to rigid curricula that do not engage them. This can lead to boredom, disengagement, and the false assumption that autistic students are not motivated or capable. In the workplace, autistic employees who have expertise in niche areas are often undervalued or overlooked for leadership roles, simply because their communication style does not match neurotypical expectations. Instead of recognizing their ability to retain complex information, identify patterns, and innovate within their fields, employers may view them as too focused, too detail-oriented, or not socially flexible enough for advancement. This is not a failure of autistic people; it is a failure of systems that do not know how to recognize and nurture neurodivergent strengths.
Reframing autistic passion as expertise rather than as a “special interest” is a necessary step toward shifting societal perceptions of autism. When we remove infantilizing language, we create space for autistic people to be recognized as experts in their fields. We allow autistic children to feel proud of their knowledge instead of ashamed of their differences. We encourage autistic adults to pursue careers and leadership roles without feeling that their strengths are seen as liabilities. Most importantly, we begin to dismantle the idea that autism is defined by deficits rather than by valuable cognitive differences.
The world has always relied on deep thinkers, pattern recognizers, and passionate learners. Autistic people have been at the forefront of scientific discoveries, artistic movements, and technological advancements throughout history, even when their contributions were overlooked or attributed to neurotypical figures. Recognizing autistic expertise is not just about respecting autistic individuals; it is about acknowledging the role that autistic minds have played in shaping human progress.
Instead of calling it a “special interest,” let’s call it what it is—knowledge, expertise, and an invaluable way of engaging with the world. Autistic people deserve to have their contributions taken seriously, their passions respected, and their deep engagement recognized for the strength that it is. The more we move away from infantilizing language, the closer we come to a society that values autistic intelligence, curiosity, and innovation.