The Curse of Excellence: How Winning "Professor of the Year" Twice Killed My Enrollment

There's a peculiar irony in academia that nobody warns you about: sometimes, being recognized as exceptional at teaching is the kiss of death for your course enrollment. I learned this lesson the hard way—twice.

At University of the Ryukyus, where I taught, there's a prestigious award called "Professor of the Year." It's given to faculty members whose general education courses receive the highest student evaluations across more than 800 course offerings open to all undergraduates. Imagine my pride when I won it. Now imagine my bewilderment when I won it again with a completely different course.

You'd think I'd be drowning in students eager to take my classes, right? Wrong. Dead wrong.

Round One: The Calculated Victory

Let me be honest—the first time, I went hunting for that award like a Pokemon trainer determined to catch 'em all.

My courses were bleeding students year after year. Why? Because I committed the cardinal sin of university teaching: I actually expected them to work.Weekly assignments. Rigorous grading. High standards. You know, all those quaint notions we professors cling to from our idealistic graduate school days before reality beats them out of us.

From an outsider's perspective, declining enrollment screams one thing: terrible teaching. I needed to prove otherwise before my reputation went down in flames. As someone whose expertise lies in management, psychology, and behavioral science, I decided to deploy those very tools against—er, I mean, for—my students.

I analyzed them like a behavioral scientist examining lab rats (sorry, students—you know I love you). I studied their mentality, their behavioral patterns, their decision-making processes. Armed with this intelligence, I redesigned my "Introduction to Management" course—a social science subject that typically ranks somewhere between "getting wisdom teeth pulled" and "watching paint dry" in student preference surveys.

And it worked! I won Professor of the Year!

The next semester's enrollment? Even lower than before.

Round Two: The Entrepreneurship Experiment

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson, but apparently, I'm a glutton for punishment. The second award came from teaching "Introduction to Venture Entrepreneurship"—a course so intense it made my management class look like naptime.

This wasn't just my show. It was a collaborative production involving Okinawa Prefecture's "Next Generation Entrepreneur Human Resource Development Project" and the global Startup Weekend movement. We brought in Silicon Valley experts, local business leaders, and enough entrepreneurial fire to power a small rocket.

The course description might as well have been a warning label: "Weekend intensive sessions. Off-campus activities. A 54-hour Startup Weekend marathon in July. No excuses accepted—not even for job interviews or teaching practicums."

I distinctly remember telling students during orientation that if I were in their shoes, I wouldn't take this course for a measly two credits. The workload was insane. The demands were brutal. The expectations were sky-high.

And yet, students came. They participated. They thrived. Two of them even launched actual businesses! The course evaluation scores were nearly perfect. Professor of the Year, round two. Boom.

But here's the kicker: even with all that success, even with the accolades and the startup companies and the glowing reviews, maintaining enrollment was like trying to hold water in your hands. Students kept slipping away, choosing easier paths.

The Brutal Truth About Student Preferences

There's a fascinating piece of research from a Japanese national university that perfectly captures the paradox I lived through. When asked what types of courses should be expanded, students overwhelmingly voted for active learning courses—you know, the ones where they actually participate and engage.

But when asked what courses they actually preferred taking? The winner was: "Courses where you just show up and sit there because they're easier to pass."

Let that sink in. Students know what's good for them. They'll even tell you what's good for them. And then they'll choose the opposite because, well, it's easier.

It's not unique to Japan. It's not unique to University of the Ryukyus. It's universal. When students have choices—especially in elective courses—they'll almost always choose the path of least resistance, regardless of how brilliant, innovative, or transformative the alternative might be.

The Entrepreneur's Pivot

The entrepreneurship course taught me something valuable beyond business principles: how to pivot when your original plan isn't working. Over four years, we constantly adapted. We added pre-events when students had no experience with Startup Weekend. We adjusted the program when it didn't fit local student culture. We made it tougher when stakeholders demanded more rigor.

By the third year—the award-winning year—we had created something truly special. Students worked alongside professional entrepreneurs and business leaders. They experienced the chaos and creativity of real startup culture in stylish incubation spaces rather than sterile classrooms. They pitched ideas, formed teams, built prototypes, and presented to judges.

The course eventually became part of the university's "Regional Revitalization Minor" program. We proved that entrepreneurship education isn't just about starting companies—it's about developing resilience, grit, problem-solving skills, and the ability to adapt to an uncertain future.

But sustainable funding? Adequate staffing? Consistent enrollment? Those remained elusive. By the fourth year, we had to scale back to standard lectures and workshops. The dream was real, but dreams need resources.

The Bittersweet Trophy

So here I stand, a two-time Professor of the Year award winner, with enough accolades to prove my courses are objectively excellent, and enrollment numbers that suggest I'm teaching the academic equivalent of an obscure indie film—critically acclaimed but box office poison.

Am I happy about the awards? Absolutely. Am I proud of what students achieved? Without question. Would I do it all again? Probably, because I'm apparently incapable of learning from experience.

But there's something profoundly melancholic about winning recognition for excellence while watching the seats in your classroom grow emptier each semester. It's like being voted "Best Restaurant in Town" while your dining room sits vacant because, let's face it, the fast-food joint next door is just so much more convenient.

The Complex Heart

My feelings are genuinely complicated. Pride wrestles with disappointment. Validation struggles against frustration. I know the work was valuable. I know students who stuck with it grew tremendously. I know I made a difference.

But I also know that excellence in education doesn't always translate to popularity, that rigor often repels rather than attracts, and that sometimes the best thing you can do for students is precisely what they'll avoid like the plague.

It's the educator's eternal paradox: the courses that push students hardest are often the ones they'll thank you for years later—while studiously avoiding them in the present.

So my goal for the next Professor of the Year award is clear: create a course where enrollment actually increases after winning. Of course, if you figure out how to do that, please let me know—I've only been trying to crack this code for nearly two decades. Unfortunately, I retired last year, so I'll have to pass this hard-earned wisdom on to the next generation of young professors as a parting gift. May they have better luck solving this eternal riddle than I did.

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The paper related to this project can be downloaded from the following URL:

https://u-ryukyu.repo.nii.ac.jp/records/2009785