There are no checks and balances for the imagination, other than its inaccessibility by others.
Prior to the advent of the Internet a theoretician proposing the existence of a conspiracy had to themselves fund, or through unconscionable effort persuade someone else to fund, the publication of a book, pamphlet, or news sheet to get “the truth” out. Print runs in the thousands were unusual, more commonl being hundreds at most. A person would be have to suffer questionable luck to wander into the path of one of these beacons of enlightenment, and opposing views were as easily accessed. More pages thus produced ended their existence cleansing the fundament of the proletariat than shining a light into the shadows.
Now with the advent of blogs, video sharing, self publishing, and social media anybody can spread their "truth" like fertiliser, pasting over the underlying smell of decayed honesty with a veneer of learned pondering and secret knowledge.
The lies grow like weeds, with falsehood's seed spreading on gale force winds born of righteous indignation and mischievous desire. Weeds so virulent that they easily outpace the voices of reason seeking their doom, seeds so fertile, so sure of their own integrity, that they grow readily in every young or uncertain mind that they encounter.
Buddha believed that three things could not be long hidden: the Sun, the Moon, and Truth. Buddha may have been right in his world but would be sorely disappointed with the modern world. The third of his examples can be buried for a long, long time by simply overwhelming it with layer upon layer of occulting lies. Lies so dense, so compact, so opaque that the truth dies alone and starving in darkness.
Orwell understood the modern world well, with his INGSOC society able to correct mispoken or miswritten history to the extent that remembering the truth, if there even was such a thing, became impossible. The light glimmering in this distopian outlook is that while the Internet allows lies to prosper it also records everything. Hope therefore remains that somebody who tires of the endless capering of the fools who spray their poison around like rosewater, seeking to convince everybody that the truth is just over here if you would but reach for it, can with due diligence find the burial place of truth and perhaps resurrect it.