Once you stop trusting the puzzle master, it’s all over
There is something very satisfying about going, in the space of a few months, from neophyte, to expert, to outraged dissenter, and enjoying that journey alongside thousands of others. I’m talking about Wordle, obviously, the five stages of which, after its invention in October last year, might usefully be delineated as indifference, confusion, enjoyment, obsession and resolution to cancel the New York Times. Here we are in February and it’s a new world, teetering for some of us on the brink of post-Wordle. I’m not quite ready to jump. But after a week of scandalous decisions by the NYT, the puzzle’s new owners, it’s only a matter of time.
This is a sad outcome given the ancillary pleasures that come with the game. As in all things, I was not an early adopter, only giving in and trying a Wordle when friends with even less interest in puzzles than me got sucked in and triggered my competitive machinery. For the past five weeks, I have patiently and conscientiously done a puzzle a day, while enjoying all the benefits of my new hobby. I have made judgments about people who post their results. I have made judgments about myself, primarily how brilliant I am. During a bout of insomnia, I’ve shared my grid at 3am with someone who has sent me their middle-of-the-night results, an action I have understood, obliquely, to be both a boast and a small cry for help. I’ve texted the word “genius” to people when they’ve solved the puzzle in two and received the same validation in return. I’ve wondered if I’m rescuing myself from dementia.
