A Word About Wordle

When debating the single greatest invention of all time, one could make a good case for words. If they’re not number one, they would at least have to be in the top five. Think about it. Without words, our attempts at communication would be reduced to a series of grunts, gestures and facial expressions. Such primitive methods would leave a lot open to interpretation.

For example, without the words “Will you marry me,” a proposal delivered with grunts and gestures might result in two people training for a half marathon together. Conversely, without the words “What are your plans for the weekend,” a confused couple could jump into a quickie wedding presided over by a heavyset Elvis impersonator.

A working command of words took on even more importance a few years ago when the game Wordle caught fire and won a following that made Taylor Swift fans look like a small cult. For those who don’t know (both of you), Wordle is a web-based game developed by a sadistic software engineer named Josh Wardle. Every day, the diabolical Wardle grants players six attempts to guess a five-letter word that has no tie-in to any theme, trend or topic.

After every blind swing to hit on a random unfathomable word, each letter is marked either green, yellow or gray. Green means the letter is correct and in the right position; yellow means it is part of the answer but in the wrong spot; gray means it is not in the answer at all. Sound like fun? That depends. Do you like the challenge of a spelling bee where no one gives you the word you need to spell?

This Is Your Brain On Wordle

Try as you might to resist it, Wordle has a powerful ability to keep you coming back for another crack at five-letter glory. For me, it starts each day minutes after waking up. I grab my tablet and stare at the screen while the coffee brews, waiting for the inspiration to tap in a starter word. Since your brain has no way to logically or strategically uncover the word in question, the possibilities are wide open. RIVER? ONION? PANTS? LOOPY? It could be any of these, just not on the day you guess them.

I have certain go-to words I frequently start with such as DREAM, LEARN, FRESH or SMILE, but they’ve been no more effective than looking at my elbow and typing ELBOW. Sometimes I convince myself that because I had pasta the night before, I need to start with the word PASTA. I’ll type in PASTA, eagerly anticipating that I’m about to hit the target on my first try only to go 0 for 6 and find out the word was GEESE.  

One of the first tips seasoned Wordle players give you is to always include two or three vowels in your guesses. The theory being that even if the vowels are in the wrong sequence, there’s a high probability they are building blocks for the answer at large. This sounds like a reasonable approach until you plug in something like IRATE and the word comes up GYPSY.

The Need For Speed

Part of Wordle’s addictive appeal is that it’s a game that can be played quickly, returning you to your regularly scheduled life in just a few minutes. Except when the brain tease becomes a brain freeze and five minutes becomes 25 minutes. When this happens, I reach deep within me to find the tenacity and grit to keep trying no matter how long it takes.

Okay, I wish that were true. What actually happens around the 20-minute mark is I take my last incorrect guess (FROCK) and repeat it several times (FROCK, FROCK, FROCK) until I reach the six-attempt limit that triggers the correct answer. Tanking a game is not something I’m proud of, but on the other hand, I know that the answer that eluded me was AGONY and mine ended sooner rather than later.

Bragging Rights

In my family, there are recognized Wordle standards of performance to guess the winning word that stack up as follows:

Two or three tries:  Woo Hoo worthy.

Four tries: Fair but 4-gettable.

Five tries: Nothing to high five about.

Six tries: You stunk, but survived shutout shame.

My mom, a retired librarian and voracious reader, regularly tops my daily score. If I get it in four, she gets three. If I get three, she gets two. If I get two, she gets two faster. She’s also a willing partner to my grumbling about the game’s self-perceived shortcomings.

Me: “Since when is CRONE a word?”

Mom: “Exactly. I’m so sick of these words I’ve never heard of.”

Me: “I just looked up the definition: ‘A cruel or ugly old woman.’ Seriously Wordle?”

Mom: “They must be running out of five-letter words.”

Me: “I’ve got one for them: BOGUS!”

My petty complaints notwithstanding, Wordle has added a nice little routine to my mornings that jump-starts my brain and gets my juices flowing for the day ahead.

And when all goes well and the right letters some early and easy, there’s one five-letter word that perfectly describes my flashes of brilliance as a Wordle player: LUCKY.

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