Someday, years from now, we’ll look back and remember social media feeds dense withgrids. They’ll pop back up as reminders or Facebook memories, like the we all made in the first year of the pandemic. Our omicron winter .
On Monday, The New York Times announced its, citing a price in the low millions. It feels like the end of something. I’m sure the game will live on, perhaps ultimately behind a paywall, but I already felt the moment was passing. A shark-jump moment, possibly imminent. How could something like this last? A free little thing, made out of love, that everyone started sharing?
The last two years have blurred, bent, swirled, melted, extended on and on. I haven’t seen colleagues in years. I haven’t seen many family members, still, for years. I don’t see most people around my town. I lean on social media and video conferencing, just like everyone else. And I’ve had a hard time finding a place of comfort in my relationship with a world I’m not in enough.
Last year, I found a weird pocket of existence and community sharing my. Wordle brings back those feelings, but without any need for condiments. It’s nothing but simple score-sharing. We’re all just grids of colored dots blinking to each other. I don’t feel like I need to judge how good their dinner skills are, or their home crafts. I just like they did this little web puzzle thing too.
It didn’t matter what device anyone had, or what their beliefs were. Time and space seemed to pause in the Wordle bubble. Just sharing scores.
I think about social media and my dumb sense of connection to it, and remind myself to spend more time away. Or just use social media as a basic tool. Posting a Wordle score isn’t a brag to me. No matter how brilliant or vocabulary-enhanced some friends seem to me, everyone seems to solve Wordle in about three to five guesses (or maybe that’s the people who choose to share). There’s something encouraging about this. Anyone can give it a try. And when we talk, we’re just talking about this silly game we’re playing. We just like each other’s messages, and move on till tomorrow. I gave up. I just start with any word and I see what happens.
There have already been plenty of analyses of Wordle, what made it so successful, so brilliant, so addictive, how it side-steps platforms and app stores, or how it’s a great indie success story. Sure, that’s fine. I don’t care. I just like that it’s there, and we all played it.
These moments are rare. Viral games tend to disappear as fast as they start. And I’m ready for these days to vanish, too, or just fade into the background. It makes a lot of sense that the Times acquired Wordle. Daily players of all those NYTimes puzzle games have been doing this for years, and will keep doing it. I slipped sideways from Wordle into crossword puzzles, and am now temporarily experiencing the Daily Crossword rush. Am I a, now?
I introduced my mom to Wordle, but she doesn’t share her results on Facebook or anywhere online. She texts the results to me, each day. I tell her how I did too. We have a little something more to talk about. None of this is bad.
I know many people play Wordle and don’t share their scores at all. I like the sharing because it makes it into a game within a game. One old friend started trying to guess my words by working backwards from my grid pattern. He’s amazingly good at it. The puzzles calm me. They’re a milestone, a marker in what still feels like endless days waiting for my life to feel more on-track. Wordle is a game I’ve been playing on my infinite pandemic commute. My personal waiting game.
I know, eventually, this too will be gone. Maybe this, the ascent into the Times mothership, is that moment. I just appreciated the magic. A little fun, a social interconnection, no stress, no sadness. If the internet could just give me a bit more of Wordle, wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe acquisition is the destiny of all good things. We all made Wordle good enough to be worth something.
Thank you, Wordle. It’s been fun.