I’m a writer, so how does my statistician partner beat me at word games?

Most mornings, as we sip our coffees, my partner and I play Wordle. It’s a guessing game, dictated largely by chance, and so the outcome doesn’t matter at all. Sometimes his guess wins, sometimes my guess wins, sometimes we yell out the word together.

Word games can bring out a competitive streak within couples.Credit: iStock

The trouble comes when we play Spelling Bee, which is not at all a game of chance. In Spelling Bee, one must unscramble a series of letters to find as many words as possible, including at least one word using all seven letters.

Now, I am a writer. I work with words. I should be good at this game. But “should be” doesn’t always translate to “is”, and for a reason that definitely (maybe? hopefully?) has nothing to do with my intelligence, I am not good at this game. It can take me hours to spot the seven-letter word, and I often miss it entirely. And this would be fine – we’re all bad at something! – except that my partner gets it quickly, almost every single time.

Now, I am not a particularly competitive person, and I am definitely not competitive with my partner. He is way more skilled than me at very many things, and I enjoy this, and benefit from it immensely. But it doesn’t seem reasonable that he can beat me at Spelling Bee. I am the words person. He’s a bloody statistician!

So when we do word puzzles together, something dark and fierce takes over. I feel a frenzied desire to win.

When I do win, I am not at all gracious in victory. I cheer, and do a happy dance, and sing. But when I lose – which is, honestly, most of the time – I feel a terrible sense of injustice. “This isn’t fair!” I’ll say when he spots the word. “That’s too quick! You haven’t given me a chance!”

If my partner offers me a clue – so patronising, how dare he! – I roll my eyes and decline. If he doesn’t offer me a clue – so arrogant, how dare he! – I look daggers at him until he does.

I told my partner I was a “Sudoku expert” on one of our very first dates, and it has been an accepted truth in our relationship since.

KERRI SACKVILLE

Now, in a less robust relationship than ours, this rogue competitive streak of mine might cause problems. But fortunately for us, he finds it extremely amusing. And fortunately for me, I am better than him at Sudoku.

My Sudoku prowess is very important to me. I told my partner I was a “Sudoku expert” on one of our very first dates, and it has been an accepted truth in our relationship since. I can usually crack the New York Times hard Sudoku in less than 30 minutes, which – if you know Sudoku – is pretty quick. And I can tolerate losing at word puzzles to my partner knowing I am truly exceptional at numbers.

So you can imagine my surprise the other day when he attempted the NYT hard Sudoku for the first time, and solved it within 12 minutes.

“What do you mean you solved it?” I yelled.

I was outraged. I love the man deeply, and I want him to succeed, but I did not want him to succeed at my one niche skill!

He shrugged. “It really wasn’t that hard.”

I felt one of my core beliefs explode inside my brain. Have I been bragging about something that’s actually very easy for all these years? Am I not as smart as I had believed? But I’ve watched videos of experts solving the hard Sudoku, and even they take 20 to 30 minutes. Are the online experts as stupid as me, or is my partner a genius at number puzzles, too?

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, and scowled at him. I felt irritated for the rest of the day.

The next morning, my Wordle guess was correct, which redeemed me, just a little. Later that day, I solved the hard Sudoku in 26 minutes, which wasn’t a personal best, but came close.

Still, the number puzzle had lost its shine. Who cares about cracking a Sudoku in 26 minutes if my partner could crack it in 12?

“I’ll give the Sudoku a go,” my partner said, and breezily picked up his phone.

I buried my head in my book, trying not to be invested in the outcome. How long would he take this time? Eleven minutes? Six? How complete would be my humiliation?

After 20 minutes, I glanced up at him. He looked annoyed, and I couldn’t help but feel pleased. “How’s it going?” I asked, as neutrally as possible.

He frowned. “I messed it up.”

I was gracious, of course. I told him that it was, in fact, very hard. But when he gave up the puzzle after another 20 minutes, I felt a surge of triumph and relief.

His win yesterday had been a freakish fluke! I was still the Sudoku queen!

Since then, order has been restored in our relationship. I still dance when I beat my partner at Spelling Bee, and he still beats me nine times out of ten. But I take comfort from my one remaining special skill. Sudoku may have no application in the real world, but the victory feels gloriously real.

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