![]() Without these signifiers of politeness, I might feel that I’m playing against not the girl from Pinkberry, or a retired teacher, or a down-on-his-luck country-western singer, but instead some humanoid without a soul. At the end of the game, regardless of whether it was exciting or glacially paced, we tell each other “gg” (good game), or even the jollier, almost Alec Guinness-sounding “wp” (well played). When I “bingo” (use all seven letters), my opponent tells me “n1” (nice one). She did, after all, tell me she hoped I had “an awesome summer!”Ĭonversation, such as it is, tends to be limited to certain Scrabble niceties. I have no idea whom I am playing, but I worry that it might be the girl who works at the local Pinkberry. Sometimes my opponent will get a little fancy, typing “have fun!” or “enjoy yourself!” This is a little too chipper for my taste. Online games usually start out the same way. The one from Galveston sits in a trailer, with a guitar tilted against the wall. In my mind, my NZ opponent is a retired English teacher sitting at a table eating toast and Vegemite, looking out over the Auckland skyline. ![]() ![]() It never bothers me that I’m probably way off the mark. The person who does not receive “tells” can’t learn that I am in “NYC,” and also can’t let me know that he or she is in “NZ” or “Galveston, TX.” Without that latter information, I can’t automatically go into pleasurable-fantasy mode, in which I picture my opponent in his or her home. But when I log on to the Internet Scrabble Club, via isc.ro, I want not just the no-nonsense feel of playing Scrabble with someone I can’t see and will never meet, but also, strangely, the connection. Much has been written about the soullessness of today’s “Village of the Damned” isolates who sit at their laptops round the clock, playing various online games alone or with strangers. Though I live in an apartment in New York City, with people who are happy to challenge me at the dining room table, and though I own several iterations of the game, from a flattened maroon box whose bottom is oily with Bain de Soleil from some long-forgotten childhood beach day, to the sleek acrylic turntable board favored by really good players (a category to which I do not belong), I am happiest these days when playing electronically, and often anonymously. Such are the considerations when your opponent lives in Ghana. He has a “stomach bug/malaria,” he writes. MY frequent online Scrabble opponent of the last few days has sent me a message saying he’s sorry, but he can’t play right now.
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