Summary

The author, a self-described sadist, revels in the frustration and pain they inflict on New York Times puzzle enthusiasts through their job designing devilishly difficult word puzzles.

Abstract

The author of the article, previously employed in the parking ticket department, has found a new outlet for their sadistic tendencies at the New York Times word puzzle department. They take pleasure in crafting puzzles that cause maximum frustration, such as placing the letters C and K on the same side in a Letterboxed puzzle, ensuring players waste hours trying to solve it. The author boasts about creating Wordle answers with repeating letters, leading to widespread failure, and admits to taking joy in the players' agony as they strive to redeem themselves. The article concludes with the author's pride in their work, highlighting the beauty they find in the emotional torment of puzzle solvers.

Opinions

The author finds joy in others' frustration, considering it a form of punishment.
They believe that giving players a glimmer of hope prolongs their suffering and enhances the enjoyment of the game.
The author takes satisfaction in using their position to create challenges that are intentionally difficult and time-consuming.
They view their actions as a form of art, finding beauty in the catharsis that comes from the emotional and mental struggle of solving their puzzles.
The author sees the players' persistence, despite the difficulty of the puzzles, as a testament to their effective design.
They have a dismissive attitude towards the players, referring to them as "poor bastards" and taking pride in their ability to outwit them.
The author values the recognition they receive from their colleagues, particularly from Will Shortz, the crossword puzzle chief editor, for their ingenuity in creating challenging puzzles.

I Love My Job at the New York Times Word Puzzle Department Because I’m a Sadist

Your anger makes me stronger

I used to work for the parking ticket department. Giving people parking tickets was fun. I loved it most when the driver would come running up as I placed a ticket on his car window.

“Please, I’m here, can you please not give me a ticket.”

“I’m sorry,” I would say. “It’s already in the system. Once, it’s in the system…”

That’s a lie, of course. We are absolutely capable of erasing the ticket. We just don’t want to. Why? Why do you think?

We’re sadists.

Still, watching a person suffer getting a 65-dollar parking ticket wasn’t enough for me. I craved more. I wanted to watch people go through actual hell. But how?

One day I saw an advertisement for a job at the NY Times word puzzle department. And now, to be quite honest, I think I dole out more punishment on a daily basis than the Lord of Darkness himself.

On my first day of my dream job, I was lucky enough to be able to design the NYT Letterboxed puzzle. I put the C and the K on the same side of the square, so you poor bastards couldn’t use words with CK in them. Oh that felt good.

See because having to pay a parking ticket is one thing. But getting stuck on Letterboxed and spending literally 13 hours of your day while you were supposed to be finishing that application to Teacher’s College, that’s really descending into the depths. Now the application date has passed. And you’re not going to be able to have a future. But do you care? No…you’re still trying to find words that have C and K but not adjacent. (Hint. It’s a horrible-looking vegetable.)

See, we at the NYT word puzzle department want you to be frustrated. But hopeful. We want you to wallow in a state of frustration, but not so much that you quit the puzzle or throw your iPad against the wall.

We’ve learned that the best way to prolong your suffering is to give you just a glimmer of hope.

“Aha!”

You think of a word that has C and K not adjoining. You start spelling out “birthdaycake” and you are so excited because you think, wow, that’s a lot of letters. But then at the last minute, right there at the finish line, you see that there is no E on the square.

Feel it. The moment of pain. There is no E. Go ahead, look all over the square. No E.

That’s how horrible I am.

Oh, and even if you by some fluke manage to think of the right word, I still win.

“Artichoke!” you blurt out.

Yeah…it’s the middle of the night. You just spent nearly a whole day of your precious life trying to think of…artichoke.

Let that sink in.

For most people, if they spent as much time practicing violin as they did doing our puzzles, their last name would be Heifetz.

Which brings me to Wordle. When I get assigned Wordle, I like to use answers with three of the same letter. Did you see “sassy” a little while back? Yeah, that was me. I looked at the stats for that day. The majority wasted their last guess on “salty” or “saucy.” And then they died. When you take your sixth guess in Worlde, there is no buzzer or GAME OVER sign. It’s much more subtle than that. The correct answer merely appears, white on black, in a little rectangle at the top of the puzzle. “Sassy”, people saw, in that little black rectangle.

“Head thump! How could I have been so…so…unsassy?” they think. “How could I have missed that? Now I have to wait until midnight to redeem myself against these cruel Wordle Masters.”

I imagine them at their computers sighing. And that is what you call job satisfaction.

What about Spelling Bee? Well, it is such a dumb game that only a real idiot would waste their time doing it. How many words can you make with these seven letters? If somebody gave me that puzzle, I’d say “One: buggeroff!”

Because I’m not a masochist. I’m a sadist. I don’t want to try to make words out of seven letters. I want to MAKE someone else try to form words out of seven letters while I pull down a good salary, health benefits and a matching 401K. Submit to my will, paid NY Times puzzle subscribers. Submit!

Maybe the most sadistic game of all is Connections. This is the game where you have to put four words of the same category together. But see, we’re sadists. So we put FIVE words of the same category, only one of these five belongs to another category.

Like today: we put five words that ended in “ough.” Bough, tough, cough, dough and enough. Only one of these belonged to another category. Bet you can’t guess which one.

Because you’re a loser who deserves to be punished!!!! Say it! “I deserve to be punished, New York Times. Whip me, Old Grey Lady. Whip me good!”

You could use the process of elimination and save this dumb category for last. But that’s too easy. You had to be a hero, didn’t ya? You take a wild guess. Is the word that doesn’t belong “bough?”

No!

“Tough?”

Wrong again.

“Cough,” you whimper, weakly. “Please?”

Sorry buddy. Three strikes, you’re out. The one that didn’t belong was “enough.” For a reason too obscure for me to even begin to explain.

Today I am working on the crossword puzzle. I have chosen a theme for five of the answers to the puzzle. The theme has to do with water. The first four words are condensation, evaporation, precipitation and raincloud. The fifth word is impossible to get until you go absolutely bonkers with frustration and start weeping. Then you will feel the answer on your cheek, falling down. That’s right. Tears.

Isn’t that beautiful? Now do you see it, the absolute beauty contained inside my abuse and my sadism? Do you feel the beautiful catharsis of emotion and relief? Do you know how purifying that is?

At the office party, Will Shortz, the crossword puzzle chief editor gave me a special toast for that one. And then he said, “Ah, ladies, gentlemen of the NYT puzzle department, why do we act like such sneaky evil bastards?” And we all answered in unison: “Because we can!”

I love my job.