How I Beat My Spelling Bee Addiction

The New York Times Spelling Bee is a master class in "internet addiction." I’ve been one of its victims, my eyes open to the tricks it is playing with me, yet falling for them nevertheless. I chuckled at my need to be a Genius and my aspirations for Queen Bee status. But my behavior was textbook carrot-and-stick—they dangled a reward, and I chased it, eyelashes fluttering.

The game has nine levels: Beginning, Good Start, Moving Up, Good, Solid, Nice, Great, Amazing, and Genius. Each daily puzzle has seven letters, with the middle letter required for all words. As you add words, you move up the ladder, your eye on Genius. After reaching that top level, you can keep playing until you guess all the words in the puzzle. You are then crowned Queen Bee. There’s not much of a ceremony, but this title is an affirmation. If, by affirmation, you mean a bot is congratulating you for wasting your daylight hours squinting at a screen.

I had flirted with the game for years, but I only had the Times’ news subscription, which didn't include games such as the Bee, so I couldn't get far. When I got to Solid status, I was shut out of the game, but with an ego-stroking prompt: You’re good at this! Subscribe to continue playing.

I didn't want another subscription and I didn't need another game—I could do Wordle and Connections as a non-subscriber, and those were enough. I pushed the carrot away and continued with my reasonably productive life. I would not be manipulated.

Then my husband mentioned wanting to play the game. He had a stroke two years ago and his short-term memory took a hit, so I thought Spelling Bee might be good for his brain. I subscribed so he could play. I was heartened that it appeared to be a good mental workout for him.

Getting to Genius Became an Obsession

It took about 16 minutes for me to get hooked. Getting to Genius became an obsession. It was good to be Great, better to be Amazing, but it became essential for me to be a Genius. No matter that I reached that level spelling words such as ribbit, powwow, boob, and poop. I was still a Genius.

It was Thanksgiving when I first bit, and our kids were visiting, so I compared my scores with theirs. A severely unattractive competitive streak snaked itself into me and I was determined to make more points than them, even if we all were already on genius level. I needed to be more of a Genius.

I acknowledged I had an issue, but it wasn't serious. It was only a game. Charming, in a way.

And then I got a sharp pain under my shoulder blade. I looked it up on the medical sites I trust and it took me only a few letters (pain un…) for Google to fill in the rest: Pain under the shoulder blade. Clearly this was a common problem. The cause: bad posture. I’d been noticing that I needed to stand taller, but why did this hit with such force, and why now? I looked deeper and saw that such pain is often related to holding a device for long periods of time. It usually affects the left side, as mine did, because most people hold their phones with the left hand and type with the right.

I might not have thought I had a problem, but my body, as usual, knew better.

Setting Limits

I set up a system of playing for only five-minute increments at a time. This, I reasoned, would limit my game time. After that, I would get up and practice being human. But I was still spending more than an hour on the game. My addiction remained, but on a timetable.

I lowered my expectations and set a goal of reaching Amazing status, which is one rung short of Genius. After that, I would open Spelling Bee Buddy, which offers personalized hints. (Because it’s watching over my shoulder, it knows what words I’ve already found and uses this to help me find more.) This moved things along quicker but felt like cheating. Still, nobody but me and the bot knew my scores, so I’m not sure who or what I was cheating.

I created more rules. I would do only six batches of five-minute slots a day and then I was done, even if I had only made it to the sad state of Solid. That worked for a few days, then I began saying just one more. The game was not complete until I reached Genius. And I don't like unfinished business.

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Are Hints Cheating?

I developed still more rules. Now, after spending 25 minutes in five different sessions, I could go looking for hints, no matter how lowly my level. I still felt like somebody was watching me, noticing how I was cutting corners. My clicks and movements were being counted and put in the great data bank in the cloud. What wasn't clear was why I cared what the machine thought of me.

At the beginning, I played first thing in the morning, reasoning it was a good way to get my brain going. When I began acknowledging I had a problem. I stopped that and returned to having a morning of yoga, a walk, and breakfast before electronics. When I had breaks in the day—waiting for the clothes to dry or the tea to brew—I could play.

I told myself I enjoy words and the game challenges my brain, so I didn't need to give it up entirely. Cold turkey is for losers.

But then I opened my phone to a prompt: Remember to set your timer to five minutes. No longer was my addiction confined to the Times app. It had spread to my clock.

To combat the clock’s harassment, I began to play later and later. Yesterday I didn't open the Bee until after 2 p.m. Today I opened it at noon. And I’m getting faster because I now know its tricks. (Words such as acai and naan are there for the taking. And you can get a lot of mileage from bonobo and piccata.)

My clock has stopped needling me. It’s now timing my laundry. And today I might stop at Amazing. I might eventually settle for being only Great. I’ll check with the bot to see how it feels about that.