Luck
“I’d rather be lucky than good.”
—Lefty Gomez, pitcher
New York Yankees
I’ve never considered myself to be a lucky person. Now I have data.
Over the past two year’s I’ve played the New York Times’ Wordle puzzle almost every day. It’s a straightforward premise: guess a five-letter word in no more than six tries using color-coded feedback that lets you know when you have a correct letter, and if that letter is placed in the correct spot. But simple rules and simple logic don’t add up to easy solutions. The game is still a challenge, and I’ve yet to get bored.
But there’s another attraction to Wordle, at least for those of us too weak to avoid buying a subscription to access added features. At the end of each game, players can see an analysis of their performance, based on computer algorithms and results from other users, that rates the most recent game in three categories.
Skill. Luck. Guesses.
Guesses is the clearest of the categories. How many did it take me, compared to the average number of guesses among all other players? Usually this number is between 3.8 and 4.2, although throwing a Q or a double letter in there will almost invariably bring that up near 5.
Skill and Luck are a bit murkier. They answer simple questions—did you minimize the number of turns, and did your guesses eliminate more solutions than the algorithm expected? But their creation involves a level of math I have yet to attain, which means I have nothing with which to argue the results. I can either accept the computer’s word for it or not, but I can’t really make my case as to why.
Regardless, I am a big fan—BIG fan—of the categories. I like winning, and if my guess is below the average number, I know I’ve beaten more people than not. I also like feeling smart, which means I want that Skill score to beat the average by as much as possible.
What I’ve noticed, however, is that while I consistently score higher than average on Skill, I’m almost always behind the curve in Luck. Human nature makes me want to complain about the universe’s obvious lack of justice, but the nerd in me thinks there has to be a reason. What am I doing that is showing better skill than the general population, but consistently resulting in worse luck?
I could probably look it up. I haven’t. I like the game, but c’mon. It’s a clever but meaningless word guess game. There’s nothing at stake here but my ego.
I suspect, however, that a similar dynamic is in play in many higher stakes aspects of life. Luck plays an enormous role in who we become. None of us chose where or when to be born, or to whom. But the difference in outcomes based solely on economic background and family origin is astounding, and that’s before things like race, gender, and geography are factored in.
When I move from big data to personal observation, I see the disparity between luck and skill everywhere. I know fantastic writers and painters and photographers who struggle to get the least bit of notice while lesser talents grace the covers of magazines. I’ve seen morally bankrupt individuals ascend to prominence while the purest of souls languish in obscurity. It’s enough for me to understand why Lefty Gomez often said he’d rather be lucky than good. Baseballs that are crushed get caught on the warning track, which seeing-eye bloopers have decided World Series.
Of course, that’s not the whole story. There is a correlation between skill and success—just not a guaranteed correlation. One of my favorite books of all time—Leonard Mlodinow’s The Drunkard’s Walk— says it this way:
“It is easy to make heroes out of the most successful and to glance with disdain at the least. But ability does not guarantee achievement, nor is achievement proportional to ability. And so it is important to always keep in mind the other term in the equation—the role of chance…What I’ve learned, above all, is to keep marching forward because the best news is that since chance does play a role, one important factor in success is under our control: the number of at bats, the number of chances taken, the number of opportunities seized.”
I find both comfort and caution in Mlodinow’s insights.
On one hand, he suggests that we should be careful whom we elevate. Many a guru is just a luckier version of the people who work beside you every day—maybe even you yourself. To attribute greater skill and importance to those with outward success is to minimize the capabilities of other, less glamorous folks who are no less talented and certainly no less hard working.
But on the other hand, it encourages me to think that those of us who hone our craft and continue to strive really do increase our chances to land the job, get the promotion, accomplish the goal, create work we are proud of. Many of us will make our best offering and never cash in, whether in terms of money or renown or praise. But the better our offering, the better our chances that we will.
Be kind, then. Many of the people you pity are no less capable than anyone else. They just need their luck to turn around.
And skill improves your chances, even when luck isn’t on your side.
Keep going. Don’t give up.
