If you’ve played a lot of trivia, you’ve probably learned some things along the way. You might know that Marie Curie is Polish, not French, despite her name, and maybe also that both those elements’ discoveries are credited to women. You might know that Sibelius is a Finnish composer, and the only one that’s ever asked about. You might know that an eagle lives in an aerie and something that looks like an eagle is aquiline. But does knowing any of this really matter?
Well, maybe. Some, including myself, would argue that knowing facts like those enriches your life in general, letting you make connections between things you wouldn’t be able to otherwise, which is worthwhile in itself. But as a trivia writer who wants people to know things, I do my best to write questions that inspire to learn things beyond just the question’s simple answer.
The problem that a trivia writer concerned with teaching runs into, though, is that trivia is a game, and in a game people need to be able to compete in order to enjoy themselves. If I want to maximize teaching potential, I ought to ask only questions that no one knows the answer to, right? Ten players per impossible question multiplied by, oh, fifty questions… why, that’s 500 taught facts per game! Well, that pretty clearly wouldn’t be fun, and the players would be so frustrated they probably wouldn’t remember any of the answers anyway.
If I’m writing for a competitive environment, like a high school trivia tournament, writing questions that encourage learning is pretty easy. If I write a category about something that no one knows about, no one gets the points. The teams, realizing that if they want to score points they should know these things, study up on it, and my mission is complete. If I’m writing for a casual audience, on the other hand, the questions need to be interesting enough that players make a connection in their heads by themselves that will inspire them to maybe do some reading, or at least some thinking, on their own.
Let’s take a nice, simple World Capital question as an example. For a competitive environment, the following suffices (highlight the text after ‘A:’ to reveal the answer):
- Q: What is the capital of Cape Verde?
- A: Praia
Quick, snappy, simple. Gets the job done. If no one knows the answer, maybe the captain notes that someone should bone up on African capitals, and they move on to the next question.
In a casual environment, though, there’s nearly no point to that question. You know it or you don’t. I might write the same question for a casual environment like this:
- Q: Taking its name from the Portuguese for “beach,” what is the capital of island nation Cape Verde?
- A: Praia
Much more fun! For one thing, if anyone happens to speak Portuguese, they can get the answer despite knowing nothing about Cape Verde. But beyond that, this question inspires (or at least, has the potential to) a player to look deeper: why would a tiny island nation off the coast of Western Africa many people have never heard of have a capital with a Portuguese name? They might hop over to Cape Verde’s wiki page, where they’ll quickly (which is important!) discover that Cape Verde was one of many lands colonized by Portugal in the 15th century, and became an important entrepot in the Atlantic slave trade. Hey, a couple tiny islands just found their rightful, little-known place in world history, all thanks to one little question!
That’s just one example. And when I say that “What is the capital of Cape Verde?” suffices for competition, that doesn’t mean it’s ideal – a quick, snappy, and interesting question is better than a quick, snappy question, even if that situation. But it doesn’t need to be, since the players have a vested interest in knowledge beyond the immediate situation. The challenge is writing trivia that’s fun, informative, and challenging enough to keep players engaged after the game’s over.