Pete's Expert Summary
My Human has unearthed another relic from her ancient past, a flat, gridded plastic plain called "Upwords." Apparently, the goal is to arrange small, clackety squares with cryptic markings on them into stacks, a ritual that seems to absorb all of her attention. From my perspective, the game itself is a colossal waste of perfectly good lap-availability. The true value, of course, lies not in the "3-Dimensional word building" but in the sixty-four individual letter tiles. Each one is lightweight, smooth, and eminently battable, possessing the ideal velocity and clatter for skittering across the hardwood floor and disappearing under the sofa, a far more engaging game I call "Lost Forever."
Key Features
- Build words to score the most points
- A 3-Dimensional game like scrabble but words can stack
- Game board is 8 x 8 squares in size; includes 64 letter tiles
- For 2 to 4 players ages 10 years and over
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony began, as it always does, with the rattling of the sacred objects. The Human and her friend hunched over the blue grid under the low light of the floor lamp, their faces masks of intense, pointless concentration. They called it "game night," I called it "an appalling ignorance of my dinner schedule." They drew the little white squares from a bag, placing them with a reverence I usually reserve for a freshly opened can of salmon. Words began to form. P-A-W. H-I-S-S. Amateurs. I watched from the arm of the chair, my tail twitching in mild contempt. Then, something changed. The Human’s friend, with a triumphant little smirk, placed an ‘F’ on top of the ‘P’ in ‘PAW’, then added an ‘L.’ The structure was now two tiles high. F-L-A-W. A verticality I hadn’t anticipated. My disdain curdled into curiosity. This wasn’t just a flat, boring landscape; it was a construction site. My mind, usually occupied with calculating the trajectory of sunbeams, began to see the potential. These were not letters; they were bricks. They were building a strange, unstable city right there on the coffee table. I crept from my perch, my movements silent, my tuxedo-furred chest low to the ground. This was no longer about batting tiles; it was about structural integrity assessment. I saw a precarious stack of three letters spelling J-E-T. It was an affront to gravity, an invitation to chaos. I watched, waited for the perfect moment when both humans were staring at their tile racks, and then I leaped. I landed not with a crash, but with the delicate precision of a master artisan. My paw rose, and with a single, gentle tap, I sent the J-E-T tower tumbling down, the tiles scattering with a deeply satisfying clatter. The humans sighed in exasperation, but I knew the truth. I wasn't destroying their game; I was improving it. I was testing their shoddy workmanship, demonstrating the elegant beauty of entropy. They saw a ruined word; I saw a successful demolition. This "Upwords," I decided, was a worthy diversion. It provides not just projectiles, but architectural follies practically begging for a feline wrecking ball. It is an excellent toy, though its intended players clearly have no idea how to use it properly.
