Slot puzzle tournament questions

A clue about one slot machine appears and you name the slot. Every miss opens another clue, up to six. The clues start broad and get specific, so the sixth is much easier than the first, and that is exactly why it is worth less.

The studio, the year, the mechanics, the volatility, the theme and the mood the game is going for. Never the title, and never anything that names the slot outright.

Yes, and it is the main thing that decides your score. The first guess is worth 1,000, and every miss takes 130 off the base, down to 350 if you get there on the sixth.

Type the studio instead. The guess field matches studio names as well as titles, so "hacksaw" lists that studio's games and you can pick the one you meant. It also forgives spelling: "doghouse", "jamin jars" and "reactonz" all find what you meant. If none of that helps, the game index has every slot we ask about with its artwork, grouped by studio.

The slot's key art appears under a heavy blur and you name the slot. Each guess sharpens the plate one step. The blur is baked into the image before it is sent, so the sharp version is not sitting in your browser waiting to be found.

No. The blur is baked into the picture before it is sent, so the sharp version is not sitting in your browser waiting to be found.

The front page shows the heaviest blur step, which is exactly what you would see in the first second of the round anyway. Nothing beyond that step exists on your side until you spend a guess.

Nothing stops you, and Cover is the one game that never links there for exactly that reason. Two things are worth knowing before you try. The clock keeps running while you scan a hundred plates, and the speed bonus it costs is usually worth more than the guess it saves.

The slot's title appears as a row of blanks and you pick letters, hangman style. Six wrong letters ends the round. There is no clue and no artwork, only the shape of the title.

The round closes as unsolved, the answer is revealed, and you keep the 5 chips every finished round pays.

Yes. Plenty of slot titles carry a number, so the keyboard has 0 to 9 on it and a wrong digit costs a life like any other wrong letter.

The safe holds four covers in a fixed order, drawn from the eight shown below the board, and the same cover can appear more than once. Set a row and lock it, and every tile comes back marked where it stands: gold means that cover in that reel, teal means it belongs somewhere else, and a dimmed tile is out of the combination entirely. Six attempts.

No. The covers are the alphabet, not the puzzle. The lock does not care what is printed on the tiles, so somebody who has never heard of a single one of them is at no disadvantage. It is the only game here that asks nothing about slots.

How many of the 4,096 combinations are still consistent with every row you have locked. It is worked out from your own rows and never from the answer, so two players who locked the same rows see the same number whatever the safe holds. A row that does not move it told you nothing.

Four different covers. It cannot be the answer, and it is the row that tells you the most: four reels come back marked and half the alphabet is accounted for either way. Opening with the same cover four times leaves about ten times as many combinations standing.

Two slots and one number: the max win, as a multiple of your stake. The one on the left shows its number and you call whether the one on the right pays more or less. Six correct calls wins the round, A wrong call costs that call rather than the run: all six are played, a clean sheet is the win, and every one you get right still pays its rung.

Because it turns the run into a chain rather than six unrelated coin flips. You are never comparing two strangers — you are comparing a stranger to the number you were shown a moment ago, so a long run is memory rather than luck.

Plenty do, and you will never be shown a pair that does. A tie has no right answer, so the pairing refuses it outright rather than scoring a guess as correct either way.

They are the studios' own published headline numbers, held in the catalog beside the title. A slot we have not been able to establish a figure for simply never appears in this game, which is why the pool is smaller than the full hundred titles the other games draw on.

Every name on the table shipped, except one. Tap the invention. Clear the table and the next one deals with another name to read and a little less time to read it in. A miss costs you that table and the next one deals; a clean sheet is the win, and every table you clear still pays its rung.

They are assembled from the real catalogue's own parts — its naming patterns, its vocabulary and its studios. A hand-written fake always leaks, because it is either too silly to be a candidate or too careful to be wrong, and either way you stop reading titles and start reading tone. A generated name is thrown away if it matches anything real, so a round always has exactly one right answer.

Because that is the game. The decoys are chosen to share the invention's pattern, so by the last table you are not reading titles any more, you are reading the grammar of how studios name them.

It costs you that table, exactly like picking a real title. Both cost the same on purpose: if freezing were survivable and committing were not, freezing would be the safer move, which is the opposite of what a clock is for. The first table gives you nine seconds and the last five and a half, while the table grows from four names to six.

Yes, and that is the point — a name with no studio under it would be findable without reading it. Nothing is being claimed: the whole round tells you one of these is invented, and the answer names which. No studio on this site has ever made the game you are looking at.

A slot's artwork is cut into sixteen pieces and shuffled. Tap a piece, then tap another, and the two swap. Pieces already in the right place are outlined, so you can always see what is settled. Rebuild the picture in as few swaps as you can.

Because the swaps are the score. Your budget is worked out from your own shuffle — the fewest swaps it could possibly take, plus some slack — so an easy deal and a hard one get the same room to work in. Matching that fewest number pays the most, every wasted swap costs a rung, and running out before the picture is whole ends the round.

No. The image you are sent is already scrambled — the pieces are cut and pasted into your arrangement before it leaves us — so opening it shows exactly what the board shows, and swapping changes the file rather than the layout. The real artwork appears when the round is over, and not before.

Yes, and it is on screen the whole time: the fewest any shuffle can take is the piece count minus the number of loops in it. Matching it is the top of the ladder and earns a badge as well. Your budget is that number plus some slack, which is why an easy shuffle and a hard one are worth the same to a good player.

Twelve cards hold six slots' artwork, in pairs, face down. Turn two: a pair stays face up, a miss turns back over. Two misses in a row re-spin every card still face down, and you have 24 turns to clear the board. Matched pairs never move.

That is the re-spin. A second miss in a row shuffles every card still face down, so what you remember is only worth something while you keep matching. It is always announced one miss in advance, and cards you have already matched stay where they are.

Six from the catalogue, the same six for everyone on a given day, shown face up above the round. Never two from one franchise — telling Money Train 2 from Money Train 3 at card size is not a memory test — and never one of the day's other answers.

No. A face-down card is face down in your browser too: the picture on it only arrives when you flip it, and the shuffle happens on the server. Which six slots are in play is public; which card holds which is the secret.

Six tiles, one at a time, each under armoured glass. Hit the tile anywhere — tap, click or hammer the Enter key — as fast as your hand goes. Enough blows inside the clock and it breaks; the clock beats you and the tile holds, and the run goes on. Every tile needs more blows on less clock than the one before.

Taps faster than a human hand can physically move are discarded, on your screen and on the server alike. The fastest verified human clicking is around sixteen taps a second and the floor sits above that, so no honest tap is ever lost — only a machine's.

It is the one game on the card that is entirely about the hand, and it says so up front. Every tile you break still pays its rung even if the last ones hold, practice is unlimited with nothing posted, and every other game on the card needs no speed at all.

Six from the catalogue, the same six for everyone on a given day, never one of the day's other answers. Smashing a studio's tile is not an opinion about the studio — the artwork is the glass, not the target.

Nine panels, six titles, one ticket a day. Rub a panel with your finger or the mouse to scratch the foil off. A click on its own will not do it, it just leaves a mark where you pressed; Enter or Space with a panel focused opens one outright. Three of a kind anywhere on the ticket pays that title's tier, and the paytable is face up from the start.

No, and that is the honest answer. The ticket is printed before you touch it, so the only thing the order changes is when you find out. What you score is the tier of the line the ticket was carrying, which is why a perfect day does not require this one: it is the single game here that nobody can be good at.

Every panel you open, yes — a click on its own will not do it, because then the foil would be decoration. But one decisive swipe clears a panel, Enter or Space opens one with no gesture at all, and the ticket stops the moment a line lands or the moment no line is still possible, so you never scratch panels that cannot matter.

Yes, one a day for everybody, like every other puzzle here. It also means the luck is the same for all of us rather than shuffling the leaderboard — and on a ticket with no line, nobody got one.

Its volatility, highest first, with ties settled the same way every time. Six titles, six tiers, and each tier is one rung of the same ladder every other game here scores on. The whole paytable is printed before you scratch anything, so it is never something to work out.

Twelve tiles, four titles, three of each. Every column is labelled with the title that belongs in it. Tap a tile, then tap another, and the two change places. Get all twelve home before the swap budget runs out.

Par is the fewest swaps that board can possibly be sorted in, and it is on screen because nothing in this game is hidden: every tile is face up and the target is printed over the columns. Solving at par is the top of the ladder and every swap over it costs a rung. The trick is spotting the swap that puts two tiles home at once instead of one.

No. Only a completed swap spends anything, so tapping a tile and changing your mind costs nothing — tap it again to let it go.

They share the swap, and nothing else. Reassemble hides the picture, so its par is a number nobody can play to and the score measures how well you worked blind. Here the whole board is visible from the first move, par is reachable every day, and the score measures whether you found the shortest route before you spent it.

Four from the catalogue, the same four for everyone on a given day, never one of the day's other answers. No two share a wordmark family, so telling them apart is never the hard part.

Seven covers, each from a different year. Tap the one you think came out first, then the oldest of what is left, and on down the rail. Every pick welds in place and cannot come back off, and no years appear until the rail is full. The last cover has nowhere else to go, so it places itself and is not judged, which leaves six real calls.

Each pick is judged as the call you actually made: of the covers still loose at that moment, was this the oldest? So one misread costs one rung and every later pick still counts for itself. Scoring the finished line slot by slot would wipe everything after a single early slip, and it could never award five at all.

No. The rail keeps what you give it, which is the whole game: every weld narrows what the rest can be, and a pick you could take back would not be a decision. Practice is unlimited and nothing there is posted to a board.

They are, which is why this game never links to it and why we would rather say so than pretend otherwise. Release years are public facts and a search engine hands them over in one query, so hiding the column would only inconvenience somebody reading the shelf honestly. The clock keeps running while you look them up.

Seven from the catalogue, the same seven for everyone on a given day, never one of the day's other answers. Each comes from a different year, so no two are a dead heat, and no two share a wordmark family — a numbered sequel would otherwise give its own place away.

Two parts added together, and nothing else. A base for how few guesses you needed: 1,000 on the first guess, then 130 less for each one after it, down to 350 on the sixth. Plus a speed bonus that starts at 400, stays flat for the first 10 seconds, and then loses one point a second until it is gone.

It counts consecutive days played and multiplies nothing. It pays in streak freezes at 7, 30, 100 and 365 days, in badges, and in the number itself. It never touches a score, so somebody who joined today races today's board as an equal.

5 chips for finishing a round you did not solve, and the day still counts for your streak. No points: the board only ever counts solving.

Chips are the spendable currency. Missions, badges, perfect days and division podiums pay them, and they buy streak freezes and cosmetic frames — nothing that can change a score, a puzzle or a board position. Every chip you have ever earned also climbs your level, from Fresh Spin up to Max Win, so spending never costs a level. Points are the score, come only from solving, and can never be spent.

Everybody who plays that day. Every puzzle on the card is the same for every player, chosen by the date, so two scores from the same day are directly comparable. Today's board clears at 00:00 UTC.

A room of up to 30 players at roughly your level, from Bronze up to Legend, and it is the weekly race: your best 5 days of the week count, so one bad morning does not cost you the week. At the end of the week the top of the room moves up, the bottom 5 move down, and the top three players take podium chips. House rivals on the list never take a slot.

A fixed set of house regulars, tagged HOUSE on every board they appear on. They exist so a quiet day still looks like a competition. They are never counted as real players and they are never hidden.

No. You can play straight away and your progress is kept in this browser. Pick a name when you want to appear on a board.

There are no passwords here. You get one recovery code instead: carry it to another browser, paste it in, and your name, streak and history come with you.

Yes, as long as the new one is free. Names are three to sixteen characters and no two players share one.

No. There is nothing to stake, nothing to deposit and nothing to win. Points are a score and cannot be exchanged for anything, there are no prizes, and no part of this site takes or handles money. It is a knowledge game whose subject happens to be slot machines, which is why it is marked 18+.

No. Nothing on this site spins, and no page here links to anywhere that does.

Because the puzzle is about identifying real slot machines, and you cannot ask somebody to name one without naming its studio. Every mark shown belongs to its owner, and nothing here is endorsed by or affiliated with any of them.