Whaling also said many of the company’s apps ask users to create profile pictures in the app itself so that automated tools can compare the images with the person’s already uploaded photos. In theory, this provides proof that a person is who he says he is. But this photo verification feature is not yet available on Hinge.
Since Match Group’s communications staff are of little help, I decided to talk to the bots instead, hoping to understand how they work and what they should accomplish.
A friend who works in machine learning suggested that I ask them random but very specific questions, something like “What’s your favorite dinosaur?”, to try and trip the chatbots. The first “guy” I tried it on was second to none soon after. I had clearly caught a bone. Or maybe you’re not supposed to ask potential dates if you’re a grown woman, “What’s your favorite dinosaur?”
Similarly, a WIRED editor suggested I try questions like those researchers had used to challenge chatbot Mitsuku: “If we shake hands, whose hand am I holding?” and “If London is south of Oxford, is Oxford north of London?” However, after trying this on a few of my Hinge matches, I started to suspect that these weren’t algorithmic bots, but real people hiding behind stock photos and language translation apps.
I started chatting with Liwei, a 45-year-old shirtless in a hammock, beer in hand, staring lonely at the ocean. “Where are you from?” I asked. Your heart, he replied. “Are you a robot?” I asked. Do I look like a robot to you?
I immediately asked if he would like to have a coffee in San Francisco, knowing that the chances of ever meeting this person in person were less than zero. He immediately suggested that I share my number: Great, you and I aren’t around most of the time. If you leave your contact details, okay, so we can get to know each other better… I’m not here often. My apologies. There is no beep. I asked him what he meant by that and then took the plunge: “Who do you work for? Do you work alone or are you part of a larger organization?” Liwei told him to go out for coffee with friends. Three days later I received a report that Liwei van Hinge had been kicked.
Three days later, Paul showed up on Hinge, as if he was on time. He had blond hair, blue eyes and big ears. He wore bright color block sweaters and stood in fields of flowers with equally impressive color palettes. He immediately went for the kill when he “liked” my profile: Your profile appeals to me, but I hardly use hinges. I do not want to miss you. So please give me your number. He signed the message with three emoji roses. Reader, I gave Paulbot my number.
We texted via text first – he had a 415 number, indicating San Francisco – then went to Telegram at Paulbot’s request. (“Welcome to the dark side,” a real friend texted me when he saw that I had joined Telegram.) Paulbot was busy. He ran a financial trading company and, he claimed, traded “a second contract in cryptocurrency futures.” (I have no idea what this means.) Originally from Germany, he now lived in Pacifica, a beach town south of San Francisco, only he spelled it Persfika, and that’s how a translation app could spit it out if it misinterprets your words.
