Rage Bait Is a Brilliant Word of the Year
In a surprising twist, the Oxford University Press has chosen “rage bait” as its word of the year for 2024, following a series of unconventional selections that have sparked both intrigue and criticism. This term, defined as online content intentionally crafted to provoke anger and drive engagement, reflects a growing trend in the attention economy where sensationalism often trumps substance. The term has seen a threefold increase in usage over the past year, indicating its resonance in a digital landscape rife with divisive content. The choice of “rage bait” comes after a public vote involving over 30,000 participants, showcasing the evolving nature of language and the influence of contemporary communication styles.
Critics of Oxford’s decision often lament the perceived decline in linguistic standards, suggesting that the elevation of terms like “rage bait” and “rizz” signifies a departure from the rich literary heritage of the English language. For instance, Kayla Bartsch of the National Review expressed concern that Oxford is prioritizing trendy, internet-derived terms over classic literature. This ongoing debate between descriptivists, who document language as it evolves, and prescriptivists, who advocate for traditional norms, continues to shape discussions about language’s future. However, in the case of “rage bait,” its succinctness and relevance to current societal dynamics—particularly the manipulation of emotions for online engagement—demonstrate its utility. It encapsulates a broader commentary on the state of political discourse and the pervasive influence of algorithms that prioritize engagement over meaningful dialogue.
The phenomenon of “rage bait” highlights a critical aspect of modern communication: the ability to provoke emotional responses as a strategy for capturing attention. Examples abound, from political figures using sensational tactics to rally support or provoke outrage, to social media platforms amplifying content that stirs strong emotions. As the internet continues to evolve, so too will the language we use to describe its complexities. While some may question the longevity of “rage bait” as a term, its emergence underscores a significant shift in how we navigate discussions in an increasingly polarized and algorithm-driven world. As the landscape of communication shifts, it becomes clear that words like “rage bait” serve not just as labels, but as reflections of our collective experiences in the digital age.
The lexicographers at the Oxford University Press seem to be punking us. In
2015
, their “word” of the year was “😂.” In
2023
,
rizz
. In
2024
,
brain rot
. And
now
the publishers of the
Oxford English Dictionary
have chosen
rage bait
. As I write this, the spell-check bot has underlined many of these words in red or blue squiggles, urging me to rectify my missteps. But no mistakes have been made here.
Rage bait
—both the term and the phenomenon—is a product of the attention economy. The Oxford announcement defines it as “online content deliberately designed to elicit anger,” which is “typically posted in order to increase traffic to or engagement with a particular web page or social media account.” Its usage has increased threefold over the past year, the press notes. Oxford made its decision after more than 30,000 voters had their say. In endorsing this choice, Oxford may be chasing fame, or clicks, or—yes—rage, but it is also rightfully recognizing that language is malleable and that the latest innovations are online.
Language is the freest market that we have. Words that prevail do so on merit, no matter their origin.
Rage bait
is evocative and useful. Because the English language had previously failed to provide such an efficient term, we should be glad that the internet has come through.
[
Kaitlyn Tiffany: The brilliant stupidity of internet speak
]
When Oxford and other traditional authorities champion ideas and terms drawn from the internet, in many cases they’re accused of, at best, mindlessly following trends and, at worst, debasing English speakers’ cultural heritage. Decrying the elevation of
rizz
two years ago, Kayla Bartsch at
National Review
wrote
, “Institutions such as Oxford—the primary steward of the English language for centuries—have a choice: elevate this new garble, or propel English speakers on toward worthier turns of phrase.” She then argued that “Shakespeare and Dickens have been tossed out and replaced with TikTokers and online trolls.” The same year the British publication
The Tab
lamented
, “It’s like they see a word they’ve never heard of mentioned once on TikTok and automatically assume it’s how every single young person speaks.” Beneath these complaints is a much older debate between descriptivists, who seek to chronicle how people express themselves, and prescriptivists, who favor the enforcement of traditional language norms.
This year, however, the criticism from the latter camp has been muted. Perhaps the “new garble” has won. Perhaps Oxford’s decision to crown
brain rot
last year spilled the last of the ink on the matter. Some have quibbled that the phenomenon of rage bait is just too dire and insidious for the term to be elevated this way. As Zoe Williams
moaned
in
The
Guardian
: “Good luck in the dictionary business, Oxford, if you collude to make rage bait all the rage.” Otherwise, the main complaint has been that
rage bait
is, in fact,
two words
. (In attempting to preempt such criticism, Oxford has insisted that their word of the year “can be a singular word or expression, which our lexicographers think of as a single unit of meaning.”)
All words fill some semantic gap. Either they succinctly describe a new phenomenon or they describe an existing one in a more fun and nuanced way.
Rage bait
manages both. In a mere two syllables, it captures a timeless attention-getting strategy predicated on human weakness, and it conveys the acceleration of our algorithmic estrangement from a worthier discourse of ideas. It exposes the baseness of some human impulses and the dysfunctional state of contemporary politics.
Without the concept of rage bait, we couldn’t adequately describe why the president of the United States might be
broadcasting
AI-generated videos of him dumping feces on Americans who protest his policies. Nor would we be able to explain why California Governor Gavin Newsom, a likely candidate for the 2028 presidential election, celebrated the Democrats’ electoral wins in November with a TikTok of him and fellow party members slamming Trump and other Republicans in a mock World Wrestling Entertainment smackdown. “Now that’s what we call a takedown,” Newsom
posted
.
Victory in online debates lies in cultivating an ironic detachment while triggering rivals into earnest, sloppy anger. This feat has
become its own meme
: an image of a lion shrieking at a blithely amused monkey. In 2025, the monkey is winning.
[
Victoria Turk: The great language flattening
]
This isn’t to say that elevating meme lingo always makes sense. Dictionary.com crowned
67
as its word of 2025. Pronounced “six seven,” the number has become a meme that Gen Alpha kids love
repeating
while making a juggling hand motion. Their inflection mimics the Philadelphia rapper Skrilla, whose song “Doot Doot (6 7)” kick-started the joke after it soundtracked viral TikTok hype videos of the NBA guard LaMelo Ball, who is 6 foot 7. But the term
67
, which lacks a definition, probably won’t last; no kid uses it in a sentence. It’s simply a universally known in-joke that children use to bond, which makes it an odd choice for a word of the year.
The problem with hitching new words to memes is that memes
die
.
Meme-popularized words
from the 2010s, such as
on fleek
and
yeet
, are cringe now. Lexical survivors must fill a niche, so
selfie
,
cancel
, and
ghosting
promise to stick around. As long as we remain governed by algorithms that promote engagement over nuance,
rage bait
is likely to last as well.
