LinkedIn, that carnival of professional self-delusion, has a little diversion called Pinpoint. It pretends to tell you how much you “match” with other people, presumably so you’ll feel less alone as you scroll past thought-leaders peddling snake oil in PowerPoint form. In English, the results arrive in the cold, hard, dating-app idiom: “% match.” Simple, brutal, and bland.

But LinkedIn, ever the polyglot, translates this phrase into other tongues. And here is where a trivial game unmasks the philosophical chaos of language itself. For in one idiom, your soul and another’s are “in correspondence.” In another, you are the product of “coincidence.” Elsewhere, you are a “hit,” a “fit,” a “suitability.” The poor Swedes, apparently exhausted, simply gave up and borrowed “matchning.”

The Romance languages, of course, are the most pedantic. Correspondência, corrispondenza — all very scholastic, as if Aquinas himself were lurking in the backend code. A match is nothing less than the degree to which one proposition mirrors another, as in the correspondence theory of truth. You can be 72% true, like a botched syllogism that half-lands. Elegant, precise, exasperating.

Spanish, on the other hand, opts for coincidencia. A “% coincidence.” Imagine it: you bump into your ex at the market, but only 46% of the way. Coincidence, by definition, is binary; either the train wreck occurs or it does not. And yet here it is, rendered as a gradable metric, as if fate could be quantified. It’s a kind of semantic surrealism: Dalí with a spreadsheet.

Then we have the Germans: Treffer. A hit. In English, a hit is binary – you score or you miss. But the Germans, ever the statisticians of fate, make Trefferquote into a percentage. You may not have killed the truth outright, but you wounded it respectably. It’s a firing squad turned bar chart.

Indonesians say cocok, which means “appropriate, suitable.” This is not about truth at all, but about fit. A match is not correspondence to reality but pragmatic adequacy: does it work? Does it feel right? The difference is subtle but devastating. Correspondence makes truth a metaphysical mirror; suitability makes it a tailoring problem.

And English? English, with its toddler’s toybox of a vocabulary, just shrugs and says “match.” A word that means as much as a tennis final, a Tinder swipe, or a child’s puzzle book. Adequate, lazy, neutered. Anglo-pragmatism masquerading as universality.

So from a silly HR-adjacent parlour game we stumble into a revelation: truth is not one thing, but a polyglot mess. The Romance tongues cling to correspondence. Spanish insists on coincidence. German goes target practice. Indonesian settles for a good fit. And English floats on ambiguity like an inflatable swan in a corporate swimming pool.

The lesson? Even a “% match” is already lost in translation. There is no stable denominator. We speak not in universals but in parochialisms, in metaphors smuggled into software by underpaid translators. And we wonder why philosophy cannot settle the matter of truth: it is because language itself cheats. It gives us correspondence, coincidence, hits, and fits, all while claiming to say the same thing.

Perhaps LinkedIn should update its UI to something more honest: % mess.