Somewhere between an ancient Greek drinking party and a 100-point rating system, wine became something we were expected to get right.

The right bottle. The right glass. The right temperature. The right words to describe what we're tasting.

And preferably, a little knowledge of French geography.

How did we get here?

The story is surprisingly entertaining. It involves Greek philosophers, an American president, a French emperor and a wine critic who decided that bottles deserved school grades.

Let's go back a couple of thousand years.

ANCIENT GREECE

FIRST, WE NEEDED SOMEONE TO TELL US HOW TO DRINK.

Imagine being invited to a drinking party in ancient Greece.

There are couches, music, poetry, conversation and plenty of wine. Sounds promising.

Except there's a man in charge of how much everyone drinks.

At a Greek symposium, guests didn't normally drink wine straight. It was mixed with water in a large communal vessel called a krater. The proportions were decided by the symposiarch, the evening's master of ceremonies.

Three or four parts water to one part wine was a common mixture.

The guests talked philosophy, exchanged gossip, listened to music and played drinking games. But the symposium was also a carefully organised social ritual, generally reserved for elite men.

So, no, ancient wine culture wasn't necessarily more relaxed or inclusive.

Even 2,500 years ago, someone could invite you over for a drink and then explain how you were supposed to have it.

The tradition was off to an excellent start.

THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

THEN WE STARTED MAKING LISTS.

By the eighteenth century, wine had become an important part of European trade, diplomacy and fashionable society.

Certain regions and estates already enjoyed considerable prestige. Merchants knew which wines commanded higher prices. Wealthy drinkers knew which names were worth mentioning at dinner.

And then Thomas Jefferson entered the picture.

In 1787, while travelling through Bordeaux, the future American president recorded his observations of the region's leading wines and produced an informal ranking.

Jefferson was seriously interested in wine. He studied vineyards, visited producers and kept detailed records.

Of course, he didn't invent the idea of ranking Bordeaux. Merchants had been distinguishing between estates for decades.

But there's something wonderfully familiar about his enthusiasm.

Here was a man travelling through wine country, trying to understand what made certain bottles special — and making a list so he could remember.

Today, we'd probably call it a wine guide.

Or give it five stars.

BORDEAUX, 1855

AND THEN NAPOLEON MADE IT OFFICIAL.

In 1855, Paris was preparing to host the Universal Exhibition, an international showcase of French industry, agriculture and culture.

Emperor Napoleon III wanted the country's wines properly represented.

Bordeaux needed a classification.

The Bordeaux Chamber of Commerce turned to wine brokers, who knew the market and the reputations of its leading estates.

And here's the interesting part: they didn't organise a grand blind tasting to decide which wines were best.

The ranking was based largely on established reputation and the prices the wines commanded.

The brokers delivered the classification in just thirteen days.

Red wines were divided into five levels, from First Growth to Fifth Growth. The great sweet wines of Sauternes and Barsac received their own hierarchy.

What began as a practical exercise for an exhibition became one of the wine world's most enduring systems of prestige.

The classification has changed remarkably little since.

Imagine creating a ranking for a trade fair and discovering that people are still discussing your list more than 170 years later.

Some paperwork really does age well.

THE 1970s

FINALLY, WE GAVE WINE HOMEWORK GRADES.

Fast-forward to 1978.

An American lawyer named Robert Parker launched The Wine Advocate, a newsletter designed to give wine buyers independent advice.

He wanted to make wine criticism more accessible and useful to consumers.

And he had an idea.

Why not score wines on a 100-point scale, similar to the grading system familiar to American students?

Wine critics had already been using numerical ratings, including 20-point systems. Parker's approach was different because the numbers immediately made sense to a broad American audience.

A wine could receive 85 points. Or 92. Or the magical 100.

His system became enormously influential.

A high score could help a wine attract attention, reach new customers and command higher prices.

And the simplicity was genuinely useful. You didn't need to understand every château or appellation to recognise that 95 was a strong recommendation.

But numbers have an interesting habit of taking over conversations.

Instead of asking what a wine tasted like, people could ask how many points it received.

A wine might have taken years to grow, ferment and mature.

We could now summarise it in two digits.

Efficient, really.

NOW WE'RE AFRAID OF SAYING THE WRONG THING.

And here we are.

We have wine schools, certifications, specialist glassware, elaborate tasting systems and more information about wine than almost anyone could have imagined a century ago.

We can learn about the limestone beneath a vineyard, the influence of altitude, fermentation temperatures and the precise reasons a wine tastes the way it does.

That's a wonderful thing.

The problem isn't knowledge.

It's what happens when knowing about wine starts to feel like a requirement for enjoying it.

You order Riesling and someone asks whether you prefer petrol notes in a mature example.

You say you smell peaches.

Someone else says wet stones.

For a moment, everyone seems to be waiting for the correct answer.

But wine isn't a mathematics exam.

Professional tasting has its place. So do classifications, scores and the vocabulary that helps us recognise differences between wines.

Without those things, understanding wine would be considerably harder.

Still, perhaps we could occasionally remember what people were doing at those Greek symposia before we invented wine ratings, tasting apps and perfectly shaped Burgundy glasses.

They were talking.

Admittedly, under the supervision of a man responsible for watering down the wine.

Some traditions are better left behind.

Others are worth keeping.

We have spent centuries finding new ways to classify, rate and explain wine. And we've learned a remarkable amount along the way.

But perhaps the best thing about wine hasn't changed much.

Someone pours a glass. Someone asks a question.

And the conversation begins.

Wine is never just wine.Sometimes it comes with a score.