Chess is Dead*

There was a time when chess was beautiful, a time when unbounded creativity could be poured into a 64-square board. That time is over. What was an expression of human freedom in its most abstract form is now no more than a stiff representation of an increasingly controlled and constricted society. What was a symbol of hope is now one of decay.

In its raw essence, chess is a form of artistic expression. All forms of creative human activity possess a defining characteristic: the ability to provide infinite freedom within a finite space. The painter is limited by nature in the colors they can use, in the thickness of lines they can draw, yet within this constrained set of options lies the potential for an infinite number of outcomes. Likewise, the musician must choose from a small selection of pitches and rhythms, from which an entirely unique sound can be produced in just a few notes. The chess player has at their disposal only 16 pieces from which to craft their work of art, their canvas a mere 64 squares. Chess is more quantifiable, more limited in its medium, than any other form of expression, which makes its boundlessness even more profound. This game of wooden pieces and colored squares encapsulates the human condition: the possibility for the infinite within the sphere of the finite.

Like any other art form, chess is subject to the impure influence of society that rips creativity from the creator. At the professional level, the game has been falling towards the depths of banality for almost two centuries. Make no mistake; the greats such as Magnus Carlsen and Alireza Firouzja still exhibit captivating personalities and styles on the board. Yet that feeling of discovery, of the unique creativity that makes chess an art, is fading away. The culprit here is not the commercialization that plagues painting and music, but rather the development of chess as a science. Perhaps professionalism has made this evolution inevitable; when the goal of a game becomes to win at all costs, beauty is often discarded for pragmatism. It is not that 19th century chess players did not care about victory; it is that experimentation and pushing the limits of creativity to the absurd not only provided an entertaining match, but also improved the winning chances of the competitors. In 1858, Paul Morphy, easily the greatest player of the 19th century, faced off against Adolf Anderssen in Paris and defeated him 8 games to 3. In one of his few triumphs, Anderssen made a ridiculous first move playing the white pieces, choosing to advance a flank pawn one square forward so that he could match Morphy’s actions instead of holding the initiative. Though it would be easily refuted in the modern day, Anderssen’s strategy proved effective against one of the most adept thinkers in the world. What happened in the one and a half centuries between that game and today? The answer lies in a problem that is perhaps fundamental to chess.

Though theoretically an infinite game, the end goal of victory in chess closes these boundaries to a much more limited and logical space. And though not entirely finite, this space is much more easily discovered and analyzed . As chess has moved throughout history, the collective base of knowledge surrounding it has grown. This common understanding has even further limited the space that can be traversed in a professional chess game, first creating basic principles and then dictating what moves should be played in the beginning of the game for an advantage. This is called “opening theory.” As thousands of high level games have been played, it becomes clear what sequences of play at the start of the game are more or less beneficial for either side. These patterns become memorizable, up to the point that when grandmasters face each other, the first 20 moves are often simply being regurgitated from intense studying rather than the competitors’ own intuition. This is not a new development. Chess books detailing opening theory have existed since the early 20th century, and by the 1920s, this concept of memorized play already had a firm grip on the game. Computers, however, have accelerated the expansion of opening knowledge to a ridiculous extent. Whereas before, patterns were recognized and extracted from hundreds of games, computers can instantaneously inform a player what the best move is in any position, even if it had never been seen in any match before. What was previously a process of trial and error is now a dichotomy of simple right and wrong, of what the computer knows is best and the other, inferior options. Of course, opening theory can only assist a player in the beginning of the game; once the sequence of memorized moves ends or is broken from, the competitors are on their own. However, the influence that an opening can have on a game cannot be understated. If grandmasters both play near-perfect openings, which is now commonplace, then what results is a relatively equal position. And a relatively equal position, at the highest level of chess, often results in a game that ends in a draw. Thus, as opening theory has vastly expanded, so too has the number of drawn matches, highlighting chess’s devolution into an increasingly mundane professional activity. There are still moments of brilliance, moments that flash the creative potential of the game. Yet even more so, there are bland repetitions of unoriginal ideas leading straight to dead ends. Chess still prospers as a form of intellectual competition, yet its artistic spirit has been all but crushed.

*Chess is only dead if the professional level is taken to represent the standard, or whole, of the game. I believe that beauty still flows through its veins, just not in the places where everyone is often looking. I, as well as many of my peers, am at a playing level of decent competency, but with still much to be learned. We live in blissful ignorance of the encyclopedias of opening theory, of the scholasticism that has overtaken the game. We do this for lack of skill rather than for the principle of rejecting chess’s negative evolution, yet the end result is the preservation of a beauty that the latter has demolished. When players do not know everything there is to know, when they cannot easily exploit an aggressive move made by their opponent, the grounds are reopened for creativity. Reckless experimentation can go unpunished, wishful plans and ideas can come to fruition. Our naiveté is pushing the boundaries of chess back towards the infinity that it should be.