Chess as a Mirror: Learning About Yourself

 "Mirror, mirror, on the wall..."

I've often heard that a person's personality shines forth on the chess board.  It goes beyond the choice of opening and into the moves themselves: you can often tell which famous player played a particular game, and no one confuses a Tal brilliancy with one of Petrosian's, even if they started from the same position.

Whenever we play chess, we look into a magic mirror, one that reflects back at us.  If you look at it critically, you might see portions of yourself otherwise hidden.  Today, I've stared deep into the abyss.  Let's see what the magic mirror says about me.

Certain Simplicity

When you look at my games, "openness" become a defining theme.  I excel in open positions: I score much better playing the Scotch than the Italian or the Spanish.  Why?  Because the position is comparatively simple: by move 3 we've made basically all the pawn moves we need, so now we can just develop all our pieces as fast as possible, castle and then start attacking something.

In the Italian and Spanish, things are far more subtle.  We might play c3+d3, c3+d4, d4 without c3, d3 without c3, all with different nuances in terms of timing and piece placement.  I shy away from this approach, or at least, I inherently do better in the direct Scotch.

Don't confuse this will dull or boring chess, though.  I've played the Sicilian Dragon with some success.  At its core, it's a very simple opening: put all your pieces on natural squares and then attack the White King.  Actually doing that while responding to White's attack, of course, requires a ton of effort and calculation, but that's fine.  I can handle that.

In life, away from the chess board, this holds true as well.  I am not a complicated person; most days follow the same rhythmical pattern.  Disruptions to this rhythm throw me for a loop and lower my results, at least in the short term. I enjoy my simple life, and the old Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times," definitely sends a chill up my spine.  "Interesting" implies change and uncertainty. No thank you.

Ideas over Details

This carries over from above.  In the Dragon, Black's attack is simple in principle: use Rooks on the c-file in combination with the Bg7 to crush White's King.  Doing that in practice, calculating move by move, figuring out the optimal move order all while responding to White's own attack, is of course much harder ... but I don't really care about that.  I can work that out later.  It's the main idea that counts.

This goes beyond the Dragon.  In virtually every position, I care far more about the general ideas than I do the concrete moves.  I get excited about different plans and strategies, especially if they are novel.  For example, the Modern Dragon has a new 7...h5!? idea, striving to hinder White's pawn storm by a few tempi.  The positions are fresh and interesting, though Black's main plan (attack the King!) remains front and center.

This explains why I don't like dull or boring chess games.  There might be one idea for both sides, and that quickly fizzles out to nothing.  No, the real thrill is seeing the clash of ideas, of White attacking on the Kingside and Black on the Queenside, or in a Nimzo, White getting the two Bishops but Black crippling his pawn structure.  Different ideas, different plans, complex games.  I love it... and we'll figure out the exact moves when we get there.

This equally applies in life.  Exhibit A, I majored in philosophy at university.  What am I going to do with that degree?  Great question; I'll figure it out later.  More importantly, let's talk Plato's theory of the Forms. Similarly with my history studies, I don't care so much that the Bastille was sacked on July 14, 1789, but I care deeply about why the Parisian mob felt such discomfort and friction that they were compelled to rise up.

 Ideas are currency.  Details ... we'll figure the details out.

Control and Risk Tolerance

Do you know why I don't play the Dragon any more?  It's because of my need for control.  Chess has taught me this idea more than anything else ... or perhaps it has always been a part of my personality, and chess merely shines a spotlight for me to see it.

Suppose we have two options: 1) a risky attack that is close to winning but allows a lot of counterplay, or 2) a simpler continuation that eliminates that counterplay but has less winning chances.  I take option 2 every time.  Counterplay is bad.  It is the devil.  It is where good games go to die.  Eliminating counterplay makes life simple.  In a real sense, if an opponent has no counterplay, then he has no ideas, and so my ideas are given full reign.

Look at this position: I had an opportunity to play a bit more dynamic early on, but I settled for this.  Absolute perfection: Good Knight vs Bad Bishop.  I have no weaknesses and Black has no counterplay.  I can do literally anything I want.  It might not be interesting, but it's safe.  Life is good.

I have an almost pathological obsession with reducing counterplay.  I must have been burned too many times, as I instinctively look to block checks, trade attackers and eliminate potential sources of weaknesses. I take this too far, overreacting to ghosts and playing substandard moves to prevent threats that were never scary to begin with.

I didn't recognize this about myself, in life, until I saw it in chess. I have an extremely low risk tolerance.  Roller coaster?  No thanks.  Visit somewhere exotic?  I'll pass.  Try some new food? I'll stick with my chicken and rice, thanks. This is not necessarily the "right" attitude, but it is mine, and it reflects me on the chessboard.

Practicing the Basics ... Relentlessly

This is perhaps the inverse, of seeing my life reflect through chess, but nonetheless.  I place a premium on mastering the fundamentals of a given area.  In karate, we practice the basics literally every class; outside class, I still practiced them.  I must have done the basic bo strikes for hours, and I did them happily, because I knew it was making me better and it would unlock new skills.

I'm sure the basics helped with learning this.

During the pandemic, I self-taught myself the piano. I spent weeks doing nothing but scales, chords and arpeggios.  I didn't learn a single song, not a single melodic passage, during this time.  I knew I needed to build the foundational technique first.  It eventually paid off, as I was eventually able to learn my favourite piano song, Nobou Uematsu's "To Zanarkand."

Chess is similar.  I went through Tarrasch's fundamental tactical section at least a dozen times, mastering pins and forks and double attacks.  I have trained easy tactical puzzles since I found out I could.  I have books on mate in 2 that I still enjoy flipping through; conversely, the one tactics book I studied that goes beyond the basics, the Woodpecker Method, I basically hated.

You can never practice the basics too much.  Chess reflects this perfectly.

Collapsing After a Mistake

I play very well ... up until my first mistake.  Okay, I guess that's technically true for everyone.  Here's what I mean: I have confidence.  I play with confidence.  My moves flow ... up until that first mistake.  Then doubt takes over.  Fear.  Unease.  My play takes a monumental turn for the worse.  I rarely recover from mistakes.  I simply collapse.

In life, I often plan my day.  "Wake up at 5:30, warm-up, workout at 6am, shower by 7am, breakfast, at work by 8am, start on the first file and finish it before 10am, etc etc." When it works, it works amazingly well, and my productivity surges.  If one thing gets thrown out of whack, though, the whole sequence crumbles.  There have been times that I wake up at 6am instead of 5:30am and do basically nothing that day.  "Why bother?" I unconsciously seem to think. "My plan is ruined."

There seems to be this sense of, "If things can't be perfect, then why bother?"  I've been working on this particular weakness, and I'm making some progress.  Indeed, working in the legal profession, I cannot count on keeping a planned schedule, as variables and changes of plan are literally part of the job.  I'm improving, if slowly.  Let's see if it helps in chess.

Impulsiveness

Not common, but common enough.  I will look at two possible moves.  I calculate the first one and see something I don't like... so that means it is bad and I play the other move immediately, without thought.  That's seldom a good reason to make a move.

In life, I might be thinking of two online products.  I'll read the Amazon reviews of one, see some things I don't like . .. and so immediately buy the other one. After collecting some Amazon junk, I've realized this is not the best way to decide.

Obsession

"If something is worth doing, it is worth doing well." I tend to do a few core activities, but I focus exclusively on them.  Relentless.  Obsessive.  Chess clearly fits the bill: I know plans, moves, strategies ... historical dates, famous authors, less-famous authors ... a book collection, a digital archive, hundreds if not thousands of pages of analysis ... a small collection of boards, and probably some other things as well.

When I wake up, there's a decent chance my first thought will be chess related.  As I drift off to sleep, a chess position often drifts through my mind. (It's actually not that crazy; visualization frequently makes me fall asleep much faster than any other technique I've tried.) If I'm waiting in line or for the computer to load, I'll sip my cup of tea, stare off into the distance ... and likely think chess thoughts.

Chess is not unique to this, but it highlights the process quite well.  I enjoy something, so I want to do it more.  That causes me to learn more about it and, frequently, enjoy it more ... so I want to do it more.  Repeat ad infinitum.

Conclusion

I could go further, but I think the point has been made.  Chess gives a rather fulsome reflection of Smithy, both in terms of my actual moves but also in my general approach to the game.  You can learn about yourself through this great game.  The next question is whether improving at any given area, whether in chess or in life, will improve the mirrored area.  I'm committed to improving at chess, so maybe we'll find out.