Perspectives

by Burt Hochberg

The Chess of the Future

Part One

We usually think of chess as having existed for thousands of years.
So it has, but in nothing like its present form. Chess is just one
member of a large and lively family of abstract strategy games that
evolved from a common ancestor dating back to antiquity. Besides
chess and its innumerable variants, that family includes (but is not
limited to) Korean chess, Chinese chess (xiangqi), and several
forms of shogi, each of which is played by millions of people.
Modern chess is but a single branch, the youngest and by no means
the largest, of a multifarious family tree.

The game we play today is a development of surprisingly recent
vintage. The queen and bishop did not get their present powers
until the late 15th century, when the firzan (or firz, later fers) and
fil (or alfil) were transformed from the clumsy weaklings they were
in shatranj into the dynamic forces they are in chess. The rules for
castling did not become standardized until the 16th century, and in
Italy not until early in the 20th. The rules governing pawn
promotion were established only in the mid-19th century, less than
a century and a half ago.

More recent changes refined the conditions that determine when a
game is a draw. Stalemate was not officially determined to be a
draw until after 1800 (unofficially, FIDE rules notwithstanding,
many players and scholars argue that it should be a win). The
50-move rule (with modifications to cover certain rare situations)
was established only in the last hundred years. The
repetition-of-position rule reached its present status as recently as
1946, when FIDE changed the existing criterion of static identity
(all the pieces are on the same squares as in a previous position) to
a new criterion recognizing dynamic identity (all the pieces are on
the same squares and also have the same possible moves).

 Judging by its checkered past and recent history, chess is an
imperfect game perpetually striving to find its perfect form. There
is no reason to believe that this process will not continue; on the
contrary, sooner or later, probably within a century or two, the
game called chess will be different from the game we play today.

Although it would be foolish to predict precisely where the
trajectory of chess history will lead, there are abundant clues, not
to say rumblings, that can give us a general idea.

Countless attempts have been made to "improve" chess. In this
century, the loudest rumblings have come from some of the leading
masters of orthodox chess, including three world champions:
Emanuel Lasker, Jose Capablanca, Bobby Fischer, Siegbert
Tarrasch, Richard Reti, Frank Marshall, Pal Benko, and Edward
Lasker, along with many others of lesser stature. I won't take the
space here to detail all the proposals that have been made in the
name of reform (I refer interested readers to David Pritchard's
magnificent book "The Encyclopedia of Chess Variants"). Some of
them went too far, and even many that didn't ran counter to the
inherent logic and balance of chess (among other suggestions,
Pritchard mentions proposals to allow pawns to move sideways
and bishops to jump over pawns on their first move).

What I want to emphasize is that there has been, and still is, a
nagging and widespread dissatisfaction with the current state of
chess. I would not go so far as to claim that the dissatisfaction is
urgent or that revolutionaries are at the gate. But the fact that so
many prominent players and scholars have for so long been
proposing changes in the game is a clear indication of a certain
level of discontent - "malaise," as Pritchard put it when discussing
Capablanca's proposal.

Soon after becoming world champion in 1921, Capablanca found
himself in agreement with Emanuel Lasker's opinion that since the
top masters could draw with one another at will, chess would
inevitably die a "draw-death" and would no longer interest either
the best players or the broad public. Capa and Edward Lasker
proposed a new game, played on an enlarged board with two extra
pieces per side. They experimented with 10x8 and 10x10 boards,
finally settling on the latter. But Capa et al. overstated the problem
(or were at least premature), and the new game, despite its virtues,
was too radical a change to gain general acceptance. Even among
lovers of chess variants, Capablanca's game (variously known as
Capablanca chess, Capablanca-Lasker chess, and
Lasker-Capablanca chess) is today regarded with respect but little
affection. "Good players are not necessarily good inventors,"
writes the Dutch game inventor Christian Freeling, whose Grand
Chess is a much more successful implementation of the idea of an
enlarged board with extra pieces (see my article on Grand Chess in
the August 1997 issue of "Chess Life").

Capablanca's proposal, though it went too far, gave voice to what
many others were thinking. Pritchard reports that the [London]
Times' "sympathetic reception of the subject triggered an invasion
of the letters column by more-or-less distinguished commentators
who, whilst generally supporting the need for change but
unanimous in their desire to retain the 8x8 board, took the
opportunity to advance their personal panaceas for the putative
sickness diagnosed by Capablanca."

The malaise identified by Capablanca and others stems not from
the game itself but from only one aspect of it. It stems from this
very well-known position:

DIAGRAM [OPENING POSITION]

The problem with the initial position, specifically, is that it is the
*only* initial position. Since the pieces begin every game on the
same squares, the position can be analyzed beforehand, and a
player with any sense *must* analyze it to some degree if he hopes
to play successfully. The scientific principles of chess theory - the
importance of the center, of pawn structure, of harmonious piece
development, of king safety, and so on - have been well
established, and therefore analysis of the starting position will
produce logical systems of opening play.

 So many logical systems has it produced that the printed literature
on opening theory could fill the Grand Canyon. Many chess
masters earn their livelihoods by analyzing this position and its
branching byways. Publishers of chess books and magazines profit
substantially from the chess public's insatiable craving for opening
theory. I haven't actually counted, but I'd wager that books on
opening variations outnumber those on middlegame and endgame
strategy by at least 100 to 1. This is undoubtedly a good thing for
masters and publishers. But is a good thing for chess? Bent Larsen,
in "How to Open a Chess Game," wrote: "I remember a young
player who said he had lost three years of his life studying the
Najdorf. He realized that he had learned variations, not chess."

What if the opening position were different? What if it were
different in every game? Chess is a stylized simulation of ancient
warfare. Would any battlefield commander with half a brain deploy
his forces in the same way for every engagement?

It's hard to find any logical reason why the pieces should start out
where they do. Why should the rooks be out of play? Why should
it be necessary to undertake often time-wasting and awkward
maneuvers to safeguard the king? Tradition and history have
determined where the pieces begin the game, not their optimum
placement for modern chess. 

Next month, in the second part of this article, I will suggest what
the chess of the future may be like. Meanwhile, let me ask you this:
If you were to reinvent the game of chess, would you start with the
kings in the center?

Copyright 1997 Burt Hochberg. All Rights Reserved