Chess: The Other Side of Life

Someone once told me that he deals with people the way a chess player deals with his pieces. And since I have many reservations about him—as a person who does not inspire my admiration but rather my puzzlement—I initially thought his remark was merely a form of naive boasting, an attempt to appear smarter than he actually is. But, as is my habit, I do not stop at first impressions; my curiosity was piqued, for I am among those who tend to take what is useful and leave the rest behind. So I began to search, not for the man, but for the idea itself. I looked into the origins of chess, its philosophy, and the rules that govern it. Then I found myself comparing it to what happens in our lives every day, and I realized that the resemblance between the two is far deeper than I had imagined.

In chess, as in life, not all pieces start with the same value, the same movement, or the same role. Each piece has its boundaries, its strengths, and its weaknesses, and each has a timing when it becomes influential and another when it becomes merely a burden. More importantly, the match is not decided by possessing the strongest pieces, but by managing them well. The first thing that struck me was that the King, the most important piece on the board, moves only one square at a time, yet the entire war revolves around him. At that moment, I realized that value is not measured by what you can do, but by what you represent. How many people possess an influence so profound that their fall causes a collapse for everyone around them?

As for the Queen, she holds true power; she moves in all directions, reaches where others cannot, and decides many battles. It is as if the game tells us that the greatest blessings manifest when life is managed with wisdom and freedom. Then I contemplated the pawns—the pieces considered simplest in value by many. They advance only one square at a time, in a slowness that is barely visible, and are sacrificed more than others. Yet the game hides a secret for them, one that only the patient notice: if a pawn reaches the other side of the board, it is no longer a pawn but can transform into any piece it chooses. How much does this resemble a human being who starts from zero, whom everyone mocks and believes will remain in the back rows, while he advances every day with a small, unnoticeable step until he reaches the place where he changes everything. In contrast, there are those who excel in potential but lose themselves at the very beginning of the path.

In chess, too, victory does not come from attacking all the time, nor from defending all the time, but from knowing when to do one and when to do the other. Life does not belong to the strongest or the fastest, but to those who read the board well before moving a single piece. How many matches have ended because of a move its owner thought was small? So too is our life. A passing decision, a word spoken in a moment of anger, a partnership that was not studied, trust placed in the wrong hands—these may all be just one “move,” yet they are capable of changing the outcome of the entire game.

I also realized that a skilled player does not hate losing a piece because he looks at what comes after, whereas a beginner clings to every piece until he loses the whole game while trying to save just one. This is something we often do in our lives: we cling to a relationship that has ended, a job that has exhausted its purpose, or an idea that has been overtaken by time. We lose entire lifetimes because we have not learned when to withdraw, when to sacrifice, and when to turn the page.

Then another question crossed my mind: What if most of our problems are not because the board is against us, but because we are playing someone else’s game? We try to be like the King, when we were created to excel as a Knight; or we imitate the Bishop’s move, while we only possess the path of the Rook. Thus, we spend our lives comparing ourselves to pieces created to move in different ways. Perhaps for this reason, wisdom does not lie in becoming the strongest piece on the board, but in knowing which piece you are and performing your role with mastery.

Thus, I understood that that man was not entirely wrong, but rather carrying an important message for me personally. The error was not in treating life as if it were a chessboard, but in treating people as if they were merely pieces we move as we please, expecting results that please only us. Those pieces, it is true, do not possess hearts. But humans change the rules of the entire game when they feel, love, betray, and forgive. For this reason, life will always remain far more complex than any chessboard.

Now, as I watch my young son engrossed in playing chess, skillfully winning against his sister who has barely begun to decipher the game’s code, I can only laugh from the heart as I tease him, saying, “It seems you have a promising future. Whoever starts early to understand the rules of the game will find it easier later to read the patterns of human behavior.” And because life, in many of its situations, resembles chess to a great extent, it requires patience, good judgment, and the ability to read what lies beyond the move. It requires understanding that every step opens new possibilities, and that true intelligence lies not in defeating others, but in knowing when to move, when to wait, and when to protect those who deserve to remain beside us in the circle closest to our hearts—those who are the kings of the game in our story. And these are the ones who win in chess and in life as well. With them, we always win, and with them, the balance of comparison is restored.