The defence

Chess v. artificial intelligence

Featured in

  • Published 20230801
  • ISBN: 978-1-922212-86-3
  • Extent: 196pp
  • Paperback (234 x 153mm), eBook

OF THE MANY face-to-face social pleasures prohibited by Covid lockdowns, the experience of sitting in a quiet pub and playing chess with a friend must count among those I was happiest to return to. No doubt the attraction is partly aesthetic, a reflection of the game’s romantic cachet. Post-impressionist paintings of bearded revolutionaries frowning over the sixty-four squares, and novels in which the great game figures as a metaphor for the human condition, have conferred an aura of existential cool on these meetings over a small wooden board. 

But it is the game itself that really holds me, that induces an almost Zen-like state. Played in person, there is an intimacy and intensity about chess that is difficult to describe without skirting pomposity. (‘Even before the start of play,’ wrote George Steiner in The Sporting Scene, ‘the pieces, with their subtle insinuation of near-human malevolence, confront each other across an electric silence.’) I cannot start a game without the first words of Kenneth Slessor’s ‘Chessmen’ entering unbidden into my head: ‘Chafing on flags of ebony and pearl, / My paladins are waiting.’ Sadly, I’m also unable to finish one without recalling Martin Amis’ description of the amateur game as ‘an uninterrupted exchange of howlers’.

Already a subscriber? Sign in here

If you are an educator or student wishing to access content for study purposes please contact us at griffithreview@griffith.edu.au

Share article

More from author

More from this edition

A night at the theatre

FictionAt the end of the play, I remain in my seat, as to stand would risk such a huge amount of pain and blood loss I am not sure I would survive. Having been allocated this ‘best available seat’ I don’t know how to leave. The actors smile in a strained way as they take their curtain call and each of them casts an eye at me. I make them uncomfortable, perched as I am on these horns. Stuck as I am while the rest of the audience applauds and exits.

We will never be modern

Non-fictionMy Instagram feed, an information-stream cosplaying as a hyper-relevant town square, has undergone a radical transformation in the past few years. Whereas once that endless deluge teemed with benign yet revealing snapshots of friends moving through the motions and milestones of life – brunches, holidays, weddings and pregnancies – today’s experience is far removed.

Etc.

FictionTogether we were drawn mechanically across the road, boredom/fate reeling us in. The lawn sprawled over the grey-brick kerb. The house was painted green. Sellotaped to the windows were rows of pressed aster. The feeling of something too large to explain was heavy in the air. The door squeaked, swinging open, the main door ajar behind it, and through the gap we glimpsed a white hallway, a pile of discarded shoes on one side.

Stay up to date with the latest, news, articles and special offers from Griffith Review.