Postmortem: What chess tournaments can teach us about democracy

The great chess tactician, Mikhail Tal, once said:

When one of us first plays chess, he is like a man who has already caught a dose of microbes. Such a man walks along the street, and he does not yet know that he is ill. He is healthy, he feels fine, but the microbes are doing their work.

I contracted my "dose of microbes" during graduate school and immediately set out to conquer the game of chess. I approached it just as I did my studies--establish a command of elementary fundamentals, study the relevant historical literature, utilize a professional mentor, prepare to make my own unique contributions. Nearly four years have passed and I realize that the struggle to make even minimal progress is just beginning.

So, I've been thrashed in over the board chess competition dozens of times (not to mention my thousands of losses on the Internet Chess Club--to date I have played 15, 932 blitz games!) in cities all over the map: Chicago, New York, Philadelphia, Atlanta. What I've learned in my chess travels (besides the fact that competitive chess players are eccentric and often ignore basic hygiene) is that chess tournaments stand as exemplars of democracy and creative collaboration. Let me explain.

Chess tournaments enforce rigid rules structures (established by the United States Chess Federation or USCF) regarding competitive play during "rated games." There is virtually no conversation allowed during the game, complex timing devices (digital chess clocks) are used according to strict protocol (e.g. players must touch the clock with the same hand they use to move the chess piece), and both players record the game in algebraic notation on an official score sheet. This certainly does not sound very democratic, but the civic engagement magic actually occurs after the game is over. Hence, the term "postmortem" (in this instance it literally means examining a deceased chess game).

Players will retire to the "skittles room" (usually a large room with many tables and lots of chatter) to roll out their boards and re-create the game just played with the intention of analyzing the moves, sharing their thoughts on strategic and tactical considerations made during the game, and, most importantly, exploring alternative moves (or plans--a series of purposive moves intended) that were not actually made during the game. The primary objective of this exercise is to see where the players went wrong, and to determine if a different outcome may have been achievable. This activity usually begins with just the two chess players, but as they begin their analysis multiple players (usually strangers) will drift over to the table (uninvited) and begin to make contributions to the conversation. Before you know it, a small community has formed, fueled by meaningful conversation, as they try and solve problems of common interest. Some have high ratings and substantial chess experience, while others have low ratings and little experience. A sixty year old Russian male may listen respectfully to the analysis of a teenage, African American female. All proposals are considered, although some suggestions are politely, but firmly refuted utilizing reasoning and logic. As the activity concludes, players drift away from the table as quietly as they arrived, some seeking other postmortems. But sometimes, friendships are forged, e-mails exchanged, obscure chess books recommended, lunches (with beer) between rounds consumed.

The beauty of chess is its blending of art with science--intuitive evaluation of a position based upon experience or aesthetics balanced (sometimes precariously) against the cold logic and memorization of established chess theory. Creative collaboration (as well as competitive excellence) depends upon both. It is just this sort of activity--open, honest, creative, critical, productive, enjoyable--that may find meaning and application in the expression of citizenship, as we attempt to solve social problems with our fellow citizens. And if we're lucky, we may just make a friend or two.