Moves and Stories
- 3 days ago
- 5 min read
On the Shared Language of Chess and Literature
Although chess is not the oldest game in human history, it is certainly one of the most enduring and influential. Spreading across vast regions and dominating eras, it has provided the backdrop for countless symbolic narratives. Out of curiosity, I wondered why chess has secured such a powerful place in literature and art, so I did some research. I asked myself why writers might love this game and incorporate it into their works. I would now like to share my reflections with you.
I have been playing chess every day for about five months now. I try to keep my knowledge and mind sharp with fifteen-minute sessions. I also watch matches from ongoing tournaments and try to understand the moves. Perhaps there are other activities in your life that capture your interest for a while, then fade away, only to resurface years later. For example, setting aside time to learn a foreign language or taking up a sport.
Chess was a bit like that for me, too. I learnt this “sport” (let's address the question of whether chess is a sport right away) at primary school and developed my skills by attending my teacher's after-school courses at secondary school. Although we played occasionally during breaks at high school, my enthusiasm gradually waned and I only retained the basics. However, I’ve taken it up again as a personal New Year challenge, and I've been playing consistently for quite some time now. To be honest, this consistency feels good.
Until now, however, I had not made a clear connection between chess and my other passion, writing. While exercising today, I paused to reflect and realised that both activities give me a similar sense of satisfaction. This prompted me to consider some broader questions. For instance, I wondered why writers might be interested in chess. Of course, it is not possible to establish a direct link between these two fields. Suggesting that someone who loves one would necessarily excel at the other would be unfounded.
I therefore decided it would be more accurate to consider specific examples. While this may not be true for everyone, many notable figures have incorporated chess into their work. Stefan Zweig, Vladimir Nabokov and Jorge Luis Borges depict chess directly in their literature, whereas Leo Tolstoy, Ernest Hemingway and Fyodor Dostoevsky cannot be said to have separated it from their daily lives. So, let us now consider why chess fits so well with literature.
Chess has a structure that lends itself exceptionally well to the creation of metaphors. Even if you have never played before, you are probably familiar with the pieces and how they move. The history of this game, which spans different eras and cultures, is also rich. Furthermore, the names of the pieces can vary depending on a society's worldview.
King
Queen
Rook
Bishop
Knight
Pawn
As we can see, names reflect religious and social hierarchies within societies.
This game features in fairy tales, fables, stories, films and paintings, and appeals to people of all ages. Whether you are young or old, male or female, a commoner or royalty, an experienced player or a beginner, you can all take your place at the same board.
In a sense, chess levels the playing field. The number of pieces and their abilities are fixed. The rules are clear. The boundaries of the board are defined. No one can make consecutive moves, and each player is solely responsible for their own decisions. Take the 1957 film The Seventh Seal, for example, a work that most of us will have heard of or seen. Set against a backdrop of black-and-white imagery and existentialist philosophy, it explores the theme of finding hope in despair and the battle between life and death. Yet the most prominent element was, once again, a chess match.
I tried to consider this from a literary perspective. Yes, the contrast created by the black and white pieces is clearly evident. Together with the aforementioned elements, a strong sense of duality emerges. Chess is perhaps a unique vehicle for conveying this meaning.
Moreover, the game is traditionally divided into three sections: the opening, the middle game and the endgame. In a sense, these represent the introduction, development, and conclusion.
In our writing, too, we begin with an introduction. We introduce our subject and give the reader an idea of where we are taking them. Similarly, the opening moves in chess provide clues as to the path that you and your opponent will take later on. This is why there are dozens of different opening systems. Next comes the middle game, where the game branches out and the tension rises. Finally, the closing section signals that the end is approaching.
Let's try a different approach. The reader can sometimes be like an opponent. This may sound like a harsh comparison, but it's worth considering. After all, chess is a two-player game. In a sense, isn't literature the same?
We may think of ourselves as good players or writers. However, we only truly know how good we are once we have made our move. In the end, what matters is how our writing is received by the reader. Sometimes we lose; we produce work that is incomplete, weak or underdeveloped. Other times, we receive a response and the game continues. If we win, we meet again in new games and arrange a rematch.
As I reflected on what I had written, other ideas occurred to me. I realised that I could draw parallels between literary genres, narrative structures, and the nature of chess. For instance, a poorly played game is akin to poorly developed characters. They are scattered and aimless, and their next move is uncertain.
On the other hand, there can be mysterious aspects, too. They might make a move that could knock their opponent out three moves later. Similarly, an antagonist may turn out to be unexpectedly powerful, becoming a source of fear throughout the story. As you watch, the tension rises and you can’t predict what will happen next. Just like in a good narrative.
Sometimes, however, the game unfolds amicably, like a calm, gentle narrative. Perhaps it's romantic, even losing on purpose can be seen as a kind of gain. At other times, you may sacrifice a piece. Your opponent won't understand, but you have a long-term plan. This is akin to a powerful turning point in the narrative. The protagonist suffers a temporary setback, but has actually made a move that will alter the course of the game (a plot twist).
Ultimately, there are usually two possibilities: either the players achieve a balance and end the game without exhausting one another (a draw), or all the confrontations culminate in a single outcome (checkmate: victory or defeat).
Chess can embody many themes, including mutual conflict, the distinction between good and evil, love, unresolved issues, ideological struggles, class differences and matters of life and death. This is perhaps why it is such a powerful theme in literature and art, leaving a deeply satisfying impression on those who experience it.
In my view, chess is one of literature's most potent metaphors. It simultaneously reveals the logic and spirit of the human mind. Chess is not merely an analytical game, as is often thought. A person's moves are determined not only by calculation, but also by emotions, fears, intuitions, and psychology. This may explain why losing certain pieces can feel as challenging as losing characters in a story.
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