Luke McShane

White to play. Zaibi–Napoleao, Online Olympiad, August 2020. White has just sacrificed the rook on a1. He concluded the attack in fine style. What was the winning move? Answers should be emailed to chess@spectator.co.uk by Monday 7 September. There is a prize of £20 for the first correct answer out of a hat. Please include a postal address and allow six weeks for prize delivery. Last week’s solution 1 hxg5! White eventually drew. Not 1 Kxg5? Qh6+ 2 Kf5 g6+! and 3…Qxf8. 1 Kg3? Qe3+ 2 Kg2 gxh4 is bad too.

Facing Magnus Carlsen, you have two problems. The first is obvious — he’s the best player in the world. The second lies in your awareness of the first. Countless players have seemed bewitched by the world champion, drained of the confidence needed to push for a win. In a single game, a strong grandmaster may well hunker down and steer the game towards a draw, but that’s a doubtful strategy in a long match, where critical mistakes will inevitably occur. I didn’t credit Hikaru Nakamura with much of a chance against Carlsen in the finals of the Magnus Carlsen Chess Tour, the series of elite online events held over recent months. On paper, he is a strong contender. Online rapid chess plays to Nakamura strengths, and he is even more dangerous in blitz playoffs.

Last week, snooker ace Ronnie O’Sullivan won his sixth World Championship at the age of 44, a full 19 years on from his first title. A few days earlier, he had taken a pop at the younger generation: ‘They’re not that good really… I’ve probably got to lose an arm and a leg to fall outside the top 50!’ You wouldn’t expect the same blunt turn of phrase from Vishy Anand, but in terms of longevity, he’s the obvious counterpart in chess. Almost 25 years have passed since he first challenged Kasparov for the world title. Anand turned 50 last year, and just three years ago added another World Rapid Championship to his collection.

Does Bear Grylls play chess? If he does, I’m sure he would favour the King’s Gambit. As chess openings go, it is primitive and hazardous. Playing it well demands a kind of reckless, wholehearted optimism that few can muster. Ostensibly, you sacrifice just a pawn (1 e4 e5 2 f4), but really, you’re already in deeper, since the aspiring gambiteer mustn’t flinch from chucking a piece or more on the bonfire. Most players find it more agreeable to watch others sacrifice their pieces. Indeed, sacrificial classics such as the ‘Immortal Game’ (Anderssen–Kieseritzky, London 1851) have a timeless appeal. But for those with the requisite swagger, nothing stokes the imagination like playing the opening.

‘Cabin crew, ten minutes to landing!’ Are there any more exhilarating words? Soon, for a few precious minutes, one can fix one’s gaze on the approaching landscape. The patchwork fields, the lines of terraced houses and shuffling cars — all woven together in an intricate fractal. From a certain point of view, these simple things are the crowning achievements of civilisation. Photographers at large chess tournaments often choose to capture an aerial view of the playing hall. To my eyes, it makes for a similarly uplifting sight. Hundreds of chess boards aligned in an arena, their occupants riveted with dedication — what better evidence of human society in rude cultural health?

I am sure I have posed more questions to the chess engine Stockfish than to any living being. I love the instant gratification: you give it a chess position and it gives you an answer: the best move and an evaluation measured in hundredths of a pawn, like +1 24. Leave it alone, it will delve deeper; move a piece, it will respond anew. In human terms, ‘Ooh, a smidgen better for White’ gives way to ‘Go there, and your rook gets blown away’. The chess engine is, by turns, a spirit level and a hurricane forecast. The basic design of a traditional chess engine like Stockfish is simple: check all the moves, back and forth, for both sides, and tot up the value of the pieces in each scenario. Then choose a move accordingly.

‘Had I not become a composer, I would have wanted to be a chess player, but a high-level one, someone competing for the world title.’ So said Ennio Morricone, who died earlier this month at the age of 91. Looking back on a lifetime of work, you don’t doubt that he could have done it. The Italian ‘maestro’ was best known for his transcendent film scores; the coyote howl theme from Sergio Leone’s The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, came to symbolise the Italian Western genre. Less well-known is that Morricone composed ‘Inno degli scacchisti’ (‘Chess players’ anthem’) for the Turin Olympiad in 2006.

The position shown in this week’s main diagram is the starter problem for the Winton British Chess Solving Championship, an annual competition. White must force mate in two moves, against any defence. (White moves, then Black moves, then White delivers checkmate.) For entry details, see the final paragraph. Many composed positions have an ugly duckling problem. Practical players are accustomed to discernible pawn structures and an approximate balance of material. An irrational starting position, like this one, is apt to draw a little wince. But look deeper, as there is grace and harmony to be found. Composed problems teem with ingenious and beautiful ideas expressed in ways that you might never encounter in practical play.

There is no sight so compelling as one that would be hidden. I am fascinated by the Streisand effect, named after Barbra Streisand, whose Malibu house appears in a large online collection of aerial photographs documenting the California coastline. In 2003, she filed a lawsuit to have it removed, which as well as being unsuccessful drew much more publicity to the photo. You can count on that appetite for mischief: Goya’s ‘Portrait of the Duke of Wellington’ was more in the public eye after it was stolen from the National Gallery in 1961 than before. (Wittily, the painting ‘appeared’ the following year in the hideout of Bond villain Dr No; the real thing was returned in 1965).

Chess has much in common with video games — not least, the eager disdain of uninformed critics. An 1859 article in Scientific American noted the achievements of Paul Morphy ‘vanquishing the most distinguished chess players of Europe’ but concluded sniffily that ‘skill in this game is neither a useful nor graceful accomplishment’. You can’t please everyone. Gamers are used to suffering the same old brickbats — their pursuits are addictive, isolating, sedentary, a channel for violent impulses, or just a waste of time. This is mostly silly: games can offer a rich and fulfilling competitive environment.

‘May the best scoring system win!’ is hardly a sentiment to stoke the passions. In the 2011 referendum, the alternative vote (AV) system was mooted to replace first-past-the-post. The electorate didn’t care for AV, which lost by two votes to one. Indeed, people didn’t much care for the issue at all: the 42 per cent turnout was far feebler than 72 per cent for the Brexit referendum in 2016. The fact remains — how you keep score does matter. In elections, the ‘popular vote’ does get counted, but it isn’t usually what counts, much to the chagrin of, say, Hillary Clinton’s supporters in 2016. In sport, as in politics, much depends upon the scoring system, even as we know that the exact details are arbitrary.