King, Queen, and the Unyielding Critic: Why "Not Everyone Will Like You" is the Best Chess Lesson
It’s a truth as universal as gravity, or the fact that a knight moves in an 'L' shape: not everyone will like you, and that is absolutely okay. In a world obsessed with 'likes,' validation, and universal approval, this simple realization can feel like a radical act of self-liberation.
But how does this fundamental life lesson relate to the high-stakes, 64-squared battlefield of chess? Surprisingly, it’s the core psychological foundation for anyone hoping to improve their game, and their life.
The Relentless Judgment of the Board: The Case of the Blunder
Think about the game of chess. It is, perhaps, the most brutally honest mirror you'll ever encounter.
Every move you make—from the bold Queen sacrifice to the seemingly trivial pawn push—is subject to instant, objective, and unforgiving scrutiny. It doesn't matter if you were tired, distracted, or just having a bad day; the engine, the opponent, and your final result will judge the move based purely on its merit.
Your opponent, in a sense, is the ultimate "person who doesn't like you." They are actively working to dismantle your entire structure, checkmate your king, and prove your strategy flawed. They aren't going to praise your beautifully constructed defense; they are going to search for the one weakness to exploit it.
The Harsh Truth of the Blunder
The blunder is the most potent manifestation of this "dislike." When you hang a piece or miss a simple mate, the engine assigns a stark numerical value, like $-3.0$ or $-5.5$, that coldly quantifies your mistake. This number doesn't care about your feelings; it simply states, "That move was bad."
Example: Imagine you are playing a solid game, but on move 25, you forget to see a sneaky pin and lose your Rook. You feel embarrassed and frustrated. The engine's evaluation drops instantly. The lesson here is not to seek the engine's or the opponent's approval, but to seek truth and improvement. You have to accept the objective "dislike" of a bad move, analyze why it was bad, learn from it, and move on, without letting the internal critic paralyze your future moves. Getting angry at the engine's score is like getting angry at a scale for telling you your weight—it's simply objective data.
Playing for Your Position, Not the Audience: The Bobby Fischer Principle
The moment you start playing to impress a non-existent audience—or worse, to avoid the criticism of a grandmaster watching your stream—your game suffers. You stop playing for the board and start playing for applause.
The Crowd-Pleasing Trap: This is the player who goes for the flashy, high-risk, King's Gambit variation they saw online, just for the thrill, instead of playing the solid, positional line that the board demands. They're playing for "likes," not for the win.
The Fear of Criticism: This is the player who plays too passively, making ultra-safe, timid moves, sacrificing strategic initiative just to ensure they don't leave any piece undefended. They're trying to avoid the "dislike" of a blunder, but they end up guaranteeing a draw or a slow, painful loss.
The truly great chess player understands that their focus must be internal and positional. They are playing for the King, the Queen, and the best arrangement of the pieces on the board, irrespective of how 'boring' or 'unconventional' the move might seem to an observer.
Example: Think of the legendary Bobby Fischer. His style was often direct, methodical, and aggressively logical. He didn't always go for the most aesthetically pleasing sacrifices; he simply made the best moves. When asked about his opponents' opinions, he famously focused on the board, demonstrating a laser-like focus on objective reality over subjective approval. He played for the win, not for the headlines. In life, the parallel is clear: Don't make career, relationship, or creative choices based on what you think others will approve of. Make them based on what is strategically right for your life's 'position.'
The Power of the Unconventional Piece: The Rook's Quiet Strength
Every piece on the chessboard is crucial, but they are not all equally loved or glamorous.
The Queen gets all the glory—powerful, versatile, and flashy.
The Knight is admired for its unique, tricky movement, often called a "puzzle piece."
The Pawn is often dismissed as a foot soldier, only appreciated when it heroically promotes.
The key insight is this: The pawn doesn't stop moving because it knows it's "just a pawn." It continues its slow march, knowing that its true power—promotion—is achieved by doing its job and enduring criticism. It doesn't need to be flashy to be essential.
Example: Consider the Rook. Early in the game, it's often ignored, locked behind its own pawns. It's not as nimble as the Knight or as dominating as the Queen. Some may criticize its slowness. Yet, in the endgame, the Rook's straight-line power on open files and ranks often determines the winner. It's a piece that proves that quiet, consistent, and unconventional strength is far more valuable than immediate glamour. Your 'pawn' or 'rook' qualities—the quiet, unconventional, or less-appreciated parts of your personality or work—are essential to your structure. They might not get the immediate approval of the 'Queen's Court' (the popular crowd), but they are the bedrock of your strength.
The Endgame of Self-Acceptance
When you accept that not everyone will like you, you free up massive amounts of mental energy. In chess, this energy stops being wasted on:
Justifying a bad move to yourself or others.
Obsessing over a lost game's score and how it affects your image.
Worrying about what your chess club or online community will think of your rating drop.
Instead, that energy is channeled into analysis, learning, and future planning. It moves the focus from validation to improvement.
Example: A chess player who loses a brutal game will often spend hours in the post-game analysis, checking the engine, identifying the critical mistake, and studying alternative lines. They don't analyze to change the past result or argue with the engine's assessment; they analyze to prepare for the next game. This is self-acceptance in action. They accept the loss and the objective flaws in their play, and they immediately pivot to improvement.
This is the ultimate endgame lesson: Your value isn't determined by your current rating or your opponent's opinion. It is determined by your commitment to the game and your resilience in the face of objective truth.
So, the next time you face criticism, a social snub, or a crushing loss, remember the chessboard. Acknowledge the flaw, learn the lesson, and then, without seeking approval, make your next best move.
Play your own game. The only approval you need is the one that allows you to confidently say: "This is the best move for my position."
What move are you making next?
Comments