Bullet, Blitz, and the Pull of the 64 Squares
Opening
I wipe my hand on my shirt and push my neck into the back of my chair, trying to ease the tension that's been building for hours. But my brief rest is quickly interrupted by the all-too-familiar “DUDU,” alerting me that my next game is ready. Almost immediately, I slip into some sort of autopilot, my mind and hand acting as one. Without even thinking, I automatically blitz out my opening moves. I’ve done it so many times it feels wired into me. My pieces just seem to know where they’re supposed to go. The pieces move, the clock ticks, and I disappear.
Spiral
I wasn’t always like this. Unlike most chess lovers, I didn’t start at a very young age. I got into chess during COVID through GothamChess and The Queen’s Gambit. I don’t even really remember learning the game or when I started getting into it. It happened slowly, almost without me realizing it. A game here while waiting for my mom, a GothamChess video while I ate breakfast, and then suddenly, all at once. At first, it was just something I did for fun. But somewhere along the way, something shifted. It stopped feeling like something I wanted to do and became something I needed to do.
As I began playing more seriously, I became more focused on winning and raising my ELO. And as my rating swung, so did my mood. I started noticing how it affected not just me, but the people I loved.
I’d snap at them, bitter and frustrated. Not because of them, but because I was angry at myself for how I was playing. Tables were banged. Expletives were screamed. Relationships were strained—all over chess.
Playing chess at 5 am
And yet, instead of pulling back, I doubled down. I thought if I just played more, studied harder, or won enough games, I could fix it. Fix the mood swings, the frustration, everything. So I kept going.
Suddenly, I found myself fully immersed—no, obsessed. I was playing bullet and blitz nearly all day, every day. But it wasn’t just about playing. I was watching chess, writing about it, and completely consumed by everything related to the game. I browsed r/chess and scrolled through Anish Giri’s Twitter. I went to my local club, volunteered and played at the senior center, and attended library events—anything chess-related, I was there. I even started a club at my school and tried my hand at writing about top tournaments and my own experiences.
Addiction
I was caught in a cycle I couldn’t break. Every game felt like a chance to recover what I’d lost or to push further down the spiral. Speed chess became almost like gambling—where I was chasing a win, needing to get back to even, driven by the hope that the next game would fix everything. Unlike other addictions, chess promised the possibility of real achievement. I could lose a lot of rating and still recognize that I was addicted and frustrated. Yet even then, I saw chess—the addiction—as my way out of the sadness it had caused. I told myself that if I gained more ELO, I would finally be happier and everything would get better. But even when I gained ELO I wondered, what had I really accomplished? It was just pixels on a screen. What did it prove, and to whom?
Reflection
So now what? Where does this leave me? Should I continue chasing imaginary points in the deluded belief that it will fix all my problems? When I phrase it like that, the answer seems like it should be no, but I know I won’t or can’t stop. I will continue to play chess online in fast time controls. I can’t even fully explain why, as I kind of just explained to you (and myself) why I shouldn’t. But I feel this is what I’m meant to do. Whether I love it or not, it is a huge part of my life and not something I can just give up on, even if maybe I should.
I felt I needed to prove myself. Playing other games like Monopoly or Catan doesn’t feel like this. Chess is different. For some reason, it strips you down to your bare human nature where there is absolutely no one else to blame but yourself. It is one of the only games that involves no luck, where you are in complete control. A mistake you made five moves ago can rip you apart or lock you into a terrible position you have to struggle with for the next thirty moves.
The inexplicable urge to win, to prove my intellectual superiority in a game like no other, pushes you to your psychological limits. At the end of all this, I walk away with lessons and ideas I couldn’t have learned anywhere else, only on these 64 squares.
A game that pushes you to your brink. A game that takes so much—your time, your effort, your emotions—but then just when it’s lost it all... it gives everything.
