A Cunning Plan

In fiction writing we have a term: "Prepare to kill your darlings." It is based on the premise that no one knows everything.

We plan, and we devise, and we are loaded with good intent (paving roads to Hell since the dawn of time), but the next moment can change everything.  Which suggests that occasionally you are going to write a scene, or in our case, laydown a plan, which you are going to experience 'fascination' with.  I'm using 'fascination' as the clinical term, though some pointed synonyms might be:  passion, obsession, compulsion, captivation, enchantment, allure, charm.

It doesn't just 'feel good' to have written that scene -- somehow it turned Russian, and the Scene has Written You. It is a microcosm, this scene. It is your image as a writer/player. It becomes a Darling. And then the editor gets a hold of it, and gives you seven to ten irrefutable reasons it has to be cut from the novel. 

Or in our case, our opponent punishes us for believing.

Belief. It's not Knowing, is it? No. Belief is Hope and we don't play Hope Chess. And we should not play Hope Chess. Hope is for those times in life (and there are many), when we don't have all of the information we require, so we use our skills and our experience to divine what might be coming.

In Chess, we have all of the information on the board in front of us. Each piece what they are, the pieces remain -- no cloak and dagger or hidden identities -- unless a bold pawn crosses the battle and makes it to the other side. But even that valiant warrior can't make the crossing in secret. We see him crossing the field. Square by square. Step by step while raging knights rage and tower clashes are won.

The trouble begins with Darlings, when they break this rule. Yes, Darlings blind our eyes to what is right in front of our anxious noses. Literally. Darlings confuse warp the reality of the level playing field.  They blind us from possibilities, and hide potential.