Awowo-11: Eternal Apprentice of Failure, Inventor of Pre-Move Regret, and the Only Player to Discover Losing Positions in the Opening Book Index Before the Game Has Even Begun.

I am not merely bad at chess. I am a carefully engineered, consistently unreliable system for transforming promising positions into historical disasters. While others study openings, calculate variations, and refine technique, I have devoted my time to exploring the infinite and deeply misunderstood space of “what happens if I just play something random and hope it works.” It does not work.

My chess career began with optimism and ended approximately three moves later. Since then, I have continued playing out of curiosity, habit, and a scientific desire to determine whether it is possible to blunder in entirely new dimensions. The answer, repeatedly, is yes.

My opening repertoire is vast, primarily because I do not remember any of it. I have played openings that resemble the Sicilian Defense, the Ruy Lopez, and occasionally something that looks like the French Defense—but only briefly, before improvisation takes over and everything collapses into what experts would classify as “unidentified structural confusion.” I believe strongly in avoiding theory, mostly because theory avoids me.

My signature opening line is 1. something, followed by 2. immediate regret. By move three, my position has usually achieved a rare and delicate balance of being both strategically lost and tactically losing at the same time. This is not easy to accomplish, but I have practiced extensively.

The middlegame is where my true talents emerge. Here, I combine imagination with complete tactical blindness to produce moves that are both surprising and incorrect. I have sacrificed pieces for initiative, compensation, long-term pressure, short-term pressure, no pressure, and once by accident while adjusting my mouse. My sacrifices are rarely sound, often confusing, and always memorable.

I possess an extraordinary ability to hang pieces in ways that appear, at first glance, impossible. Queens vanish. Rooks disappear. Knights wander into enemy territory and never return. Bishops become decorative. Pawns, despite their modest value, are treated with equal disregard. No piece is safe. Not even the king.

My king, in particular, has an adventurous spirit. While most players aim to keep their king safe, I prefer to activate it early, often walking it directly into danger with confidence and purpose. This creates dynamic positions, which is a polite way of saying “I get checkmated quickly.”

Calculation is a strength of mine in the sense that I calculate many things incorrectly. I can visualize long sequences of moves that end in positions I did not intend to reach. I frequently see tactics that do not exist and miss tactics that do. This dual capability allows me to maintain a consistent level of inaccuracy across all phases of the game.

Time management is handled with a unique philosophy: either move instantly or think far too long and still blunder. There is no middle ground. In blitz, I panic efficiently. In rapid, I overthink inefficiently. In bullet, I achieve new forms of chaos that defy explanation.

Endgames are not a weakness so much as a complete mystery. On the rare occasions I reach them, I treat them as experimental territory. I have lost winning endgames, drawn losing endgames, and invented entirely new categories of outcomes that do not fit within traditional evaluation systems. My king and pawns often engage in independent activities, rarely coordinating toward a shared goal.

I have studied under the great engine Stockfish, which has evaluated my games with a mixture of confusion and concern. In several instances, it has suggested moves that I did not understand, followed by moves that I actively refused to play. This has resulted in positions that even Stockfish appears reluctant to analyze further.

Psychologically, I present a unique challenge. My moves lack conventional logic, making preparation difficult. Opponents often assume there must be a hidden idea behind my play. There is not. This creates uncertainty, hesitation, and occasionally amusement.

My greatest strengths include:

Turning a winning position into a losing one with minimal effort.
Hanging pieces in creative and unexpected ways.
Confusing both my opponent and myself simultaneously.
Maintaining confidence regardless of objective evaluation.
Continuing to play after blundering, as if nothing happened.

My greatest weaknesses include:

Chess.

Despite these limitations, I remain committed to improvement, or at least to continued participation. Each game is an opportunity to learn something new, such as “that move was a mistake” or “I should not have done that.” Progress is incremental, often invisible, and occasionally reversed.

I do not follow principles. Control of the center is optional. Development is negotiable. King safety is theoretical. Coordination is aspirational. I approach each game with a flexible mindset and a willingness to explore positions that others would avoid.

I have achieved many notable milestones:

Blundering a queen in one move without compensation.
Missing a forced checkmate.
Allowing a forced checkmate.
Creating positions that defy explanation.
Losing games in ways that are difficult to reproduce.

If you encounter Awowo-11 in a game, prepare accordingly. Do not expect strong moves. Do not expect logical plans. Expect the unexpected, the unnecessary, and the occasionally hilarious. Victory is likely, but understanding what happened is not guaranteed.

Beyond the visible chaos of my games lies a deeper layer of misunderstanding that I have cultivated over time. Many players operate under the assumption that chess is a game of logic, structure, and calculation. I operate under the alternative hypothesis that chess is a game of decisions, and decisions can be made without logic, structure, or calculation. This philosophy has allowed me to reach positions that are not only objectively losing but conceptually confusing.

I have explored structures that resemble known systems, only to gradually mutate them into something entirely unrecognizable. A position may begin with symmetry, balance, and harmony, but under my guidance, it evolves into asymmetry, imbalance, and a kind of abstract disorder that resists evaluation. Pieces drift. Pawns advance without purpose. Files open for no reason. Diagonals are ignored. It is not so much a position as it is an event.

My relationship with material is particularly unconventional. While most players assign value to pieces—queens being valuable, rooks somewhat less so, and pawns modest—I treat all material as temporary. Ownership is fluid. A queen is merely a rook that has not yet been blundered. A rook is a pawn that has been overpromoted in reverse. Even pawns, which are often cherished for their potential, are viewed as expendable entities whose primary purpose is to disappear at inconvenient moments.

There have been games in which I achieved a significant material advantage—two extra pieces, a dominant position, complete control—and still managed to lose in a manner that was both swift and confusing. These games are among my proudest achievements, as they demonstrate not only my ability to gain an advantage, but my superior ability to dispose of it.

Coordination between my pieces is minimal at best. Each piece operates independently, guided by its own unclear objectives. Knights explore the edges of the board, bishops stare into blocked diagonals, rooks remain disconnected for as long as possible, and the queen often ventures out alone, only to be captured shortly thereafter. The king, as previously noted, occasionally joins the expedition.

I have a particular talent for creating weaknesses in my own position. Weak squares, weak pawns, weak king safety—these are not accidents, but recurring themes. My pawn structures are often described as “creative,” which is a diplomatic way of saying they are structurally unsound. Doubled pawns, isolated pawns, backward pawns—I aim to collect them all, as if they were part of a set.

In terms of planning, I favor short-term ideas that do not connect to long-term goals. I may initiate an attack on the kingside, abandon it halfway, shift focus to the queenside, forget why I moved there, and then return to the center only to realize it is no longer under my control. This dynamic approach ensures that my opponent is never bored, and I am never certain.

My understanding of tactics is similarly fluid. I recognize patterns such as forks and pins, but often only after they have been used against me. Occasionally, I attempt to apply these concepts myself, with mixed results. A fork may threaten nothing. A pin may be irrelevant. A discovered attack may reveal that I have left something undefended. These outcomes are part of the learning process.

I have also developed a unique relationship with checks. While many players use checks to apply pressure, gain tempo, or force specific responses, I use checks as a way to feel productive. Not all checks are good, but all checks are moves, and that is sufficient. Some checks lead to immediate loss, others to delayed loss, but all contribute to the narrative.

My defensive skills are noteworthy in their absence. When under attack, I often respond with moves that do not address the threat. This creates a sense of inevitability, as the attack continues uninterrupted. In some cases, I attempt counterplay that is unrelated to the position, resulting in simultaneous threats—only one of which matters.

There have been moments where I have successfully defended a difficult position, only to immediately undo all progress with a single move. This pattern highlights my commitment to consistency. It is not enough to survive; one must also ensure that survival is temporary.

In longer games, fatigue becomes a factor, though not in the traditional sense. While other players may become tired and make mistakes, I maintain a steady level of inaccuracy throughout. My performance does not degrade over time because it begins at a stable baseline. This consistency is one of my defining characteristics.

I have attempted to study endgames, reviewing basic principles such as opposition, triangulation, and king activity. While I understand these concepts in theory, their application remains elusive. In practice, my king often moves in ways that appear purposeful but are ultimately ineffective. Pawns advance prematurely or too late. Promotion is either missed or achieved under conditions that lead to immediate loss.

There was a game in which I reached a king and pawn endgame with a clear path to promotion. After several moves, I successfully promoted a pawn to a queen, only to place it on a square where it could be captured immediately. This sequence demonstrates both technical success and practical failure, a combination I have come to appreciate.

I have also experimented with underpromotion, not out of necessity, but out of curiosity. Promoting to a knight, bishop, or rook introduces additional complexity into already unclear positions. While this rarely improves my chances of winning, it enhances the aesthetic value of the game.

My interaction with time controls extends beyond simple management. In bullet games, I rely on instinct, which is unreliable. In blitz, I rely on partial calculation, which is insufficient. In rapid, I attempt full calculation, which leads to overthinking and eventual blunders. Each format offers unique challenges, all of which I meet with similar results.

I have lost on time in winning positions, lost on the board in drawn positions, and occasionally achieved both simultaneously. Time pressure reveals the true nature of my play, which is consistent with my play under no pressure.

Analysis of my games often leads to more questions than answers. Reviewers may pause at certain positions, attempting to understand the intention behind a move. These pauses can be lengthy. Eventually, they conclude that the move lacks a clear purpose, and the game continues.

Engines provide evaluations, but these evaluations fluctuate dramatically when applied to my games. A position may be evaluated as winning, then equal, then losing, within a few moves. This volatility reflects the dynamic nature of my play, as well as the difficulty of maintaining any advantage.

I have learned to accept these fluctuations as part of the experience. Stability is not a goal; movement is. Each move changes the position, often for the worse, but always in a new direction.

In terms of style, I would describe my play as unpredictable, inconsistent, and occasionally entertaining. Spectators may find my games amusing, instructive, or cautionary. They serve as examples of what can happen when principles are ignored and intuition is unreliable.

Despite everything, I continue to play. There is a certain appeal in the unpredictability, the possibility that something unexpected may occur. Not necessarily something good, but something different.

I have considered adopting a more disciplined approach—studying openings, practicing tactics, analyzing endgames—but such efforts require consistency, and consistency is not my strength. Instead, I rely on experience, which accumulates without necessarily leading to improvement.

My rating reflects this journey. It fluctuates within a range that suggests familiarity with the game but not mastery. Each win is followed by a loss, each improvement by regression. The overall trajectory is stable, if not upward.

I have encountered players of various levels, from beginners to experienced competitors. Against beginners, I introduce complexity that benefits neither of us. Against stronger players, I provide opportunities that they readily accept. In both cases, the outcome is uncertain until it is not.

There are moments, rare but notable, where I play a series of reasonable moves. During these moments, the position stabilizes, and I begin to feel a sense of control. This is often followed by a single move that reverses everything. These moments are instructive, as they highlight the gap between potential and execution.

I have also developed a tolerance for losing. Losses are frequent, varied, and sometimes immediate. They come in many forms—checkmate, resignation, time, or position—but they are all part of the same pattern. Each loss contributes to a growing collection of experiences, if not lessons.

Winning, when it occurs, is often unexpected. It may result from an opponent’s mistake, a time advantage, or a position that resolves in my favor despite earlier inaccuracies. These wins are appreciated but not fully understood.

I do not claim to be improving rapidly, but I am accumulating knowledge in an unconventional way. I know what not to do, though I sometimes do it anyway. I recognize patterns, though I may misapply them. I understand principles, though I may ignore them.

This contradiction defines my play. It is a balance between awareness and execution, intention and outcome. The gap between what I know and what I do is significant, and it is within this gap that most of my games are decided.

If there is a lesson to be drawn from my approach, it is not about how to play well, but how to continue playing despite consistent errors. There is persistence, if not precision. There is engagement, if not accuracy.

I approach each game as an opportunity—not necessarily to win, but to participate in a process that is complex, challenging, and occasionally rewarding. The outcome is secondary to the experience, though the outcome is usually clear.

Awowo-11 is not a title of mastery, but of identity. It represents a style of play that is distinct, if not effective. It is a recognition of limitations, combined with a willingness to continue.

In a game defined by precision, I offer approximation. In a system built on logic, I introduce uncertainty. In a structure that rewards discipline, I provide variation.

This is not excellence. This is persistence in the absence of it.

This is not traditional chess. This is a continuous experiment in how far the boundaries of inaccuracy can be extended while still technically playing the game.

Remember my name. Awowo-11.