Edgar’s
Algorithm
Ever since Edgar’s
Algorithm the chess tournament has been something of a totalitarian affair. Players
are asked to supply records of all their browser history, previous whereabouts,
sworn statements from friends and loved ones: the list of intrusive measures in
quite an extensive one. Fortunately, the International Confederation of
Traditional Chess Players (ICTCP) has begun to simplify the initial system of
checks in major tournaments, making use of latest technological innovations in
neural mapping. The new procedure is really quite simple: participants are
shown a range of chess positions on a screen, which, to the traditional player,
would mark the start of a long and drawn out thought process, but to those
savants who have fully committed the algorithm to memory would immediately
suggest a series of follow up moves. The differences in response to these
stimuli are quite involuntary, and can easily weed out a player whose mind, in
the view of the anti-algorithm traditionalist, was polluted by a crude
mechanical procedure. To some this may seem quite excessive, but the algorithm’s
absolute success in providing an slow, but inevitable victory for a given
player first to initiate the process (assuming their opponent has not already
achieved a significant material advantage by the early mid-game) it is quite
unsurprising that those, dedicated to the game’s survival, would need to find
means to eradicate it absolutely from practice. And, given their level of
dedication, it is quite unsurprising that they would not balk at extreme
measures.
At first, it was
suggested that this result might be achieved by means of setting new parameters
for legal moves. But, alas, any variant devised (the most plausible being Kautsky’s)
proved far too complex for the game in any meaningful sense to be preserved.
Kautsky-Chess does have a few players here and there, most of whom convene at
the headquarters of the international society of Esparantists. Kautsky’s reforms
abandoned largely abandoned, the rump of the former world of chess players who
were not fluent in Edgar’s algorithm resorted to cruder measures. This group turned
out to be quite large in number: in those early years after Edgar’s discovery,
it became fashionable to ridicule the very idea of solving chess, and a
question of pride not to seriously
engage with his work. Lists were drawn up, those known or believed to be
adherents of the great Edgar publicly humiliated and banned from tournaments,
and for those spared of this fate, both when entering and once within the walls
of the tournament an existence of continuous observation was to be expected.
The events of last
week’s gathering of the ICTCP in New York , however, surprised even those well
versed on the absurdities of contemporary chess. The tournament itself was
quite uninteresting. A tense moment here, a dull one there, but the result was
quite predictable: Peron reaffirmed her title as world champion without much
difficulty. What was most interesting was the dinner that followed. The Council
of the ICTCP was about to presented awards, as ever, before guests were invited
to begin their starter. The hall will filled with that dim murmuring of
impatient chess players that inevitably accompanied this stage of the evening.
The dull grey and brown of the jumpered crowd sat awkwardly with the grand chandeliers
of the art-deco hall.
I sat at a small
table of journalists who had recently been permitted to attend these
gatherings. Eying up the white plate of grilled asparagus, delicately arranged
on salmorejo just viscous enough to prevent its garnishes
sinking into it, I began to wonder when we would begin to get the tedious
ceremony over with . I was already dreading the clichés that would fill my piece
for the New Yorker, rolling off all the well known anecdotes about full body
searches, inquisitions, threats of ritual humiliation etc which accompanied
these events. But those articles sold well, and with the collapse of the Kim
Dynasty in North Korea, something had to take its place in the beloved genre of
Oppression Safari.
At this point my
neighbour turned to me. “Hey, you work for the New Yorker, right?”
“Yeh, that’s me.”
“I loved your last
piece on the one in LA. That was what got me going to this thing in the first
place.”
“Thanks. Well, you
know, it was just the usual stuff.”
“Sure, but the
writing was great. I’d always kinda wanted to check this place out. I was
pretty good at chess in college. Still play now and then.”
“Still? But
presumably you don’t… well, I guess you’re here so…” He knew what I was trying
to say. Of course he hadn’t.
“Oh God, no. That
thing is a goddamn nightmare…” He started to whisper. “I took a look at the
original tract, Dr E’s you know what. ‘Chapter 1: use of recursive methods to
reduce 1096 games to 28 ideal types. Chapter 2: The ideal
types and brute force solutions. Chapter 3: Oh God. I barely understood a word
of the thing in the original.”
“So how come you
still play?”
“Well,” he said
“put it this way. Uhm. I mean, the kids at my daughter’s elementary school.
They still play checkers. The slower ones still play tic-tac-toe. Naughts and
crosses? Is that what you guys call it?”
Fair point. He
started to bob on his chair slightly, pushing himself back and forth with his
hands. He was quite a charismatic figure. Or at least, in this dreary crowd, he
was. His mannerism and confidence in speech seemed quite suited to the setting.
“See” he continued
“these guys actually have it all wrong. The so called ‘algorithm’ is much more interesting
than they make out. The idea of it, if not the way it’s written up. It’s
actually not purely algorithmic, or at least not in the sense they mean.
Knowing how to reduce any position to an ideal type, there’s an intuitive
element to that. It’s based on positional analysis. Fianchettoed bishops, weak
pawns, you know. None of that can be derived from a tree diagram, or at least
not as far as anyone has worked out. The ontologies don’t mesh. But, once
you’ve carried out the reduction, which I’m told top players could do more or
less instantly, with practice, the rest is pretty mechanical. That is, until
the endgame, at which point you just apply the old techniques. But by that
stage your absolute material advantage is so great there’s not much left to
play for.”
“I see.” His
description roughly chimed with my own impressions of the subject, but I was a
little taken aback by his certainty, given his own admissions. Perhaps later
he’d tell me about the implications of quantum mechanics for epistemology.
“So,” he continued
“it’s actually really interesting. And originally, originally, this was thought to represent a return to traditional
play. Because the computers couldn’t do it. They couldn’t carry out the initial
reduction. At least, not until they finally ditched the tree diagrams and applied
statistical methods. Machine learning and all that. But by that point everyone
but these guys here had lost interest in the game. “
All around us,
people were starting to turn their attention to the stage. Members of the
council, garbed in checkered robes, were making gentle swings of their arms.
Each swing the arc made an arm got longer and longer, like a pendulum in
reverse. At first disjointed, now in unison, the council swinging to a steady rhythm.
I had seen this before, but had no knowledge of the symbolism.
At last, the head
of the ICTCP got up to speak.
“You are all
aware,” he began “of the extraordinary progress we have made in a short space
of time. The journey towards a post-algorithmic community has not always been
an easy one. At times, brute force has been necessary [a light laughter from
the audience]. But it is with great pleasure that I able to introduce this
year’s winner, the reigning World Champion, Augustine Peron. Peron’s play has
always been exceptional, and deeply idiosyncratic. She is a shining beacon of extraordinary
play, sportsmanship, and is a charismatic representative of our community. She
has proven herself time and time again, and is the unbeatable champion… well,
not unbeatable but..”
The hall started
to murmur. Had he meant unbeaten? Almost certainly, but that it not what he had
said. Why did he not simply move on with his speech? Surely his stature would
prevent him from scrutiny.
“I mean, of course
she isn’t unbeatable. No-one is. Uhhm.” He started to look around nervously.
Members of the council, sitting at the high table, looked at one another for
cues. They could sense the sudden terror in his eyes. It was at this stage,
that a member of the council stood up from their seats.
“She’s a traitor.
That’s what he’s trying to say. She appears unbeatable because she has polluted
her mind.”
“Disgrace!”
“That bitch!”
Within a few
moments, the entire hall was alive. Their time had finally come. Every last
humiliated player was going to have their turn, realising, one by one, that
perhaps they had not lost their games after all.
It was at this
moment that Peron leapt from the stage, and ran towards our table. In those
precious few moments, as participants looked to one another, asking themselves
what special protections were to be granted to outsiders, we moved swiftly as a
group out of the hall and worked our way through the dozen or so checkpoints
that guarded the building. What went on in the hall after that no one knows. We
have not received another invitation to ICTCP meetings. Neither did Peron,
though I doubt she much wanted one.