Chess is a gentleman’s game; naturally, I have no skill whatsoever.
Rather, it should be said that my skill comes from being completely skill-less at the game of chess. I’m not entirely certain I even know how to play; sure, I know how the pieces move and that’s about it. Because I don’t know how to strategise or read my opponent’s inner thoughts and call their bluff or stare into the darkest corners of their souls and use that to my advantage. I just move around pieces and hope that nobody realises that, well, I’m just moving around pieces.
This strategy works for two reasons: 1) I’m good at making stuff up; and 2) people expect you to act logically. Which is funny if you think about it, ’cause people are irrational dirtbags. Yet when you play chess, people expect you to have a strategy of some sort–a means to an endgame, if you will. They try to figure out, what is this guy (or gal) thinking? Should I move my pawn here and risk him being captured and set myself up to take out his rook, or should I play it safe and castle? *Strokes chin hair* I must ponder this further. In the end, though, it’s impossible to know what your opponent is thinking if your opponent doesn’t know what they’re thinking. You can’t outsmart a fool.
This principal can also be applied to real life–If you pretend you know what’s going on, people will assume you do and will ignore the fact that you have a collection of ceramic clowns. They might also ignore your distinct overbite, but this is less likely. Clown trumps overbite every time.
Long story short: Pretending that you know what you’re doing is the second best thing to actually knowing it. Especially if you’re playing chess and you’re not very good. That is my philosophy.
It’s a rather good one, I’d like to think.