Discussing video games with Russia's #1 chess player

Part of a new series: Edward's Russia Storytime!

Ian Nepomniachtchi and his famous man-bun, deep in thought.

Four years ago, on a sunny May afternoon in central Moscow, I found myself talking about video games with Russia’s top-rated chess player while buzzed on samogon.

But it was the series of events leading up to this unusual encounter that made it so memorable.

And so our story begins several months before I met grandmaster Ian Nepomniachtchi, when I was walking past a community center not far from Moscow’s Semyonovskaya metro station.

Taped to a bulletin board outside the building was an advertisement for chess lessons. Interested pupils were encouraged to call a certain Evgeniy Viktorovich, International Master.

I had taken a casual interest in “the royal game” during my very unstudious university studies in Regensburg, Germany. Seeking out the companionship of fellow amateur players, I joined a local chess club, the Schachfreunde of Regerstraße, a loose association of middle-aged, beer-bellied Bavarians.

As I soon learned, the Schachfreunde was actually a poorly disguised drinking club, and so my German improved slightly, while my chess suffered immeasurably.

Now that I was in Russia—the Mecca of Chess—it was time to finally level up my checkmating skills.

My phone call to Evgeniy Viktorovich went something like this (translated from Russian):

“Hello?”

“Evgeniy Viktorovich? My name is Edward. Sorry for my Russian. I saw your—uh, advertisement. I want to learn chess.”

“I see.”

“Yes. It would be very nice.”

“Well, you are welcome to join my class…”

“Oh, excellent! I am glad!”

“…but it is for children ages 7 to 11.”

“I see. Well, that’s not a problem…”

“Can I ask how old you are?”

“Uh, 31. Wait, no. 32.”

There was a long pause. Finally:

“I see. Well, if you want, come. We meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 18:00.”

Back then I was not a deadbeat blogger, but actually gainfully employed, and my workday ended at exactly 18:00. And so, after a grammatically unsound explanation of my scheduling conflict, I came to an agreement with my new chess instructor: I would arrive at 18:30, and play a few matches with his young students.

That Thursday I arrived at the designated classroom at 18:29.

When I opened the door, five seated youngsters were quietly taking notes as their teacher, standing next to a large magnetic chessboard mounted on the wall, demonstrated a subtlety in the Caro-Kann Defense.

My classmates—the oldest of whom was maybe 10—looked up at me inquisitively.

“I would like to introduce our newest student, Edward,” Evgeniy Viktorovich said, as he gestured towards me.

He then turned to the oldest of the group.

“Sergei Mikhailovich, you and Edward take the board in the corner. Give him the white pieces.”

After exchanging uneasy glances, we sat down and shook hands. I moved a center pawn two squares, and the match began.

We both made the standard developmental moves, and castled. Then, after some uninspired maneuvering, I completely ran out of ideas.

I didn’t know what to do.

My young opponent knew exactly what to do: Just wait for me to make an ass of myself. And that’s exactly what I did.

Unable to formulate a clear plan, I began throwing my queenside pawns up the board. He effortlessly blocked my feckless attack, countered in the center, and began squeezing me like a lemon.

By move 35, I was down a bishop, and my pawn structure was a hot, disgusting mess. To add insult to injury, Sergei was advancing his a-pawn down the board—and I saw no easy way to stop it without losing more material.

I resigned to a 10-year-old.

Our teacher walked over to the board. A subtle smile crept across his face as he examined the carnage.

That night, while brooding in bed, I vowed to destroy Sergei Mikhailovich.

Evgeniy Viktorovich had drilled his young pupils in the fundamentals of chess. They were methodical and positional; they understood tactics and prophylaxis.

Simply put, they were better than me in every way.

There was no possibility of besting them using sound technique. So I would have to play dirty. I had five days to prepare before we crossed swords again.

I spent every free moment I had researching the most dubious, ludicrous chess gambits in existence: gambits so unsound and horrible that, unless my preteen nemeses fell into my foul traps by move 6, the game would be all but lost for me.

I set about learning all the multifarious variations of these clownish openings.

My high school history teacher once told me about a special memorization technique, in which you visualize a house, with distinctive rooms and cabinets and boxes, where you can virtually store the information you want to remember.

And so I created a replica of my Moscow apartment in my mind, and began filling this virtual dwelling with trashy chess strategies that I would use to crush children with.

I deposited the Barnes Opening in the glass base of my hookah. The Grob’s Attack went in my sock drawer. Various other semi-suicidal openings were kept in my refrigerator, under my bathroom mat, and on my balcony.

For the black pieces I made a careful study of the Latvian Gambit and the Borg Defense, which I put in the washing machine.

I bought a copy of the most powerful computer engine at that time—the latest version of Stockfish—and meticulously wrote down all the most dangerous and decisive lines for each gambit.

By Tuesday morning, every square inch of my imaginary apartment was stuffed to the ceiling with the cheesiest, most insulting openings known to man.

Young Sergei was looking very smug when we sat down for a rematch that evening, but I soon wiped the smirk off that little Russian mug of his.

He was completely off-book by move 3. I led little Sergei into a deep, dark forest of vexatious chess theory, provoking him into making blunder after blunder.

It wasn’t even close. By move 15, I was just toying with him.

Evgeniy Viktorovich drifted over to our board. He raised an eyebrow, gave me a nod, and walked away.

When I returned to the community center on Thursday, Evgeniy Viktorovich had a short lesson prepared before we started our matches.

“Edward showed us some very… creative chess last class,” our instructor said as he replayed my preposterous opening on the wall-mounted board. “But in chess, you must be prepared for anything.”

Oh, I was prepared all right.

My next opponent was an 8-year-old. I smoked him.

After each game, Evgeniy Viktorovich would demonstrate to the rest of the class how to calmly counter my dogshit gambits.

Soon the kids were onto me.

But there was no going back. Every night, I would calculate lines on Stockfish at depths that my computer could barely handle. My overheating laptop would make sad wailing sounds as it attempted to spit out increasingly obscure variations.

Don’t die on me now, Lenovo—I have to keep cheesing these kids.

After three weeks, I was Semyonovskaya’s undisputed chess champion in the highly competitive 7-11 plus one 32-year-old age-bracket. I was unstoppable.

After class one day Evgeniy Viktorovich asked me to join him outside.

“You know, Edward,” he said as he took a pull from his cigarette, “maybe you need something a bit more… stimulating?”

“Oh no, I’m having a great time. And I’m learning a lot, too.”

“Well, be that as it may, I have something here for you.”

Evgeniy Viktorovich reached into his pocket and presented me with a crumpled piece of paper.

“This is the phone number of a friend of mine, a grandmaster here in Moscow. I think you should call him for private lessons. I told him about you—he’s waiting for your call.”

And then I understood. I had overstayed my welcome.

Evgeniy Viktorovich saw I was hurt.

“It will be more interesting for you,” he said as he patted me on the back.

I nodded somberly. We shook hands and parted ways.

That evening I called up the grandmaster, Andrei (not his real name).

“Da?”

“Hi Andrei, this is Edward…”

Andrei then switched into English adorned in a thick, almost theatrical Russian accent.

“Edward, hi! Yes, Zhenya told me about you. Come to my apartment on Saturday and we will play some chess and talk.”

And so that’s what I did.

I had the white pieces. Not that it mattered, because by move 7 my position was hopeless. By move 14, I was curled up in a fetal position, begging for the sweet release of death.

It was like a Baked Potato vs. Boris Spassky. 0-1.

After the “match” we went into his kitchen, where we drank vodka and ate tasty snacks.

Andrei was in a very upbeat mood. He didn’t even bring up our game. Instead, he told me stories—between shots of vodka—of his tour of the United States as a young chess prodigy.

Eventually I breeched the subject of receiving lessons.

“Sure, of course. With pleasure. We just need to choose an opening for you. One for white, one for black. Don’t worry, all that comes later—here, have another pickle.”

And then he went back to telling me stories.

I have since forgotten everything GM Andrei taught me about chess, but his stories alone were well worth the rubles.

Andrei was friends with many of the top chess players in Russia, and he had salacious stories about nearly every well-known Russian grandmaster, some of whom are still playing professionally today.

These stories—tales of shocking debauchery, cruel practical jokes, and all varieties of scandal and political intrigue—were relayed to me in the strictest confidence, so I’m afraid I can’t get into specifics.

All I’ll say is that Karpov is a sly old fox.

Andrei tried his best with me, but the truth is that I had no real grasp of the game. Our lessons became shorter, and our drinking sessions in his kitchen became longer.

Sometimes he would call me up at random hours of the day and complain to me about his other students, all of whom were at least half my age—and infinitely more talented.

“He was playing the French Defense in the Olympiad semifinals, and played 4… a6?! Can you believe it?”

No, I could not believe it, because frankly I had no idea what he was talking about.

I once asked Andrei if any of his students had ever competed against a 10-year-old named Sergei. He replied in the negative.

After one of our lessons, Andrei informed me that the FIDE Grand Prix, one of the tournaments that would determine the short-list for World Championship contenders, would be coming to Moscow at the end of May. He thought I might enjoy going and seeing all the biggest names in chess duke it out.

Andrei was pals with several of the grandmasters in the tournament, and he promised he could get us “backstage”, where we could chat with the players after they finished their matches. Well, how could I say no?

The Grand Prix was held at Moscow’s Chess Museum, nestled on picturesque Gogolevsky Boulevard—near Arbatskaya metro station, if you are familiar with the area.

Shortly after arriving, I received a message from Andrei informing me that he would not be able to make it. One of his students competing in the Under-18 Kazan Invitational had played pawn-to-b3 in the English. The parents were now pounding on his apartment door, demanding answers.

This was very disappointing news.

Stripped of my VIP status, I was forced to sit quietly with the chess proles in the spectator gallery. There was also a side room where several Russian grandmasters were providing live commentary on the games, but I struggled to understand a single word of their rapid-fire analysis. I gave up after about 20 minutes.

I decided to get a bite to eat across the street at Chemodan, an upscale eatery that specialized in Siberian cuisine. The restaurant had a very cozy but slightly mysterious 19th century interior, which transplanted diners into a Chekhov story that no one has ever read.

After glancing at the menu, I noticed a very enticing selection of homemade vodka—samogon, in Russian. Well, how could I say no?

One thing led to another, and in less than 40 minutes I really had teleported to Tsarist Russia. I began fumbling around for my phone—maybe Andrei had messaged with an update—when I discovered my RT office pass.

Very briefly, allow me to give you the best advice you will ever receive: If you ever want to do something that you’re normally not allowed to do, just pretend you’re Credentialed.

Society’s reverence for Credentials is global and ubiquitous. It doesn’t matter how flimsy your claim to Credentialed Status is—nine times out of ten, the mere pretense of being Credentialed is enough to get a foot in the door.

Probably you see where this is going.

I returned to the Chess Museum, and confidently marched up to a very neatly dressed woman sitting behind a table bedecked with a FIDE banner, unclaimed nametags, and various sign-in sheets.

“Good afternoon, my name is Edward Slavsquat. I’m covering the tournament for RT,” I said as I flashed my office ID—which was a laminated card, with the RT logo, my name, a hideous grainy photograph of yours truly, and my job title (“Editor”).

“Oh, hello. Great, let me just find you on the list,” the woman said as she scanned a clipboard containing the names of accredited journalists.

“That’s odd, I don’t see you here,” she said, frowning. “Slavsquat with an ‘S’, right?”

“Yes, that’s right. Well, how typical—my assistant probably sent my accreditation request to the wrong email address. The third time in two months. This is the last straw—I’m going back to the office and giving her a pink slip,” I said as I pretended to furiously press buttons on my phone.

“Oh no that won’t be necessary. Just sign-in here and I’ll take you to the press center,” she replied, handing me a pen and her clipboard.

The woman escorted me upstairs to a room guarded by some kind of FIDE chess bouncer. Inside were half a dozen journalists mulling around a coffee machine as they watched the games on a giant screen. Several other wordsmiths, seated at a long table, were diligently pecking at their keyboards.

The FIDE lady invited me into a vacant chair, and brought me a complimentary bottle of water—which I desperately needed, because in my mind I was still wandering the Taiga with Leo Tolstoy.

As it turned out, the press center was just as boring as every other room in the Chess Museum.

The Taiga was slowly melting, and I was drifting in and out of consciousness when the woman from the sign-in desk reappeared and tapped me on the shoulder.

“I think you will want to talk to the players after their matches, yes? Ian Nepomniachtchi just finished his game—if you’d like to speak with him, follow me.”

Suddenly I got a second wind. I leaped out of my chair and followed her into a different room—also guarded by FIDE muscle—where several reporters were already waiting.

A few moments later, GM Ian Nepomniachtchi appeared.

Nepomniachtchi had been a rising star in the Russian chess world (in the entire chess world, actually) for many years, but by 2019 it was clear he was destined for greatness.

As of June 5, 2023, he is technically the #2 chess player in the world, after he lost the World Championship to China’s Ding Liren. In terms of FIDE rating, he is ranked fourth in the world. Among active players, he is currently the highest-rated Russian super grandmaster.

It was a great honor to be in the presence of this living legend. There was only one problem… I had no idea what to ask him.

He had won his game against Polish GM Radoslaw Wojtaszek, but I hadn’t followed it—because of the melting Taiga. Even if I had paid careful attention to the match, it’s not like I had penetrating insights into Ian’s performance.

In general, chess journalism is extremely lame. Imagine engaging in four hours of grueling mental warfare, and then some idiot asks you: “So, why do you think you lost?”

That’s basically chess journalism in a nutshell.

But then I remembered that Nepomniachtchi was a fan of multi-player RTS games—specifically, DOTA 2.

After being peppered with several dumb questions (“Do you think playing h3 on move 18 would have slightly improved your position?”), it was my turn to query Russia’s top-ranked chess player.

I asked him his opinion on the development of AI programs that could play DOTA 2 at a competitive level; how he felt about efforts to make chess more accessible and fun to younger audiences; and if he enjoyed livestreaming his online chess blitz sessions.

“Sooner or later AI will beat humans in every aspect of the game,” Nepomniachtchi told me when I asked him about the creation of powerful DOTA 2 bots.

He acknowledged chess had a lot of untapped potential as a popular e-sport, but said more needed to be done to rope in younger players. Livestreaming was fun on occasion, but the grandmaster conceded he would never be a Twitch star like fellow super GM Hikaru Nakamura.

I thanked him for his time and headed for the door.

“Very interesting questions, thanks,” the FIDE lady said. “Here’s my business card. Please send your article to my email address once it’s published.”

Obviously I wasn’t planning on writing anything. In fact, it was my day off. Also, I was minutes away from vomiting.

But plans change, and after thinking about it, I concluded the right thing to do would be to type something up and send it to my editors at RT.

It was not an inspired text, and it was written in a very corn-fed style (which was what RT always demanded), but it was something.

Anyways, my dispatch was published the next day by RT’s sports section.

For whatever reason, I was not given a byline. So now I am setting the record straight.

I was the guy from RT, ripped on samogon, who interviewed Nepomniachtchi on May 25, 2019, after being tipped off by GM Andrei, who was referred to me by IM Evgeniy Viktorovich, who kicked me out of his chess class because I had become obsessed with playing ungentlemanly gambits against a 10-year-old named Sergei Mikhailovich.

And that’s how I ended up discussing video games with Russia’s #1 chess player.

The End.