I hate chess. I have since I was a kid and first saw parents and grandparents sitting in silence, frowning over a board that I wanted to use to play checkers. It seemed like a terribly boring game and you couldn’t even double jump. Once I was slightly older and could be convinced to sit still for more than two minutes at a time, an older friend sat be down and taught me what each piece could do. Pawns move forward one square, except when they don’t; rooks move in straight lints, bishops in diagonals; knights move in an L-shape (so you can jump!). All of this made sense and armed with that knowledge, I challenged her to a game.
I promptly lost, having, I presume, based on my current tactics, abandonded all defense of my king and rushed across the board on the offensive. To say I was a sore loser would have been kind. But more than upset, I was confused. I knew all the rules, I understood how to move the pieces, but even that wasn’t enough.
Fast-forward a couple years and I have just bought my first gaming console with my own money, hoarded from birthdays and newspaper routes and quarters found on the street. A matte, bulky box in shades of greige and grey: a PlayStation. I played Frogger and Tetris, and then
