I’ve been fascinated with expertise since childhood. And it started over the chessboard. My dad would beat me—swiftly, crushingly, and above all, effortlessly—time and time again. He understood lines and positions in a way that I just couldn’t, and, as it seemed to me, would never be able to. My first question at the end of most games was: “where did I go wrong?”
Almost more unnerving than my dad’s ability was the fact that there were people out there who could, just as easily, beat him. “In college in Russia, I played a classmate of mine, who was a master,” he told me once. “I would think all night about my move, and then the next day in class, he’d move right away. Still, he beat me easily.”
Thus my interest in expertise was born. It seemed that some just had some sort of divine gift, which beckoned them onto a higher plane of understanding. For me to attempt to reach those heights would be futile. I could only watch in awe from below.
As I grew older, my skills improved. My games with my dad grew stricter and cleaner, until, one day, I beat him. In time, whether I won or lost, I was always able to give him a fair fight. I came to appreciate chess as an incredibly rich and rewarding game.
But my view of expertise—now that I had a taste of it—had lost a bit of its sparkle. Continue reading