Dryads of the Dark Forest

Everyone knew Tal was a trickster. They knew about his Dark Forest, where grandmasters vanished like ships in the Bermuda Triangle. And still, they followed him in. The path was narrow. The rules—if they existed—were written in disappearing ink. To defeat him was the highest prize; to survive was a rite of passage; to lose? that was its own pleasure.

Let us be clear: no human can out-calculate a machine. That battle is over. But chess was never just a battle of truth—it is a battle of minds. Tal’s Dark Forest is the terrain beyond theory. It begins where calculation ends—not because the lines are exhausted, but because they multiply faster than thought. It is not chaos, but a kind of ritualized uncertainty, where each move is both a question and a dare. Chess is a battle of human minds; it is not a battle of truth, but a game of dare.

You must take your opponent into a deep, dark forest where 2 + 2 = 5, and the way out is only wide enough for one. – Mikhail Tal

This is a collection of three journeys into the Dark Forest, each uniquely instructive.

The position above is from Mikhail Tal vs Hans-Joachim Hecht, Varna Olympiad, 1962. Hecht’s move 18 …b5 forks Tal’s knight and queen with his pawn.

From a purely computational standpoint, white should continue with 19. Qb3. It’s the kind of move that earns nods from engines and sighs from grandmasters who’ve learned to fear the forest. It’s sound, positional, and safe. It’s obvious enough for an amateur to spot, and Tal would have seen it immediately.

But he didn’t play it safe. Tal continues with 19. exf6!! sacrificing his queen. He understood something no engine can simulate: the psychological weight of uncertainty. Tal’s move wasn’t just good. It was destabilizing. It’s an immor-Tal move. It transforms the game from a contest of accuracy into a test of nerve. It’s a move that says: “I don’t need to be right. I just need you to lose your nerve and make a mistake.”

And Hecht went astray. Not because he blundered, but because he entered the forest without a compass. Play through the game with this in mind: after Tal’s 19. exf6, his queen, and all of his minor pieces are vulnerable. The queen and knight can be taken by the pawn on b5; his queen’s bishop is attacked by the black knight on g6; his king’s bishop on d3 is unprotected and vulnerable. Don’t analyse the position on your first play-through. Instead, click on the “>” button and see the moves played out! Feel the chaos! The Dark Forest is not a place to understand. It’s a place to feel.

Raymond Chandler’s advice to writers is apt: when in doubt, pour some grief on the hero. In Tal’s forest, grief takes the form of tactical ambiguity. Which way do I go? Which line do I calculate? The dryads do not answer. They only whisper: “Come to us. Seduce us with your calculations. Do not be afraid. Come.”

Tal’s myth endures—not because it defies calculation, but because he dared to seduce the dryads that live inside!

The position above is from Vasyl Ivanchuk vs Garry Kasparov, Linares, 1991.

Kasparov’s brilliance was inseparable from his belief in his own supremacy. He didn’t just play the board; he played the myth of Garry Kasparov. His style was aggressive, dynamic, and deeply psychological. Kasparov would plunge into complications and trusted his intuition to emerge with the advantage. That’s hubris. Not in the vulgar sense of arrogance, but in the classical sense: the tragic overreach of a hero who believes the forest will yield to his will.

Kasparov’s opponent in the game–Vasyl Ivanchuk–lives in the forest—not as a hunter, not as a sage, but as a wanderer. He explores it with wide-eyed curiosity, unburdened by anxiety or ambition. The dryads do not test him; they do not tempt him; they treat him as they would an innocent child: with quiet affection. Where others hear whispers and lose their nerve, Ivanchuk hums softly and follows the breeze. He is unplayable when he’s not distracted by the wonders of the Dark Forest. But too often, he is entranced—wandering into variations so complex, so beautiful, that no pragmatic colleague would dare follow. He calculates not to win, but to understand. And that, perhaps, is why he was never World Champion.

Kasparov’s impetuous nature is laid bare in this game. He sees a pawn, sees a path, and assumes that the forest is his to conquer. Ivanchuk doesn’t fight him; he simply invites him in. And Kasparov, true to form, lowers his horns and charges… Kasparov gobbled up the pawn with 23…Rxc5, with the intention of swinging the rook over to assist its colleague with an invasion along the g-file. Perhaps he was hoping for an attack with bxh3, etc. Only the dryads know what was going on in his mind. They beckoned, and he rushed in.

The game was published in the Soviet chess magazine 64, with Ivanchuk’s annotations.

Anand mentions Kasparov’s impulsive and compulsive aggression in this video..

This position is from Aronian vs Anand, Wijk aan Zee, 2013. In the computer era, the Dark Forest is rarely entered. Engines illuminate every path, and grandmasters—unless you’re Ivanchuk or Korchnoi—prefer the safety of mapped terrain. Complexity is dangerous because it’s impractical, and often unnecessary. It’s career-threatening. And yet, sometimes, in trying to avoid the Forest, one stumbles inside.

Aronian declines Anand’s bishop sacrifice with the hesitant 16. Be2—a move that sidesteps the trees but walks straight into the underbrush. The correct continuation was 16. dxc5 Nxc5 17. Nxf8 Nxd3 18. h3!, a line that would have kept Aronian on the edge of the Forest. By avoiding complexity, Aronian triggers it and is now suddenly aware that the landscape has collapsed upon him; they are deep inside the Forest.

With two of his pieces vulnerable to capture, Anand continues a-la Tal, with 16… Nde5!!, offering a third piece. Listen to Anand describe this position.. 17. dxc5? Qd4+ Kh1 Nf2+ 19 Rxf2 Qf2 and wins. 17. fxe5? Qxd4+ Kh1 Qg1+ 19 Rxg1 Nf2# is checkmate.

Aronian’s problems began with with 14th move… Sam Copeland’s simple annotations to this game can be read here.

The position is equal in material, but Anand has seized the higher ground–he can see over the canopy while Aronian stumbles about in the darkness below. All the exits are now positionally winning for Anand–one ending leaves Aronian with a bishop pinned to his queen’s rook, helpless.

I played through this game one quiet evening and found myself cheering at the screen. A framed printout of the position hangs behind me. One day, when life slows down and the forest catches up with me, I’ve decided to stand outside Anand’s house in Chennai and wait for him to autograph it. Then I’ll chase down Aronian’s signature—though I admit the logistics are murky. He’s Armenian by birth, lives in the U.S. (I think), and I haven’t quite mapped that leg of the journey. But the plan stands. The dryads demand it.

The dryads do not guide. They do not punish. They observe and they whisper from the shadows. The forest belongs to them. To enter the Dark Forest is to abandon the map. You may bring your preparation, your engine lines, your positional understanding—but none of it will matter if you do not heed their whispers. And if you listen closely, you may hear them whisper your name.

Editor’s Notes

• A while back, Meursault wrote about Russian GM Peter Svidler, his favourite chess commentator. I had deleted all the “chess rants” in it, with the promise that I would publish them if each were fleshed out into a proper article, with proper artwork. And here it is.

• Here is an interview with Mikhail Tal.