If a man has a talent and cannot use it, he has failed.
—THOMAS WOLFE
Like the proverbial tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear, talent undiscovered may as well not exist. That being the case, we can hardly lament its loss. We can, however, mourn the talent that goes undeveloped, talent that exists but is squandered. In contrast, we often reserve the highest praise for those who overachieved with limited natural abilities, those who outworked and outperformed rivals who possessed greater innate gifts.
That last tendency has always struck me as unfair. Why isn’t the capacity for hard work considered a natural gift? I don’t think it’s a compliment to say that someone “did more with less,” even though it’s usually intended that way. If a soccer player who is short and can’t run fast practices more than everyone else and becomes the superior player, has he overcome a talent deficit or simply exploited his talent to work harder and found a way to be successful through determination and focus?
Michael Jordan was famous for his athleticism and high-flying dunks, yet he was also the first to arrive at practice and the last to leave. In interviews, Jordan’s teammates and coaches all talk about his extreme discipline, not his leaping ability. One veteran NBA manager said of Jordan’s talent, “Without the ceaseless work ethic, Jordan is merely another talented athlete gliding through an admirable career, but nothing historic.”
I agree, but again this makes it sound as if Jordan’s discipline and capacity for work are not intrinsic parts of his talent. The ability to push yourself to the limit day after day, and to do so effectively, may not be as evident as physical skills, but it was something Michael Jordan cultivated his entire career and is a talent that we should all try to cultivate.
Throughout my chess-playing life, people complimented me—sometimes in a backhanded way—on the depth and breadth of my preparation. In this way, I was part of a proud lineage. In the 1920s, Alekhine worked harder than anyone before him, changing the culture of a gentleman’s game. For his efforts he was often branded “obsessed” by those he defeated. In the 1940s, Botvinnik’s rigorous mind and habits transformed the game into a full-time profession. In the 1970s, Fischer’s fantastic dedication forced every other player to spend more time studying or be left behind.
My work ethic developed from the disciplined environment created by my mother and my teacher Botvinnik. I had a ceaseless appetite for opening preparation, which combines research, creativity, and memorization. I studied all the latest games from the leading players and carefully noted their innovations. Then, I would analyze them and try to improve on them. To me the opening systems were an avenue for creativity, not simply a matter of imitation.
My training sessions with coaches as a youngster helped form my sense of discipline. Goals were set and certain hours on my schedule were allocated for work on the openings, for example. It was clear to me at a young age that such work paid concrete dividends and that without it I would be squandering my abilities. Botvinnik had no patience for brilliant ideas that weren’t backed up with exhaustive analysis. I learned to enjoy the study and analysis process itself and not just to see it as a necessary evil or means to an end. Over time I came to relish my preparation time because it gave me the feeling that while my competitors were sleeping, I was improving.
Not long after my explosive entry into the international chess world, I started to hear whispers that credited much of my success to deep study with a Soviet team. In the years that followed, this developed into a full-scale myth. “Kasparov has a team of Grandmasters churning out opening novelties day and night!” “He has a supercomputer!” After a while it started to grate to hear these things repeated to me in interviews, although I tried to take them as compliments. As with most urban legends, however, these stories have a grain of truth.
It has long been common for top players to work with analytical assistants—called seconds, as in the days of duels—especially during world championship matches. When I had the resources to do so, I began to work with a trainer full-time and not only right before and during big events. As for my computer, I was the first player to incorporate machine analysis into my preparation and to systematize the use of playing programs and databases. And while it was the best my techie cousin Eugeni could put together, the PC I used was never beyond the reach of anyone with a good computer store nearby.
Instead of listening to what people said about how I achieved them, I focused on the results. The concrete methods I used—a fixed number of hours per week for specific training tasks, for example—wouldn’t work for everyone, but they worked well for me. If critics and competitors can’t match your results, they will often denigrate the way you achieve them. Fast, intuitive types are called lazy. Dedicated burners of midnight oil are called obsessed. And while it’s obviously not a bad idea to hear and consider the opinions of others, you should be suspicious when these criticisms emerge right on the heels of a success.
Everyone, at any age, has talents that aren’t fully developed—even those who reach the top of their profession. The Cuban Capablanca was, for example, considered an invincible chess machine. There’s some truth to this: he once went eight years without a defeat. But Capablanca, if not perhaps as lazy as the legend (and his own claims) would have it, detested study. A bon vivant whose expenses were covered by a sinecure with the Cuban diplomatic office, he rarely prepared for his opponents and liked to brag that he had never seriously studied. He was confident he could escape from any trap he fell into, and he was usually right.
When Capablanca took the crown from Lasker in 1921, it was considered an overdue coronation for a reign that could last decades. “Capa” made chess look easy, and for him it was. But he relied too much on his native ability, and his grip on the title lasted only six years. Fittingly, his conqueror, the Russian Alexander Alekhine, was one of the most fanatically dedicated players the game has ever seen.
In an age when the gentleman chess player was still common and chess as a profession was considered questionable, Alekhine made chess his life as no one had before. There’s an old story about a patron who invites Capablanca and Alekhine to the theater and comments afterward, “Capablanca never took his eyes off the chorus; Alekhine never looked up from his pocket chess set!”
Of course Alekhine had his own fiery genius at the board, and by combining that with his intense dedication he was more than a match for the raw talent of Capablanca. He had made a careful study of all of Capablanca’s games, and though he found few specific weaknesses to exploit, he did find occasional errors that gave the lie to the myth of Capablanca’s invincibility.
Even so, Alekhine considered Capablanca the favorite going into their 1927 match in Buenos Aires. He had never before defeated the mighty Cuban and had finished a distant second behind Capablanca at the New York tournament earlier that year. And yet that easy victory was part of Capablanca’s undoing.
Capablanca lost the first game in Buenos Aires, and although he came back to briefly take the lead, he must have been surprised to find himself in such a bitter fight. The match became a test of wills, and here Alekhine, who once said, “What I do is not play, but struggle,” was in his element. The drive that led him to prepare eight hours a day “on principle” would not let him lose. Capablanca was unused to such strenuous effort and finally went down to defeat after thirty-four games. (A record that would stand until my 1984–85 match with Karpov lasted forty-eight games.)
As Alekhine later wrote of their match, “I did not believe I was superior to him. Perhaps the chief reason for his defeat was the overestimation of his own powers arising out of his overwhelming victory in New York, 1927, and his underestimation of mine.”
As a cautionary epilogue, we should also keep in mind that Alekhine himself could let down his guard. Alekhine’s overindulgence of alcohol damaged his health and his career—many credit his shocking (and brief ) loss of the title to Max Euwe in 1935 to this as much as to his Dutch challenger’s strong play and deep preparation. No longer underestimating his opponent, and on a strict regimen of milk, Alekhine reclaimed the title two years later.
Preparation Pays Off in Many Ways
We can’t all have the single-minded dedication of an Alekhine. Few lives and few endeavors permit such devotion. But in truth it’s not the amount of time that really counts—it’s the quality of your study and how you use your time. Becoming a 24/7 fanatic who counts every minute and second isn’t going to make you a success. The keys to great preparation are self-awareness and consistency. Steady effort pays off, even if not always in an immediate, tangible way.
One interesting, and humbling, thing I’ve noticed while analyzing my own games for publication is how poor some of the ideas I prepared really were. From the safety of retirement I now look back at the huge amount of analysis I did in preparation for my tournaments and world championship matches. Only a fraction of these ideas ever saw the light of day, either because my opponent didn’t fall into my trap or because in the heat of battle I found a better variation to play. Now I see that in many cases that was not a bad thing. With the benefit of powerful computer programs, it becomes clear that instead of wielding Excalibur, I was in many cases preparing to charge the enemy with a rusty pocketknife. Still, this kind of preparation served me well in a way I never quite appreciated while I was working on it with such determination. These periods of intense preparation were rewarded with good results— even when I didn’t end up utilizing the fruits of my labor. There was an almost mystical correlation between work and achievement, with no direct tie between them. Perhaps I was benefiting from the chess equivalent of the placebo effect. Going into battle with what I believed were lethal weapons gave me confidence even though they went largely unused and wouldn’t in some cases have been effective.
There is also a practical benefit to such “wasted” effort. The research a lawyer does preparing for a case that never goes to trial still enriches his understanding of the law and makes him better at his job. Work leads to knowledge, and knowledge is never wasted. Even if our weapons remain sheathed, our opponents know they exist and may be distracted by the potential for nasty surprises.
This ethic has been followed by many people known to history as great geniuses. We cannot doubt the brainpower of Thomas Edison, but his true genius lay in his capacity for endless experimentation. In creating the electric lightbulb, he tested thousands of substances to find a filament that wouldn’t burn out, even working with rare plant fibers sent in from around the world. “Opportunity,” Edison said, “is missed by most because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.” This was an echo of another great thinker and worker, Thomas Jefferson, who wrote, “I’m a great believer in luck and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it.”
The worst of it is that we are usually aware of our deficiencies when it comes to practice and hard work. We criticize ourselves harshly after spending an hour at work surfing the Web or for leaving the gym bag by the door while we watch television. But of course this self-flagellation produces no more benefit than those New Year’s resolutions that rarely outlast the winter. Before you tell yourself you don’t have the talent of a Jordan or an Alekhine, remember the extraordinary amount of time they devoted to practice and study. To succeed like them you must put in the effort they did. Otherwise, you can never know what you’re capable of. I believe that if opportunity isn’t provided at a young age, it can be created later in adulthood through discipline and imaginative involvement in the pursuits we care about. You can—and must—look for ways to experiment and to push the boundaries of your capacity in different areas.
If Alekhine brought a new level of dedication, even obsession, to the game of chess, the man who succeeded him on the throne professionalized and codified this devotion. The first of the seven Soviet champions, Mikhail Botvinnik sought to demystify the game through his writing and teaching.
Botvinnik’s most lasting contributions to chess culture were in the area of preparation. Ever the engineer, he established detailed training regimens. These encompassed not only specific chess research, but also physical and psychological preparation. These methods are so commonplace now it is hard to imagine a time when every player didn’t do these things, but at the time Botvinnik was a true innovator. His system involved researching the opening phase of the game, studying his opponents’ styles, and rigorous analysis of his own games, which were published so they could be criticized by others. To give just one example of the extremes he would go to: during training sessions for a tournament Botvinnik would have distracting music playing in the background and even requested that one of his trainers, Ragozin, blow smoke in his face.
I was Botvinnik’s favorite pupil at the chess academy, and I owe a great deal to him for adding focus and discipline to my natural aptitude. He taught me to avoid complexity for complexity’s sake, saying, “You will never become an Alekhine if the variations control you and not the other way around.” So Botvinnik laid out the ideal tournament regimen, establishing a strict timetable for meals, rest, and brisk walks, a system I followed my entire career. If you said you didn’t have enough time, that meant you were not well organized. And forget about telling the great teacher you were tired that day! Sleep and rest were to be as carefully scheduled as training, and it was simply inexcusable to get insufficient rest. Botvinnik summed up his philosophy by stating, “The difference between man and animal is that man is capable of establishing priorities!”
I was lucky because I had been well prepared for Botvinnik by my mother, Klara, who inherited a strong sense of the importance of order and routine from her family. For me it was simply the way things were, and I always felt comfortable with it. Sleep, meals, school, study time, recreation time, all were part of a schedule.
Of course it was easier thirty years ago when I was growing up. There were fewer distractions available, fewer acceptable activities for a child, especially in the USSR. Today distractions are virtually unlimited, and the computerized world makes instant entertainment ubiquitous and available to everyone. Mobile phones, video games, and gadgets allow us to waste time in a dozen different ways that don’t usually add up to anything at all.
With so much activity in their own lives, parents have few opportunities to teach, let alone demonstrate, rules and regimen and to present a good example. I could observe the way my mother programmed her life and my activities, and I had no doubt it was all for the best.
As I grew older and moved into the serious chess world as a young teenager, I continued to be surrounded by hardworking coaches and mentors. Botvinnik’s words and example strengthened what I had already learned from my mother. He provided the game plan, helping me to develop the routines and practices that reinforced a general ethic about hard work and dogged preparation.
Now, though retired from professional chess, I stick with my routine as closely as possible. This means hours of sleep, mealtimes, hours of work on different projects, and staying conscious of how these things are balanced daily and weekly. I’ve adapted my new activities into the old chess program, preserving the patterns that have kept me comfortable and productive. Where there used to be chess, there is now politics. Where before I would analyze the games of my chess opponents, I now analyze the statements of my political opponents. My afternoon nap is still sacrosanct.
Targeting Ourselves for Efficiency
Alekhine and Botvinnik, and later Bobby Fischer, had a talent for working constantly and effectively. They could keep pouring more energy in and getting positive results back out. We can all work longer hours, study more, watch less TV, but the ability to remain effective under increasing strain varies from person to person. Everyone has a unique level of efficiency in his ratio of work to results. A Capablanca might be creative for an hour but burn out after two. An Alekhine might need four hours to get those same results, but is capable of working for eight hours without a drop in productivity.
It is critical to know what motivates you, to find out how to push yourself that extra mile. For me it’s sticking to a regimen. As long as I don’t make exceptions to my program, I feel motivated. I also know that I need new challenges to stay engaged. The minute I begin to feel something has become repetitive or easy, I know it’s time to quickly find a new target for my energy.
Others use different devices, such as competition, setting goals, or using incentives. Anatoly Karpov was not by nature a hard worker, but he spent ten to twelve hours a day preparing for his match with Boris Spassky in 1974. Karpov is tremendously competitive, and his will to win spurred him to new levels of effort. It paid off and he beat Spassky convincingly.
If discipline sounds dull, or even impossible in today’s fast-paced world, you should take a moment to consider how you might benefit from targeting just a few small areas of your life for efficiency. Having a good work ethic doesn’t mean being a fanatic, it means being aware and then taking action. If you spend fifteen minutes a day studying openings, in a year you’ll be a stronger chess player. If you spend an hour a day learning Mandarin, in a few years you may be ready for an entirely different career.
This isn’t a cookbook, and I’m not offering a recipe for your success. Everyone must create his own successful combinations with the ingredients he has. There are guidelines for what works, but each person has to discover what works for him. This doesn’t happen by itself. Through practice and observation, you must take an active role in your own education.
With the fundamental ingredients behind us we move now to the evaluation and analysis phase of decision-making. Knowing what to look for is only the first challenge. Good decisions require the ability to weigh all of the factors present and to decide the best balance among them.