Lab Report 054: En Passant and Other Lies They Tell You at the Table
Lately I’ve been dabbling in chess.
Yes, chess. That other game with the pieces and the pawns and the illusion of control. The one where no one’s casting Armageddon or bluffing a Counterspell with nothing in hand. The one where your queen doesn’t trigger a Blood Artist on the way out. That one.
It started innocent enough—watching a few streamers, picking up an old board from a thrift store, telling myself “it’ll sharpen my Magic instincts.” Pattern recognition, timing, thinking multiple turns ahead... seemed logical.
But here’s the truth.
Every game I play, I try to storm off on turn four like I'm piloting a Jeskai Ascendancy deck. Every bishop I lose, I act like someone just Pongified my commander. Every time I castle? I feel like I just tucked my win condition into my deck and called it “tempo.”
See, Magic taught me how to bluff. How to build Rube Goldberg machines out of draft chaff and cursed interactions. How to look an opponent dead in the eye and cast Sudden Spoiling with nothing but vibes and a Dream Halls.
Chess? Chess doesn’t care about your vibes.
Chess is tight lines and tighter logic. It's brutal math. It's a game where every blunder is a visible crack in your soul—and your opponent will notice.
So here I am, playing chess like I play Commander. Sacrificing pawns for dubious tempo. Going all-in on wild gambits. Refusing to resign because I might topdeck something. (I won’t.)
The more chess I play, the more I realize:
I’m a hammer trying to be a scalpel.
And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
— Tibalt’s Apprentice

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