Is chess really the least expressive sport?

One evening in Bengaluru, India. In front of a computer screen, two chess players sit motionless. One leans over the board, one stares at the ceiling. No one speaks, no one runs, no one sweats. What can an outside viewer see? If that viewer once played badminton, once stood on a court making jump smashes, sliding across the wooden floor, hearing the squeak of shoes, then the answer is easy to predict: nothing to watch. And that leads to a controversial statement, appearing in a recent article: chess is one of the least expressive sports. But that statement, placed under a microscope, opens up a much larger debate: what does chess need from its virtual stands, and are we sports writers looking at it from the wrong angle? The author of that statement is not a professional chess player. It is Naganethra Reddy, a former badminton athlete, now a specialist in sport sustainability. She has worked with Formula E, Extreme E, and the World Endurance Championship. A person who has spent a whole career watching high-speed sports, engine noises, overtaking at 300 km/h. When such a person looks at a chessboard, the first thing they notice is stillness. No heartbeat, no shouting, no victory gestures. Perhaps that is why she calls chess one of the least expressive sports. But if we stop there, we miss the whole story. Reddy's article, according to deep professional analysis, contains zero chess technical data. No games, no moves, no players, no position evaluation. The article is simply a personal aesthetic reflection on watching chess. She does not say chess is difficult, she does not say chess is boring. She says chess is inexpressive. That is a comment about spectatorship, about how she and other outsiders view this intellectual sport. Yet that emptiness of data is itself a remarkable signal for the chess industry. At 65 years old, I still remember the era when chess was broadcast on television with a single fixed camera pointing at the board. Two players sat there for hours, occasionally making a move. Viewers at home yawned. Nobody understood why a move mattered, why this player frowned, why that player shook his head. Television needs action, sound, moments. Chess does not have those in a conventional way. But that does not mean chess has no expression. It only means we have not learned to see. Try sitting with two players in a high-level game. When a player suddenly trades queens, his face does not change, but his hand trembles slightly. When a deadlocked position drags on for twenty moves, his breathing becomes quicker. When a move ends the opponent's hope, the blank stare of the loser says more than any roar. That is expression, but it is written in a different language: the language of silence. Chess is a sport where emotion is compressed, hidden in every move. If viewers do not understand the meaning of a move, they will never see the expression. The fault is not in the game. The fault is in the transmission. What is remarkable is that the chess industry has already started to understand this for years. Chess.com boomed by combining chess with live streaming, humorous commentary, and personalities. Hikaru Nakamura became a superstar not only because he wins many games, but because he knows how to tell a story while playing. Magnus Carlsen, the world champion, is also the one who created appeal for rapid events, where quick moves, silly blunders, and explosive moments are magnified. On Twitch, chess is no longer a static board. It becomes an entertainment stage. Content creators like GothamChess and Eric Rosen turn games into suspenseful stories. They explain every move, create dramatic pauses, and make the audience feel the pain and joy of a player. When viewers understand why a move cost ten minutes of thought, they begin to see the beauty of silence. That is exactly the blind spot in Reddy's judgment. She looks at chess through the lens of a traditional television viewer. But the new generation of audiences does not watch chess the old way. They watch live on phones and computers, with a stream of live commentary beside them. They do not need a sport full of physical motion. They need a compelling story. And chess, with its tactical depth and mental duels, is one of the richest sources of stories. In 2026, when the pandemic closed every stadium, I returned to Nha Trang, frustrated that there were no events to film. While cleaning a storeroom, I found an old VHS tape about the 800m record holder Nguyễn Thị Minh Phương, who once ran 1 minute 58 seconds but was erased from the 2026 Olympic team list due to an administrative error. I made video calls to twelve retired athletes of the same era, piecing together memories, and made a documentary called “Empty Stadium – Frozen Dreams.” During that same period, I witnessed another miracle: online chess exploded. Amateur players stayed home playing for hours, online tournaments gathered hundreds of thousands of viewers. There was no applause, no flags, but there was something else: community. The stadium was empty, but the applause of 2026 still echoes in every old record. And on digital platforms, chess found a new tribune – a tribune without seats or roof, but full of voices. In fact, Naganethra Reddy's story is not the story of someone who does not understand chess. It is the story of a sport professional trying to find a common language between all sports. In traditional sports, expression lives in movement. In chess, expression lives in thinking. But thinking is invisible. How can audiences see thinking? That is the question the whole chess industry must answer. The answer has come in many forms. The Eval Bar was added to broadcasts so viewers could visualize the winning chances. Expert commentary from professional players helps viewers understand the logic behind seemingly strange moves. Fast and rapid tournaments, like Chess960 and blitz, are organized to increase tempo and create unexpected moments. Mistakes become drama, amazing saves become highlights. People still say chess is a patient sport, but that patience can be directed into a theatrical production if the editors know how. In Vietnam, chess is still a niche sport. We have talented players, we have grassroots tournaments, but we do not yet have a media ecosystem strong enough to turn chess into an attractive entertainment product. Vietnamese chess tournaments often take place in silence, briefly covered in newspapers, with few commentary videos and few highlight clips. Vietnamese players compete with gentle smiles and calm faces, not generating strong expressions for the media to exploit. But that is not their fault. It is the fault of a media ecosystem that has not learned how to tell chess stories. I once told my younger colleagues a story about the 2026 World Chess Championship. It was the match between Magnus Carlsen and Fabiano Caruana, two of the best players in the world, but all twelve classical games were drawn. Twelve games, no decisive result. To outsiders, that was the most boring match in history. To people who understand chess, it was a masterpiece of defense, a psychological war so tense it was suffocating. Every move contained dozens of calculations, every pawn structure held complex scenarios. When Carlsen won the rapid tiebreak, the press room erupted. But if you only read the headlines, you would think it was a mediocre match. Chess does not lack drama. It lacks translators. In the age of 30-second videos, I spent three months listening to a man tell me about the 400m of 2026. I know what patience is. But I also understand that not everyone has my time. Audiences today want everything faster, authentic emotions amplified, and characters with clear personalities. Chess can meet that demand, but it is moving very slowly. Deep analysis of Reddy's article shows that when an outsider writes about chess from the viewpoint of traditional sports, they will always feel a sense of loss. For those used to speed, chess is too slow. For those used to violence, chess is too gentle. For those used to spectacular goals, chess is too closed. But for those who know how to look, chess is a sport full of internal fury. Every game is a psychological battle. Every move is a decision that can save or kill the entire game. Players do not run across a field, but their minds run dozens of kilometers per game. The pressure does not make sweat on the brow, but it sweats in every brain cell. If we want chess to become more appealing to the mass audience, we should not try to turn it into a sport full of football-style expressions. We should teach the audience how to read the expressions it already has. When a player considers a move for fifteen minutes, it means the position is at an important crossroads. When a player shakes his head after a move, it means he has just discovered a potential mistake. When a player smiles, it means he has just found an unexpected move. All of these expressions can be explained, can be told as stories. But they need a good scriptwriter, a knowledgeable commentator, a producer who knows how to build a climax. I spent many years commentating on chess for television. When I first started, I also thought chess was difficult to sell to audiences. But I quickly realized that if I told the stories of the players, of their sorrows, of the lives behind the board, audiences would follow. They do not need to understand all the tactics. They only need to understand the emotion. When a young player enters a first final, when an old player faces an opponent thirty years younger, that is a story with intrinsic appeal. Chess only looks dry if the messenger is dry. Reddy's article also raises another issue: how we define “expression” in sport. Is expression only physical action? A powerful shot hitting the net is expression, a jump smash is expression, a sprint to the finish is expression. But a checkmate move at the 67th minute of a tense chess game is also expression. It does not strike the eye, but it strikes the brain. The feeling of seeing an unexpected move – sacrificing the queen for victory – is exactly the feeling of seeing a goal from midfield. The viewer's heart still races, blood still rushes to the head, but that moment is recorded not by a shot, but by a “world-class move.” Those who do not know chess will not notice it. Those who know chess will leap out of their seats. Perhaps the biggest problem lies in audience education. Chess is not an easy sport to watch. It is not like football, where a goal is a visual event. Chess takes time to understand and patience to feel. But it is a gift for those who invest that time. Once you understand the logic of a game, you cannot stop watching. We need content creators who can make people with zero chess knowledge feel the beauty of a move. And we need chess organizations to devote more resources to media, education, and turning games into shareable stories. Returning to Reddy's statement. On the surface, it is a light but skeptical criticism. But if we look closer, it is a challenge to sports media professionals. Is chess truly one of the least expressive sports? Or have we, the storytellers, failed to convey its expressiveness? For me, the answer is clear. After decades living between chess and sport, I believe there is no such thing as a non-expressive sport. There are only badly told stories and storytellers who lack patience. Every stadium I walk through has a secret door, and the entrance is always a human being. For chess, the secret door is a move, and the human being is the player sitting at the board. Chess does not need to change its nature to become attractive. It merely needs to be told correctly. Imagine a commentator saying: “With this move, he just sacrificed a pawn to open a path for the queen. A huge risk. If he fails, he will lose in ten moves. But if he succeeds, this will be the most beautiful game of the year.” At that moment, the audience will look at the board differently. They will hold their breath and wait for what happens next. They will feel the suspense. They will understand why chess lovers can be fascinated by a six-hour match. There is a saying I use in my talks: A record is never old, it is just waiting for someone who knows how to listen. Likewise, a game is never boring, it is just waiting for someone who knows how to watch. If audiences do not see the expression of chess, our task is to open their eyes, not to blame the board. Thus, Reddy's argument, though subjective, has exploratory value. It forces us to re-examine the sports media of chess. We, who love this sport, have we done well enough? Have we turned tense matches into stories that ordinary people can enjoy? Have we created strong personalities for audiences to love and hate? Have we fully used the power of digital platforms to bring chess closer to the public? If the answer is no, then Reddy's comment is a wake-up call: chess needs to focus more on audience experience. In reality, top players around the world have done very well in their entertainment role. They have YouTube channels, Twitch channels, exhibition matches, and adventure games. They know how to talk, shock, and create viral moments. But on a national level, many chess federations have not kept up. They still organize tournaments as internal events, investing little in media and not listening to audiences. This is the biggest bottleneck of modern chess. In an interview, a young Vietnamese chess player once told me he wished there were tournaments with live commentary like the vlogs of foreign players. He longed to hear explanations of his own moves, to know what audiences thought of his performance. He wanted chess to no longer be a silent game. That wish reminded me of an event back home: a youth chess tournament held on Nha Trang beach, where young players sat under the trees with plastic boards on the sand. There was no grandstand, no spotlights, but there were the curious eyes of beachgoers. Some stopped to watch, some asked questions, some children sat down and listened to the sound of the pieces. In that moment, I realized how accessible chess could be, if organizers knew how to take it out of the playing hall. Reddy's article does not mention Vietnam, but her thoughts raise a question for the entire intellectual sport of our country. Do we want to turn chess into an appealing sport for audiences? If yes, we must begin with small steps: teach children to play, train sports commentators who understand chess, organize joyful tournaments, and bring chess into community events. Most importantly, we must change how we see chess. It is not merely an intellectual game. It is a sport full of drama, emotion, and stories. It is just written in a different language, and we need good translators. Returning again to Naganethra Reddy. Though I may not agree with her judgment, I want to thank her for opening an important dialogue. In sports, seemingly simple questions often bring the biggest changes. Does chess lack expression? If we casually answer “yes,” we will continue to miss the opportunity to make chess a mass sport. If we answer with actions to improve media, we will bring millions of potential viewers a wonderful sport. To some extent, this is no longer just a story about chess. It is a story about how we view sports in general. Must an appealing sport have many goals, dramatic falls, and loud screams? Or does an appealing sport only need true stories, real characters, and real emotions? I lean toward the latter. Because I have seen chess matches that made thousands of YouTube viewers hold their breath. I have seen livestreams with commentary as exciting as football. I have seen audiences leap out of their seats at an impressive move. If that is not expression, then I do not know what emotion is. While writing these words, I remember a chess tournament for disabled players that I once filmed. The players may have had physical impairments, but their eyes were full of determination. One player moved slowly, every move a great effort of his whole body. When he won, he could not raise his arms, but his smile said everything. I cried watching that scene. Not because I understood his tactics, but because I understood the struggle, the desire to win, of a human being. Chess, in that moment, was the most expressive sport I had ever seen. Skeptics may say that is a human story, not a chess story. But human stories are not separate from the moves. Each move is a part of the player's being, a reflection of their intellect, character, and experience. When we watch chess, we watch a life compressed into decisions. Thus, chess may not roar, but it has profound silences. That silence is the expression. We just have to look closely and listen carefully. In an increasingly noisy world, we need more sports that know how to keep quiet. Where intellect is put first. Where patience becomes a tactic. Where a child can learn that sometimes doing nothing is the smartest way to act. Chess teaches us that, and it also demands patience from its viewers. But in return, it gives us moments no other sport can offer: moments when human intelligence blazes. So, if anyone asks me whether chess is the least expressive sport, I will invite them to sit down at a game, watch a big match, and wait until they understand the meaning of a move. They will feel the vibration. And if they still do not feel it, I will tell them that perhaps the problem is not the board but the way we listen. Chess speaks loudly, we just need to learn how to hear it. A player can sit still for hours, but inside his head is a storm. When that storm is transmitted to the audience, chess becomes a stage full of emotion. We simply need better storytellers. The debate around Reddy's article may soon be forgotten, but it leaves me with a thought. We often talk about the value of sport in connecting people. But to connect, sport needs to be seen and felt. Is chess being seen and felt correctly? With sharp commentators and modern digital platforms, I believe the answer will be yes. Give chess a chance, give it the light of attention. Then those who once called it dry will be surprised by the pull of a tight battle between two of the world's finest minds. While thinking about this, I remembered a memory from the 2026 World Cup. Vietnamese fans in Russia were not watching football, they were watching themselves in every pass. When Vietnam played, those far from home found a piece of their homeland in every move. And perhaps, when audiences watch chess, they are not just watching pieces move. They are watching stories of intellect, striving, and dreams. They see themselves in that mental struggle. That is expression without sound. That is the language we, as sports writers, must learn. My journey with Vietnamese sport has lasted nearly half a century. I have witnessed the ups and downs of many disciplines, from empty stadiums to flag-filled festivals. I have learned that every sport has its own storytelling. Football tells with goals. Athletics tells with time. Chess tells with silence. And silence, if you know how to listen, is one of the most emotional languages of all. Perhaps in the future, we will see a new generation of chess commentators who can turn a move into a page of history. Perhaps we will see online chess tournaments held like big entertainment events, with music, lights, and performances. When that day comes, Reddy's question will become obsolete. Until then, it remains a reminder: do not leave a wonderful sport behind simply because we are not creative enough to transmit its hidden values. Chess does not need to change. We need to change our approach. Let us begin by teaching viewers how to look, listen, and feel a chess game. Then we will see, in the silences of the board, emotional explosions no less powerful than any other sport. We just need to be patient enough to see them.