In chess, Kissinger observes, every piece is deployed from the start, so the opponent’s whole strength is always in view. A weiqi player has to weigh something more: the reinforcements the opponent could still bring onto the board.
The metaphor
Kissinger’s two boards
The pieces are not equal. By convention a pawn is worth one, a knight or bishop about three, a rook five, a queen nine. The king is worth the game itself, and the whole contest is organized around it.
Chess, he writes, trains a player in Clausewitz’s “center of gravity” and “decisive point”; the opening is usually a fight for the middle of the board. Its aim is checkmate: the king attacked, with no escape.
Weiqi begins with an empty board: nineteen lines by nineteen, 361 points. Every stone is identical. A stone’s power comes entirely from where it stands and what it touches.
The name, Kissinger notes, translates as “a game of surrounding pieces,” and carries the idea of strategic encirclement. Several contests run at once in different parts of the board, and the position tilts a little with every move.
By the end of a well-played game, he adds, strength lies across the whole board in overlapping zones, and the winning margin can be too small to see at a glance.
In our reading, the difference comes down to who chooses the ground.
A chess player looks for the point where the game will be decided. A weiqi player works so that the opponent never gets to choose where that point is.