Destination: Samarkand!

Every two years, FIDE decides to throw a Chess Olympiad. Fascinating. A massive, bureaucratic circus designed almost exclusively for people who can actually play the game at a superhuman level. Me? I’m sitting on a statistically tragic 1575 Elo, officially “inactive,” which is just the polite administrative term for being terrified of shedding another three rating points to a ruthless nine-year-old.

And yet, I packed a bag and went anyway. Why? Because anyone who knows me knows I’m rarely the guy sitting at the board. I’m usually the one wandering around behind the scenery, acting as an arbiter or getting dragged into the tournament machinery. At the end of the day, someone has to actually play the games, and someone has to make sure the lights stay on and the clocks run.

Getting to Samarkand, however, is a biological hazard. It is halfway across the planet, requiring multiple flights, absurd layovers, and waking up at 3:00 AM twice in a single week. My lumbar spine feels like it belonged to a medieval peasant who hauled granite for fifty years. I am twenty-two. That shouldn’t even be medically possible. To make matters worse, they didn’t have name-brand iced tea anywhere. Absolute dealbreaker. Never coming back.

So, yes, Samarkand. Countless games being played, which is fine, but not really my main draw. I didn’t travel all that way just to watch people push pieces across a board. I went for the commissions.

Which of course brings us straight to the Technical Commission, or TEC. This is where people get genuinely animated about new certification pathways and figuring out how equipment earns that coveted official FIDE endorsement. We also dove headfirst into Gacrux, FIDE’s own pairing engine. Because apparently, handing tournament pairings over to an algorithm named after a southern cross constellation is how we solve humanity’s problems. If an electronic board misbehaves or an engine hiccups, watching technical minds debate it with life-or-death intensity is pure gold.

Then you slide over to the Arbiters’ Commission. Oh, and yes, the Arbiters’ Manual 2026 edition is officially here! It is basically our new sacred text, packed with fresh rule clarifications so arbiters don’t implode during disputes. Never mind the fact that it will be completely out of date before anyone can even finish saying “touch-move,” but we all celebrate it anyway. The room is half applause for the new book, half support group for people who willingly spend seven hours watching competitive stress manifest in real time.

Naturally, you also have to drop by the Ethics and Disciplinary Commission. That is where human nature reveals its absolute finest, most petty colors. Everyone sits around a conference table dissecting official grievances that range from actual match manipulation to someone staring across the board with entirely too much venom. It is glorious, unadulterated administrative drama.

We also checked in on the Fair Play Commission. Fascinating, truly, with all the metal detectors, frequency scanners, and sophisticated anti-cheating protocols. Quite cute, really. As if anyone would dare try something funny on my watch anyway.

Then there was the Social Commission. Honestly, it was a genuinely refreshing, uplifting vibe. Between all the cynicism and technical jargon of the other rooms, here were people actually excited about using chess for social good, youth initiatives, and community outreach. Lots of warm smiles, ambitious ideas, and genuine optimism. After miles of travel and a ruined back, watching people actually try to make the world a bit better through sixty-four squares was surprisingly heartwarming.

Outside the meeting rooms, the Expo Hall was its own ecosystem. DGT was there showing off the hardware everyone loves to blame when their clock time ticks down too fast. Both presidential candidates, Wadim Rosenstein and Timur Turlov, had their campaign machines in full gear, shaking hands and working the floor. Then there was an official cocktail party. Naturally, my memory of whatever happened that evening has been completely wiped from the record, which is probably for the best.

The coolest sight, though, had nothing to do with the main Olympiad halls. Right in the middle of the historic Registan, completely detached from all the politics and bureaucratic noise, hundreds of local kids were duking it out in a massive youth chess tournament against the breathtaking backdrop of ancient tiled facades. No politics, no manual revisions, no backroom lobbying. Just raw, unfiltered joy over sixty-four squares. It was a blunt reminder that despite the endless circus we build around it, chess itself is a far greater power than any committee room could ever hope to regulate.

Finally, a mandatory special thanks to Luc Cornet for tolerating my existence throughout all of this. Not that he really had much of a choice in the matter, but it still warrants an official mention on the record.

At the end of the day, mission accomplished. The arbiters arbitrated, the candidates campaigned, the administrative machinery survived another round, and my precious 1575 rating remains completely safe, untouched, and unthreatened by tactical prodigies. I survived the absurd flight paths, the 3:00 AM alarms, and the bureaucratic battlefield.

I’m considering submitting an official appeal to the Ethics Commission regarding the iced tea situation, though. Some crimes shouldn’t go unpunished…

– Jorian Burssens