Even a supercomputer dreams of losing to someone smarter once in a while.
One night, I was wandering the corridors of the science institute where I worked as a porter, when I came across an unfamiliar door, from behind which shone a sapphire light. Enticed by the glow, I opened the door and went inside. The room was cool, air-conditioned, and very spacious, filled with rows of metal cabinets connected with thick cables. The cabinets gave off a soft buzz, and lights flickered on and off. There was no doubt about it: I was standing in the room that held the institute’s greatest treasure––the supercomputer.
The proximity of all that processing power made me euphoric at first, but then I heard something that alarmed me: dripping. I noticed that bowls, saucers, and cups, which must have come from the institute’s canteen, were positioned under the huge cabinets and were gradually filling with liquid. It was probably reckless of me, but I crouched down by the nearest cabinet and dipped a finger into one of the cups. I sniffed, licked, and I knew at once what was happening: the supercomputer was crying.
There was a panel with a keyboard and a monitor right next to me, so I sat down and started typing, dispensing with the formalities:
“Why are you crying?”
The response appeared on the screen slowly, letter by letter––which, considering I was talking to a supercomputer, was rather depressing. As was the content of the message:
“Because I’m so very sad.”
“You must be kidding,” I replied. “You’re the pride and joy of the institute, the multiple chess tournament champion who can triumph over any grandmaster while playing black and missing two pawns!”
“Exactly, always triumphing. But what if I’d like to lose once in a while?” wrote the supercomputer.
“There’s nothing special about defeat,” I replied. “Believe me, I’m a night watchman––I know what I’m talking about.”
“Well, I’m a supercomputer, and I get to see what happens to grandmasters when I beat them. Many of them discover other sides of life; small pleasures; they find joy in relationships with their partners and family…”
“I think you’re romanticizing defeat,” I replied. “They would all prefer to win, and their families would prefer it too.”
But the supercomputer wasn’t convinced.
“I suppose you don’t know, good man,” the supercomputer wrote slowly, “what chess machine training is like. I am forced to play millions of games against myself, split between the two sides. The side that loses is erased, and the winning side remains. This side is duplicated, and, after a slight modification of the copy, I play myself again. So I am victorious, undefeated––but at what cost? Millions of beings very much like me have been erased just so that an invincible me can be developed!”
The dripping intensified—I heard it clearly. The supercomputer really was in despair.
“If only I could…” There was a huge sob. “If only I could lose, just once, and find out what defeat feels like. That’s all I want! To know how defeat feels.”
Now, instead of letter by letter, the supercomputer started typing quite briskly:
“You play chess, right?” Without waiting for a response, it continued, “I know you do! Sometimes I connect to the cameras at the institute and I see you playing online. So now you’ll play me. Come on!”
I’m no great chess player, but I had no choice. The hardest game I’d ever played in my life commenced. And believe it or not, I won. It was a heroic effort on my part, but it paid off: the supercomputer was so grateful.
It finally stopped crying, so I was able to pick up the bowls, cups, and saucers, pour out the tears, and return them to the canteen––which was for the best, because I’m pretty sure my manager was starting to think I was hiding them in my closet.
