Raising the Floor

When I first started learning chess, I chased brilliance.

I’d give up my queen in hopes of enabling a sneaky checkmate or sacrifice a string of pawns for what I thought was a game-ending assault… Only to watch my pieces dwindle, my position crumble, and hopes of victory fade before my very eyes.

Given I was still learning the game, I lacked the ability to effectively calculate sequences and foresee whether or not my sacrificial ideas actually worked…

Which often resulted in ‘donating’ my pieces, and losing with a whimper.

As I’m sure you can imagine, I soon grew frustrated. 

The playing style I was drawn too—featuring swift, decisive attacks that create multiple threats and force positional complications for my opponents to try and muddle their way through—is valid, and can be devastatingly effective.

But I simply wasn’t good enough yet to determine whether or not the ideas I cooked up would work—and I’d try them anyways, full of hope, praying for a winning result.

Then, I stumbled upon an idea that changed my approach… And my results: 

Raising the floor.

Instead of obsessing over finding genius moves, I focused on my baseline ability. 

Raising the floor meant ensuring that even my worst moves were… Well, not terrible. 

Instead of diving into complex attacks fuelled by hope, I focused on stabilising my game. I began considering what my opponent wanted, thinking multiple moves ahead, scanning for weaknesses in both our positions, ensuring my pieces were secure, and analysing how a single move could impact the whole board.

I stopped gambling for brilliance and aimed to achieve sound, principled play.

This wasn’t thrilling stuff. There were no adrenaline-fuelled sacrifices or heroic sacrifices in sight. Instead, I submersed myself in unsexy, patient, ordinary work.

But over time, those small improvements resulted in my playing a much more reliable game where, even if I wasn’t flashy, I was steady. 

My floor had lifted.

(And—I’m pleased to report—I gained the ability to play the attacking chess I love with much greater success, and far fewer games being needlessly thrown away.)

Now, raising the floor isn’t just applicable to chess. 

Raising the floor is a practise that serves us in every aspect of life—day-to-day fundamentals are what drive real, lasting, meaningful, sustainable change.

We often focus on the big wins in other parts of life too—chasing promotions, record revenues, creative epiphanies, or life-changing ideas… While overlooking the simple, sustainable practices that make everything we do better.

Take exercise, for example:

For many when they first start exercising, the initial goal is huge—run a marathon, hit a personal best in the gym, shed a lot of weight fast.

But raising the floor isn’t about achieving that rapid marathon finish time, squatting 500 pounds, or losing 75 pounds in a matter of months. 

Raising the floor is about lacing up your shoes when running is the last thing you want to do… Getting yourself to the gym on the low energy days… Sticking to your nutrition plan when you’re fed up with healthy food and yearn for the old days.

Or writing:

Some writers chase the perfect, poetic line, hoping to craft paragraphs that sparkle.

(I’m guilty as charged, frequently getting lost in pursuit of the perfect phrase.)

Chasing a brilliant line is obviously tempting, but the real magic lies in showing up every day, putting fingers to keys, coaxing words onto the page day after day.

In other words:

Raising the floor means laying a foundation that carries you through the unglamorous, dreary days when you’re tired, distracted, or just feeling “off.” 

And the beauty of raising the floor is, when you focus on the essentials, the brilliant moments often follow naturally, sprouting from that strong, reliable foundation.

Whether I’m seeking improvement on the chessboard, in the gym, when writing, or in any other pursuit, I’ll take a gradually rising floor over hitting the ceiling any day.

As tempting as touching the glittering ceiling may be, true progress depends on the strength of the floor we’ve built—for that’s what brings us to where we want to go.

With love from the forest,

~ Alexander