Go, the Fear of Defeat, and the Spirit of the Middle

Growing up in a typical Asian household, my parents didn’t miss the chance to introduce me to a wide variety of hobbies — playing the piano, calligraphy, taekwondo — you name it. But none of them really stuck with me as I grew up, except for one: the game of Go / Weiqi.

I vividly remember how I got into it. I was over at a friend’s house, and he was learning Go at the time. He explained the rules to me: try to “surround” as much territory as possible. Naively, I started placing my stones along the very edge of the 19-by-19 board, thinking I could claim the entire board once I completed a “wall” around it. Of course, before I could finish my dream plan, all of my stones were captured. It turned out the game had another rule: stones get removed from the board if they run out of liberties — the empty spaces adjacent to them.
“Wow, this game is much more complicated than it seems,” I thought.
Unbeknownst to me, I was about to open the door to a whole new world.

A kid who loved puzzles and challenges, I quickly grew obsessed with Go. Before I knew it, I was spending every summer sitting in a poorly ventilated bungalow packed with Go boards and stones — a place that had been converted into a Go dojo (now known as the Nie Weiping Go Academy 聂卫平围棋道场). Go games typically last an hour or more, but I could play five or more in a single day without batting an eye. Beijing’s excruciating summer heat didn’t help either. But in the face of the thrill of winning, improving, and earning bragging rights among my friends, the heat — and the rashes that came with it — could wait.

Back then, I approached the game like a battlefield strategist, striking decisively the moment I saw an opportunity.

“The bravest wins when two meet on a narrow road (狭路相逢勇者胜)”

became my motto. I won most of my games that way, and I won them quickly. The only reason I rushed to start the next game was to feel that moment of triumph again — knowing that my instincts and calculations had outmatched my opponent’s.

But as I climbed up the ranking system, losses became more frequent — and much, much more painful. My aggressive style was often met with Kiai (气合 / 気合い) — a concept in Go that means parrying your opponent’s move while continuing with your own initiative — or worse, in a calculated counterattack that struck precisely at my weaknesses. I was so busy looking for a “narrow road” to charge down that I failed to notice the enermy forcing encroaching behind my back.

These defeats weren’t just frustrating — they were humiliating. Most of all, they filled me with doubt:

Am I still playing the same game I knew so well?
Have I strayed from the path that once brought me victory?
What should I do now?

I began to fear the game. Fear the commitment. Fear the weight of another loss. And as you might guess, that only made things worse: I played fewer and fewer games — and won even fewer. What once was a joy turned into a burden. Then came the final straw: my family and I moved abroad. With no more dojos nearby and no friends to play against, I quietly gave myself permission to put down the Go stones I once held so dearly.

Years passed, and Go became a sore spot in my heart — something I once loved but felt I had failed. That changed when I happened to pick up Go Seigen’s autobiography, The Spirit of Middle. Go Seigen, a Chinese-born Japanese weiqi master, reflected not only on his legendary matches and life stories but also on his philosophy of the game.

He believed that the best move in Go is one that considers the entire board — the harmony of all the stones in play. More importantly, he saw Go not as a game about winning or losing, but about discovering the most “harmonious” move. To him, a successful game wasn’t one where he won — it was one where he found the most beautiful, balanced response in every situation.

Reading his words, I realized that I had been blinded by the obsession with victory and the fear of defeat. I had missed the essence of Go: understanding, balance, and harmony.

With this new mindset, I dove into studying Fusekis (布局 / 布石) and Josekis (定式 / 定石) — opening patterns that help you navigate the early game while keeping a global perspective. I started learning to play “middle moves,” balancing influence, territory, and potential. This new approach was slower, subtler — and infinitely richer.

Finding an urgent point or executing a clever Tesuji (手筋 / 手筋) brought me as much joy — if not more — than winning a game. This rediscovered joy reignited my passion. I returned to playing and went on to win several tournaments, eventually earning the rank of amateur 5 dan — the highest attainable rank for non-professional players.

I used to think Go was a game about conquering. Now I see it as a journey of understanding.

Just as Go Seigen sought harmony on the board, I’ve begun to seek harmony in myself: balancing calculation with intuition, ambition with patience, victory with meaning. I don’t play to win anymore — I play to ask better questions, to see more clearly, and to connect with something timeless and deep.

Maybe that, more than anything, is what makes a game — and a life — worth playing.