The US Chess Championship and Black's Problem After 1.d4 d5

On the board in Saint Louis, Black pushed a pawn to d5. White declined c4. Instead came e3, then Nf3, then Bd3 — a fortress rising in the middle of the board without touching the center in the classical way. The London System, once dismissed as the modest choice of amateur players, is now a weapon that forces anyone playing Black to memorize it.

At the same time, the scoreboard of the US Chess Championship listed two names on perfect scores: Wesley So and Awonder Liang. In another pairing, Mark Paragua had just beaten Yip. Such short result lines are usually skimmed past. Behind them lie two overlapping stories: the rise of a generation of American players, and a silent war in opening theory that spectators never see.

I have sat for a long time before games like these. Based on my experience following matches over many years, from open tournaments in Saint Petersburg to cramped playing halls in Moscow, I have learned one thing: most spectators look at the result, while most players look at the third move. The gap between those two ways of seeing is where the real story happens.

A national championship and its weight

The US Chess Championship does not sit directly inside the world championship cycle. It is not a path to the Candidates. It is a national event, where prestige, sponsorship and Elo rating meet in a round-robin. For American players, it is the stage of domestic reputation and a chance to defend or improve their rating. For the public, it is a chance to see the familiar faces of American chess.

The wider context is worth noting. The United States possesses a deep elite tier: Fabiano Caruana, Wesley So, Hikaru Nakamura, Leinier Dominguez — names permanently around the 2700 mark. Below them is a rising generation: Awonder Liang, Christopher Yoo, Abhimanyu Mishra. That structure did not come about by itself. It is fed by an ecosystem of online platforms, open tournaments, academies, and a significant flow of capital into chess as an entertainment industry.

What is notable is how differently the United States builds depth compared with India or China. India relies on an extremely broad youth training network and a dense coaching layer, backed by both the state and corporations. China organizes along a centralized model, with national training centers. The United States takes a market path: online platforms, player-streamers, richly funded tournaments. Each model has its strengths, but the American market model has one feature — it depends on the appeal of its stars, and therefore on whether those stars win.

Against that backdrop, a perfect start by Wesley So and Awonder Liang carries meaning beyond the scoreboard. It is a signal that the machine is still running.

Interestingly, national championships elsewhere operate on similar logic. In Russia, where I live and work, the national championship once launched an entire generation. In Vietnam, where I was born, it is where young talents are tested before stepping onto the international stage. The structures differ, but the function is the same: it is where a chess nation measures itself.

Black and the fear named 1.d4 d5

But back to the board. If you only read results, you miss the most interesting thing: after 1.d4 d5, White pushes c4 less and less. This is a major shift in opening practice at every level.

In theory, after 1.d4 d5, the move 2.c4 opens the entire world of the Queen's Gambit — Slav, Semi-Slav, Queen's Gambit Accepted, Orthodox Queen's Gambit. These are systems dissected to the millimeter, with thousands of games and hundreds of recorded ideas. A player who wants to play 2.c4 must prepare an enormous body of theory, and must accept that the opponent may know more than they do.

So a large share of players — especially at club and intermediate level — choose another road. They avoid 2.c4. They play quieter systems, where theory is shorter, structures clearer, and, most importantly, where the opponent playing Black has fewer chances to show their preparation.

That is the fertile ground for four familiar systems: the Colle System, the Trompowsky Attack, the Torre Attack, and the London System. Each has its own logic.

The Colle System, with e3 and Bd3, aims at a late central strike with e4. It does not demand that the player memorize many lines, but it demands patience and a clear plan. A Colle player does not seek to win immediately; they seek to build the position and wait.

The Trompowsky Attack, with 2.Bg5, is an early strike against the knight on f6. It breaks the usual structure and forces Black to decide from the start on the shape of the position. This is a system that unsettles Black because it offers no stability.

The Torre Attack, with Nf3, d4 and Bg5, is a slow but persistent line. It builds small pressure, accumulating over time. It is the style of a player who believes strength lies in accumulation, not in the blow.

The London System is the most popular name. With Bf4, e3, Nf3 and Bd3, it creates a solid fortress. White does not need to win in the opening. They only need not to lose, then wait for a mistake. This is the philosophy of many amateur players, and also why the system is considered annoying.

Beyond these four are the Catalan, a flank system with g3 and a bishop on g2. The Blackmar-Diemer Gambit, a bold pawn sacrifice common at club level. And the Richter-Veresov Opening, with Nc3 and Bg5, an uncommon but irritating choice.

What these systems share is that they avoid mainstream theory. They do not try to prove an advantage; they try to avoid the opponent's preparation. That is a rational strategy in a sport where theory has become a kind of weapon.

I have sat across the London System many times in club tournaments in Saint Petersburg. The feeling is familiar: the opponent builds a fortress, you attack, you cannot break through, you grow restless, and then you blunder. That is how this system wins — not by advantage, but by patience. It turns the game into a contest of who can endure longer.

Black's battle

The challenge facing Black is very practical. If you are a player who answers 1.d4 with 1...d5, you must have an answer to all the systems above. You cannot learn just one line. You need a repertoire — a complete opening set.

This is precisely why instructional products exist, such as the six-video set by International Master Valeri Lilov. That product promises a plan for each system, turning a forest of variations into a clear road. Six videos, six plans, one repertoire.

To be blunt: this is a coaching niche long since exploited, not cutting-edge theory. Its value lies in its systematic nature, not in its novelty. The true value of an opening repertoire lies not in winning from the fifth move, but in giving the player a position they understand and a plan they trust.

And this is where clear-headedness is needed. Calling systems like Colle, Trompowsky, Torre or London extremely dangerous is a marketing packaging. It is true to the extent that these systems are annoying, that they force Black to prepare, that they can leave an unprepared player passive. But it is not true in the objective sense that they are stronger than mainstream theory. In fact, they are only dangerous to the unprepared.

There is a paradox worth pondering. A complete Black repertoire is better the thicker it is — but also heavier. Each system added is a memory burden. The Blackmar-Diemer Gambit and the Richter-Veresov Opening are the clearest examples. They are so rare that the cost of studying them is barely commensurate with how often they are encountered. Including them in a repertoire is the act of a completist, not an optimizer.

This leads to a larger problem about how we judge strength. In modern chess, a significant part of what is called strength is really adaptability to the meta. The winner is not necessarily the one who understands chess more deeply, but often the one who prepares better for the right opponent, at the right moment, in the right prevailing version of theory. A newly published variation, a new idea in an old system, can reverse a result without anyone playing better.

This is what I always think about when watching major tournaments. We praise the winner, but sometimes the winner is merely the one who read the right version of the book. That is an uncomfortable truth for those who want to believe chess is purely a contest of intellect. It still is a contest of intellect, but that intellect includes the ability to manage information, select theory, and know when to study more and when to skip.

The contrarian angle

Now let us talk about the perfect score.

When the scoreboard shows Wesley So and Awonder Liang winning everything, the natural reflex is praise. But a perfect score, after all, is a small sample. It only means something when we know the number of rounds played, the quality of opponents, and the position in the event. An early winning streak does not predict the final outcome. It only says that, so far, things have gone favorably.

For Wesley So, a perfect start fits his class. He is a grandmaster of stature, a former US champion, a member of the 2700 club for years. A winning streak by him is not a scoop; it is what is expected.

For Awonder Liang, the story is different. He is younger, and if he sustains this pace, that is the signal worth tracking. But even here, caution is needed. A good start is a positive signal, but a weak one. It needs confirmation from the whole event, from performance relative to rating, from the quality of opponents.

I remember something from my years of following tournaments. When the stadium no longer holds a ball, memory begins to score. That holds true for chess in its own way. After a game ends, what remains is not the move but the story we tell about it. And the story tends to exaggerate. An early winning streak becomes devastating form in the headlines. That is the nature of collective memory — it scores even after the game has stopped.

There is a small detail in the result line worth pausing on: Mark Paragua beat Yip. The line is ambiguous. Paragua is a veteran grandmaster, while Yip most likely belongs to the women's field. That the two appear in the same result line suggests the events were held in parallel — normal in the United States, where the open and women's championships often run at the same time. But it also reminds us that result lines, detached from context, can mislead.

Here I want to address a rarely discussed aspect: the quality of information. In an age when chess news is aggregated automatically from many sources, errors such as headlines mismatched with content, or results stitched together wrongly, are no longer rare. We tend to judge a news item by whether it is appealing, seldom by whether it is consistent. But an inconsistent item cannot be reused, however appealing it is.

A concrete example: some items blend the results of a tournament with an advertisement for an instructional product. The headline speaks of a tournament, but the content speaks of a course. That is the mark of a loose data-collection process. For the reader, it means that even items that look trustworthy need verification.

The market of ideas

The transfer market is where people sell the future to buy hope. In chess there is a similar market, differing only in that the goods sold are opening ideas. Repertoire courses, instructional video sets, databases — all form a hidden economy of chess knowledge.

Valeri Lilov's instructional product sits in that economy. It promises to turn a tangled mass of variations into a clear plan. Its real value, if any, lies in saving time. Buyers do not pay for new truth; they pay for compression.

This is not bad at all. In a sport where theory has swollen beyond anyone's grasp, compression is a useful service. The problem arises only when compression is presented as absolute truth, when a system is called extremely dangerous to sell, rather than to describe accurately.

A clear-headed reader needs a filter. When reading a pitch about an opening, ask yourself: this system is strong against whom? At what level? Against a well-prepared or unprepared opponent? And most importantly, does it suit my style? An opening repertoire is not an off-the-rack suit; it is a suit that needs tailoring.

In chess, as in any sport, there is a gap between what is advertised and what is proven. The wise buyer learns to tell the two apart.

What remains after the board

On the Luzhniki night, the old bird understood that landing is also a way of flying. I think of that line when I look at the scoreboard of the US Chess Championship. At sixty-five, after nearly half a century of following this sport, I have learned that much of what we think is a peak is really just a moment, and much of what we think is an ending is really just a bend.

Wesley So and Awonder Liang are leading. Perhaps tomorrow they still lead, perhaps not. What is certain is that the board will keep being reset, and Black's battle after 1.d4 d5 will keep being rewritten. A new idea in the London System will appear, a new answer for Black will be found, and then it is White's turn again. That is the wheel of theory, and it never stops.

What is worth keeping is not who is leading, but how we read the scoreboard. A good player does not read the score; they read the position. A good spectator should do the same. Behind every short result line is a decision at the third move, a plan built in advance, a fear kept hidden.

Perhaps what I want to say, after all, is this: chess is not a sport of numbers, though it is full of numbers. It is a sport of choices. And in the transfer window — or at any point in the season — the true winner is not the one with the most information, but the one who knows what information they need and what to ignore. That is the lesson the board taught me, quietly, over many years.