Does Playing Chess Make You Smarter?
Let’s start with this: if intelligence could be bought in 64 squares, every school would’ve replaced math class with a pawn structure seminar.
The myth that chess makes you smarter is seductive. It conjures the image of the quiet genius, brow furrowed, sacrificing a bishop to set up a five-move checkmate. We see Bobby Fischer demolishing Cold War adversaries and imagine that somewhere, buried in the Sicilian Defense, lies a magic pill for brainpower.
But does it actually work like that?
The “Chess = Smart” Illusion
Here’s what we know: chess is undeniably a complex game. It requires memory, pattern recognition, strategic planning, and the ability to think multiple moves ahead. That’s a serious cognitive workout. But here’s the twist—being good at chess makes you good at chess. Not necessarily calculus. Not necessarily philosophy. And definitely not social skills.
In fact, many studies have tried to find a link between playing chess and general intelligence or academic achievement. The results? Mixed at best. Kids who play chess might improve in certain areas like concentration and problem-solving, but the idea that chess turns average students into brainiacs hasn’t really held up under scientific scrutiny.
It’s a classic case of correlation vs. causation. Smart kids might be drawn to chess because they like complex challenges—not the other way around.
But Wait—There Is Something There
That said, there are subtle, underrated benefits to playing chess. For example:
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Delayed gratification: You learn to think ahead. Immediate gains might cost you the game. Sound familiar? That’s the same skill you need when deciding between spending now or saving for later.
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Cognitive endurance: Chess is mentally exhausting. Playing long games builds mental stamina, the same way running builds cardiovascular strength.
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Pattern mastery: You start seeing patterns everywhere—in the board, in your life. The more you play, the more you learn to anticipate outcomes based on seemingly minor details. That’s useful far beyond chess.
So while chess may not raise your IQ, it does train your brain to sit with difficult problems longer, to tolerate uncertainty, and to revise your plans when the board changes. That’s not intelligence in the raw, but it is the kind of skill that helps you use your intelligence better.
The Real Reason Chess Feels Like a Genius Game
Chess is one of the few activities where the learning curve never really ends. It punishes laziness. It exposes sloppy thinking. There’s a brutal honesty to it—you either saw the move or you didn’t. No excuses. No smooth-talking your way out of a blunder. It’s all laid bare on the board.
And maybe that’s why we conflate it with being smart. Not because it makes you smarter, but because it reveals something about how your mind works under pressure.
So… Should You Teach Your Kid Chess?
Sure. But not because you want them to be the next Einstein. Teach them because chess teaches focus in a world that rewards distraction. Because it humbles you. Because it makes failure fast, frequent, and oddly enjoyable once you learn to laugh at your own blown endgames.
Teach them because it builds character—and that, more than raw intellect, is what gets people through life.
In the end, chess won’t give you genius. But it might give you something better: the ability to think deeply, fail gracefully, and always play the long game.
How Do Lie Detectors Work?
It’s a strange truth about human nature: we desperately want a machine that can tell us what someone is really thinking. Not what they say, not what they claim—but what’s happening underneath, in the slippery soup of anxiety, shame, and deception. That’s the promise of the lie detector.
But here’s the catch: lie detectors don’t actually detect lies. Not directly, anyway.
They detect stress.
Specifically, the polygraph—the most famous lie detector—measures physiological responses that tend to spike when someone is under pressure. Think blood pressure, heart rate, respiratory rate, and something called galvanic skin response (a fancy way of saying how sweaty your fingertips get). When you lie, your brain goes into overdrive: you’re juggling facts, suppressing the truth, and anticipating consequences. That cocktail of tension shows up in your body.
So, the polygraph hooks you up to a bunch of sensors, asks you baseline questions (“Is your name Nick?”), and then hits you with relevant ones (“Did you steal the money?”). A trained examiner watches for sudden physiological shifts that might indicate deception.
But here’s the twist: stress doesn’t mean someone is lying. You might be telling the truth and still be sweating bullets—because you’re scared, angry, ashamed, or just hate being interrogated.
In fact, that’s why polygraph results aren’t admissible in most courts. They’re too unreliable. A guilty person might pass by staying eerily calm. An innocent person might fail by panicking. It’s less a truth machine and more of a stress-o-meter—and stress is a slippery thing.
Still, lie detectors persist in the cultural imagination. You’ve seen them in crime shows, spy thrillers, and daytime talk shows. They’re dramatic. They offer a seductive illusion: that there’s a clear line between truth and lies, and we can draw it with wires and charts.
But reality is murkier. Human beings are messy, and the truth isn’t always physiological.
So if you’re wondering whether someone is lying to you, skip the machine. Try listening better. Ask deeper questions. Watch for contradictions in their story over time.
Because in the end, no machine knows the truth better than time and human intuition.
How Hard Is It to Own a Gun in Japan?
If you want to own a gun in Japan, you’d better be prepared to jump through more hoops than a circus tiger with a paperwork fetish.
Let’s start with the basics: Japan has some of the strictest gun control laws in the world. And it’s not just about background checks. It’s about the entire philosophy surrounding firearms. In Japan, gun ownership isn’t a right. It’s a privilege. And that privilege is intentionally made difficult to obtain.
Step One: Prove You’re Worthy
To even apply for a gun license, you must:
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Attend an all-day gun safety class.
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Pass a written test, administered only a few times a year.
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Pass a shooting range test (and you need to hit at least 95% of your targets).
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Undergo a full mental health evaluation at a hospital.
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Pass a background check that includes interviews with your family and co-workers.
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Submit to a criminal record check and check-ins with police to ensure you have no ties to extremist groups or organized crime.
And this is all just for shotguns and air rifles—because handguns?
Totally banned. No exceptions. Not for private citizens.
Step Two: Storage, Surveillance, Scrutiny
If you pass the tests and get your gun, you’re not off the hook:
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You have to store it in a locked safe, in a separate location from the ammunition.
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Police must be notified of the exact location of your gun and ammo.
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Police will inspect your home periodically to ensure you’re complying.
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Every three years, you must renew your license, retake the written test and shooting test, and undergo another round of background checks.
And if you ever fire your gun in public? You’d better have an air-tight reason.
Why So Strict?
The roots of Japan’s strict gun control go back centuries. In the 1600s, the Tokugawa shogunate essentially banned firearms to maintain peace and avoid rebellion. Even when Japan modernized, it never embraced the “guns = freedom” mindset. Post-WWII laws only reinforced the idea that public safety comes first.
The result? Gun deaths in Japan are so low, they’re almost statistical noise. In most years, the number of gun-related deaths can be counted on two hands. Contrast that with the U.S., where guns kill more people annually than car accidents.
So Is It Impossible?
No. It’s just… very, very intentional. If you’re a hunter, sport shooter, or need a gun for pest control on a farm, it’s doable. But the system is designed to make sure that only the most responsible, stable, and closely-monitored individuals are allowed to have one.
Which, to be fair, is kind of the point.
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