They don’t talk about it much, the ones who cheat. Not until the story’s behind them. Even then, most vanish. But every so often, one turns back and says, Here’s how it happened. What follows is an account from a former online chess cheater—shared late one night, not for forgiveness, but for truth. We’ve changed identifying details at the subject’s request.
Quiet Crime
It begins as all the best crimes do. Quiet, unnoticed, and just clever enough to work. There were no masks. No vaults. Only a chessboard glowing in a dark room and a faint pulse of a browser extension in the corner. Victories on tap. Effortless glory derived from few lines of ingenious code.
The Borrowed Genius
“I felt superior,” he said. “I could win all the time without actual skill.”
Our conversation happened after midnight. He contacted me, not to confess exactly, but rather to relieve himself of a weight he had carried for far too long. He now goes by a different name. He is even in good standing. Even so, the echo of what he did still lingers like remnants in smoke tainted fabric.
The Slow Descent
He cheated for two years.
It was neither impulsive nor sloppy. It began with Stockfish. Your simple basic backdoor moves. Cross-tabbed the lines he had yet to learn. But soon even that wouldn't be enough. Like any addict, he leveled up. Found a browser extension that hovered like a co-pilot, scanning the board and whispering answers. Eventually he wouldn't even move the pieces himself. A bot did.
And he won. A lot.
“At first, I didn’t even know you could get caught,” he said. “But once I did, I watched how people stayed hidden—timing moves, managing accuracy. The smart ones never get caught.”
The Invisible Line
I felt compelled to ask if he felt like he'd ever crossed a line. He didn't flinch.
“No. Not then. I just wanted to win.”
And there is was. The marrow of it all so to speak. He didn't want to simply level the playing field. He wanted to tilt it entirely. Turn the board into a stage, playing God with a pawn in either hand.
Caught in the Web
But the platforms catch up. He was banned. Everything he had worked hard for was lost. The account, the rating, the illusion of mastery were all taken away in an instant. This time his fall would not be one he could cheat his way out of. And that's when the real game would begin.
“Getting caught let me into the light,” he said. “It made me want to actually play—to earn it.”
Redemption Game
Lichess granted him another opportunity. One account. One shot. This time, free from cheating he had grown accustomed to. He began participating in over-the-board tournaments. Real clocks. Real opponents. No escape key. No bots.
I asked if he believed players like him should be banned. No hesitation.
“Yes. Absolutely. But give them one more chance after that. Just one.”
A New Climb
He now sits at 1700. Not the summit, but a climb he respects--a hard-earned foothold on a mountain that never stops rising. He estimates 1 to 3 percent still cheat. Fewer on Lichess. More on Chess.com. The majority get caught. Some never will. But for him, every honest game is a brick laid in a new foundation.
Final Move
This is the line that stuck with me the most:
“Cheating won’t help me actually gain skill.”
That line alone could either come from a coach or a reformer. But it came from a ghost in the machine. One who walked into the light and sat down across from a real opponent.
And this time, played honest.
This article is part of an ongoing investigative series on the culture, psychology, and mechanics of online chess cheating. To share your story (anonymously or not), contact me on Discord: .lemonllama
