Carlsen: 'AI shows humans are not that good'

When the game stretches into its fifth hour, Magnus Carlsen no longer hides his fatigue. At 35, after 15 consecutive years as world No. 1, he admits his body can no longer keep up with long, grueling calculations. But instead of clinging to his old style, he chooses to shorten games, win faster, and use what remains of his career to experiment with a new competitive format. In an interview with Spanish newspaper AS on October 21, Carlsen did not just talk about himself. He spoke about humanity's limits in the face of machines, about the growing gap between glory and money, and about a future where the traditional chess world championship is no longer the sole measure of excellence. The context of this conversation is not a specific tournament. Carlsen left the world championship cycle in 2026 when he announced he would not defend his title. Since then, the crown has belonged to younger names like Gukesh, while Carlsen still holds the No. 1 spot in the Elo ratings. The split between the title crown and the rating crown is a rare paradox in modern chess history. And in that context, Carlsen appears more as a thinker than a competitor. He talks about AI as a tool that has changed how humans approach chess, but also as something that makes humans realize how small they are. "AI makes chess more interesting in the short term," he says, "but it also makes it increasingly difficult to create an advantage over opponents." That seems like a contradictory statement, but it accurately reflects the structure of chess in the engine era: when every top player has access to the strongest machines, the advantage from deep opening preparation diminishes, and the real difference shifts to over-the-board calculation, time management, and psychological resilience. Carlsen does not hide the change in his preparation. Instead of studying specific opening lines for each opponent, he shifts to grasping "more general ideas." This is not a professional retreat but a rational cost-benefit adjustment. In a preparation market saturated by engines, preparing too specifically for each opponent carries high costs and yields little differentiation. The general approach also suits a player who no longer devotes full time to classical chess. He admits: "I no longer play such long games. So I try to win games a little faster." This is a genuine tactical adaptation with a clear mechanism: if the 5-6 hour concentration premium that once generated late-game points has eroded, compressing the game into earlier resolution converts his remaining strengths—opening knowledge, practical decision quality—into scoring chances before stamina becomes the binding constraint. What is notable is Carlsen's claim that the average quality of his moves has improved. This is the most technically interesting and least evidenced claim in the interview. It implies a self-assessment of accuracy or ACPL, but no metric is disclosed. In the engine era, access to better analysis tools can raise decision quality, but declining stamina depresses quality in the longest and most important games. This is a hypothesis, not a finding. However, it reflects a reality: Carlsen is trying to reshape how he views his career, not through dry numbers but through a subjective sense of progress. The most striking point in the interview is perhaps the $20 million figure. When asked about a possible return to the world championship, Carlsen says he does not oppose the idea but implies that the current prize—just over $1 million for the winner—is too low. The 20-fold gap between the current figure and the number he floats is a clear signal: this is a negotiating anchor, not a reservation price. Carlsen no longer sees the world championship match as a top priority. He says: "I am interested in many other aspects of chess more than in a world championship match." This statement, combined with his participation in a new event called the "World All-Around Championship" in Budapest from November 10-21, points to a different direction: mixed-format events where classical, rapid, and blitz chess are combined to crown an all-round champion. The Budapest event brings together 24 of the strongest players, including Le Quang Liem of Vietnam. It is an event outside the FIDE system, which raises questions of authority and legitimacy. An event using the "World" title without clear FIDE sanction is a challenge to the traditional power structure of the sport. But Carlsen seems unconcerned. He is excited about facing top players in a new format. And that is understandable: in a three-format event, players with balanced classical, rapid, and blitz profiles have an advantage. Carlsen, with a history of top-level performance in all three, is one of the biggest beneficiaries of this structure. But behind the tactical and commercial calculations, there is a more haunting statement: "AI shows humans are not that good." This is not a technical finding but a philosophical assertion. It acknowledges that artificial intelligence has surpassed humans in a field where humans once prided themselves on being the pinnacle of intelligence. And Carlsen, who was once the symbol of that excellence, accepts this truth with surprising calm. He does not oppose AI. He does not fear it. He simply sees it as part of the game. But that very calm raises a question: if humans are no longer the measure of excellence, what will replace them? And can a sport whose players are no longer the best still retain its appeal? There is a small detail the interview does not mention but is worth pondering. Carlsen says he no longer plays long games and prefers to win faster. This reflects not only a change in fitness but also in psychology. At 35, having achieved everything, he no longer has patience for six-hour games. He wants to finish quickly, to savor the feeling of victory before his body betrays him. That is an adaptation, but also a renunciation. And in that renunciation, there is a romantic beauty: a champion choosing to leave the stage on his own terms rather than let time defeat him. I have followed Carlsen for over a decade. I remember the seven-hour games in London where he patiently ground down opponents bit by bit. I remember the times he sat motionless at the board, eyes half-closed, as if listening to a music only he could hear. And now, he says he no longer plays such long games. There is a certain regret in that statement, but also acceptance. Time spares no one, not even geniuses. And how a genius confronts time can say much about who he is. What I find most interesting about Carlsen is not what he says about AI, but what he does not say. He does not say humans will never beat machines. He does not say chess has lost its appeal. He only says humans are not that good. It is a humble admission, but also a reminder: perhaps we have been too complacent about our place in the universe. AI is not just a tool. It is a mirror. And Carlsen, with all his greatness, is looking into that mirror and seeing an imperfect image. The Budapest event will be a test. If Carlsen wins, it will reinforce the view that mixed formats are the future of elite chess. If he fails, it will raise questions about whether his adaptation is a right step or just a desperate attempt to cling to fading glory. But whatever the result, Carlsen has sent a clear message: he is no longer a player of long games. He is a player of moments. And in the modern chess world, where AI has leveled the playing field of knowledge, moments may be all that is left. When the 17-year-old prodigy is now 35, he is no longer trying to prove he is the best. He is only trying to find a way to keep loving the game. And sometimes, that is a harder fight than winning the world championship.