Chess, Poker and Othello: the Three Theories of Physics

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My earliest memory of my study of high school physics is that of Newton’s third law, which informs us that for every action, there is an equal but opposite reaction. Newton’s universe is one of deterministic causation. Every event is caused by a preceding event, or by combinations of events. In a complex chain of dominos, once the first domino is tipped, all the others must fall in a predictable fashion, with no exceptions.

At about the same time as I began high school physics, I also undertook the hobby of chess. Chess is a game very analogous to Newtonian physics, at least insofar as, for each position on the board, strategy dictates that there a specific “best” move(s) to make. There is, in theory, no chance element involved.

By contrast, a very different class of game involves popular card games. Here chance plays a large role, and indeed, is often the decisive factor. I remember my dismay in a game of “hearts,” when I discovered that despite my playing every “trick” with perfect correctness, I lost. The arrangement of the cards had precluded any hope of my winning. This was utterly unlike chess, where perfect play is always rewarded with success.

Cards, then, are analogous to quantum physics, in which the chance element can dictate an outcome that is utterly unforeseeable except statistically. As any seasoned professional poker player knows, losing streaks are an almost inevitable part of the game, and can be overcome only by the expectation that in the long run, statistical distribution will favor the more skilled player. Even so, those long losing streaks can be costly and frustrating when bad play defeats good.

The present dichotomy in physics is between Relativity Theory and Quantum Theory. Both of them are rigorously supported by physical evidence, and yet, they have not been fully reconciled with each other. They are as different as chess and poker, and for much the same reason, that is, determinism and chance.

This brings us to the third game in our set of analogies. Othello, often called Reversi, is a very simple game with a few simple rules, easily and quickly learned. Like chess, it is deterministic, in that there is no chance element. Indeed, the game of Othello is so simple and straightforward that computers have been programmed to play the game with perfect precision. (This has not been done for chess, as far as I know.)

The curious thing is that, according to the last time I read up on this, no human Othello player has been able to defeat the best Othello-playing computer programs. The computer wins every time. There is no mystery to this. Just as in the ultra-simple game of tic-tac-toe (crosses and naughts), the winning moves have been discovered from the very first “X” onward. If played perfectly by both opponents, the game must always end in a draw.

The curious feature of Othello is that although the game has been solved, there are so many possible variations and complexities that they overwhelm the capacity of the human brain to pick out the correct move in each situation. One subtle mistake at any point of the game is fatal against perfect play, which is why the computer always wins. It has the capacity to explore every possible outcome of every possible play, and to pick out the best continuation. It never plays incorrectly. Humans will always make at least one exploitable mistake, from which there is no hope of recovery.

What has this to do with physics?

I am reminded of the cartoon frame in which two physicists are working out a complex formula on a chalkboard, while a pet dog, head cocked in confusion, looks on. One of the scientists remarks, dogs are always so cute when they try to understand quantum physics.

What about humans? Are we the cute dog? Is there a fundamental limit to our ability to understand nature? Does that limitation go so far as to prevent our best computers from ever working out the mysteries of the universe? Will we one day exhaust our highest and best brains with a problem to which we know there is an answer, but one which is forever beyond our ken?

A dying man once described his reaction to his prognosis of imminent death as, standing at the edge of a great abyss, looking out into the darkness, and being unable to see into it.

What will be the reaction of humans if ever we discover that we are incapable of omniscience? Where will we go from there?
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