“Suspenseful” is not how I’d describe a game of chess, but Walter Tevis’s 1983
novel The Queen’s Gambit is the exception.
The incredible popularity of the Netflix show, which is a beat-for-beat adaptation of the
book, proves that the source material succeeds in creating narrative tension.
“Tension” can be defined as “inner striving, unrest, or imbalance.”
A question remains unresolved, or two opposing forces are at odds.
Readers crave tension because it creates anticipation—what will happen next?
This uncertainty keeps us reading until we feel that satisfying rush of resolution.
In The Queen’s Gambit, one of the most tense scenes is the climactic game between the protagonist
Beth Harmon and her rival Vasily Borgov.
Beth has lost twice to Borgov, so the Moscow Invitational is her chance to redeem herself—the
personal stakes are high.
Tevis has already established the hard groundwork of making the reader care about Beth by showing
her orphan backstory, tragic home life, and struggles with addiction.
And in all of Beth’s previous games, it’s clear she wants to be the world champion more
than anything.
Because of that emotional investment and strong character drive, readers aren’t just curious
about the game’s outcome; they’re eager to see what happens to Beth.
When the final game starts, Beth is at a disadvantage: “Borgov had started a line of play for which
she had no continuation ready.”
So, from the outset, Tevis positions his protagonist as the underdog, forcing her to confront past
mistakes.
And despite her careful preparation, Beth’s plans are already going awry.
Here, the setting amplifies the conflict.
On a macro-level, the game takes place in 1960s Moscow, turning Beth into a pawn in
the political tensions between the US and Soviet Union.
On a scene-level, Beth is surrounded by crowds of staring people as she tries to recover
from her rough start:
She took her eyes from the board with an effort and looked out over the audience.
She had been playing here for days and still the mere size of it was shocking.
She turned uncertainly back to the board, to the rook in the center.
She had to do something about that rook.
She closed her eyes.
Immediately the game was visible to her imagination with the lucidity she had possessed as a child
in bed at the orphanage.
She kept her eyes closed and examined the position minutely.
It was as complicated as anything she had ever played out from a book, and there was
no printed analysis to show what the next move was or who would win.
Narrative tension is external and internal: events happen in the story that can be visualized—in
this case, the chess game itself—and emotions war inside the protagonist.
The character needs to feel uncertainty in order for the reader to feel it.
Beth’s uncertainty is constant during this game, especially when Borgov surprises her,
and she’s forced to make a tough decision:
Suddenly she heard his voice from across the table saying the astonishing word “Draw.”
It was like a statement and not a question.
He was offering her a draw.
She opened her eyes and looked at his face.
Borgov never offered draws, but he was offering her one.
She could accept it and the tournament would be over.
They would stand up to be applauded and she would leave the stage in a tie with the champion
of the world.
Something went slack inside her, and she heard her own silent voice saying, Take it!
This decision point generates “micro-tension” within the larger win-or-lose scenario.
As writing guru Donald Maass explains: “Micro-tension is the moment-by-moment tension that keeps
the reader in a constant state of suspense over what will happen, not in the story but
in the next few seconds.”
Tevis ensures that every sentence produces uncertainty about what Beth will ultimately
decide.
Beth weighs her options, and for a paragraph, it seems like she’s going to take the draw,
knowing that “Borgov was death on endgames; he was famous for it” and that “She should
accept the draw.
People would call it a solid achievement.”
But then with one paragraph break, we see her thoughts shift: “A draw, however, was
not a win.
And the one thing in her life that she was sure she loved was a win.”
She decides to keep going.
The narrative tension comes not only from the personal stakes, setting, and internal
uncertainty, but also the ticking time bomb.
Beth must make her next move before the game clock runs out:
She had twelve minutes left.
Her eyes had been closed for over an hour.
If she had made an error, there would be no time for a new strategy.
She reached forward and moved the king knight pawn to the fifth rank.
There was a stab of pain in her shoulder as she set it down; her muscles felt rigid.
All of this tension leads up to the big payoff moment—the answer to the narrative question
that the author has posed: Will Beth win or lose the game?
When she advanced the pawn to the seventh rank, she heard a soft grunt from him as though
she had punched him in the stomach.
It took him a long time to bring the king over to block it.
She waited just a moment before letting her hand move out over the board.
When she picked up the knight the sense of its power in her fingertips was exquisite.
She did not look at Borgov.
When she set the knight down, there was complete silence.
After a moment she heard a letting-out of breath from across the table and looked up.
Borgov’s hair was rumpled and there was a grim smile on his face.
He spoke in English.
“It’s your game.”
He pushed back his chair, stood up, and then reached down and picked up his king.
Instead of setting it on its side he held it across the board to her.
She stared at it.
“Take it,” he said.
Even if you know nothing about chess, you can feel the scene rising toward the climactic
moment as you watch the characters’ heightened emotions and body language like with the phrase
“as though she had punched him in the stomach” and “its power in her fingertips was exquisite.”
From those descriptors alone, we know who’s losing and who’s winning.
Tevis shares the importance of these emotional details in an interview with NPR:
I hope the people who don't know chess will be able to sense the entire range of excitement
that the game affords to those who do understand it.
I'm trying to concentrate on the emotional responses between players.
What I did in the past, as I just read, I'm concerned with the way Beltik acts.
I'm concerned with the way that Beth feels.
I'm concerned with what they say to one another.
What I care about is the tension, the excitement, the fear that is involved in this, in some
ways, purest of all games.
The way Tevis builds tension relies on slowing down each moment and showing the details.
The whole climactic scene is four pages long, and every element adds an external obstacle
amid Beth’s inner turmoil: the unexpected opening moves, the staring crowd, her opponent’s
offer of a draw, the ticking clock.
Narrative tension is like pulling back a bowstring, with the audience waiting for the arrow to
fly to see where it lands.
The scene’s ending resolves the external and internal tension, showing the crowd and
the game piece while also conveying Beth’s internal reactions:
The applause began.
She took the black king in her hand and turned to face the auditorium, letting the whole
massive weight of the ovation wash over her.
People in the audience were standing, applauding louder and louder.
She received it with her whole body, feeling her cheeks redden with it and then go hot
and wet as the thunderous sound washed away thought.
Think about the lead-up to a big moment in your story.
Where can you slow it down?
Where can you add character dilemmas and emotions to create uncertainty for the reader?
What tense scene are you writing next?
Tell me all about it in the comments.
And I’d love to hear your thoughts on The Queen’s Gambit.
Whatever you do, keep writing.