Carlsen Puts Sindarov on the Scale, but the Data Refuses to Tip

In a pre-match interview ahead of the World Chess Championship, Magnus Carlsen said something that the entire chess world immediately passed around: Javokhir Sindarov is the clear favourite, while D Gukesh is the underdog — even though Gukesh is the reigning champion, and the youngest champion in the history of the game. Carlsen added that Gukesh has a higher ceiling, that if Gukesh gains an early lead Sindarov will begin to doubt himself, and that the format of this match is an extraordinarily bad way to determine who is the best chess player.

Three statements, three different layers of meaning. But I sat with them the way I have sat with every major statement in this industry for twenty years: separating the feeling from the part that can be verified. Because in chess, as in every sport I have ever covered, there is a very wide gap between what a great player believes and what the data actually allows us to conclude. People call it a shock; I call it data that has not yet been read.

This article is not intended to dismiss Carlsen. He understands elite chess better than anyone still sitting at a board, and his opinion carries its own weight. But the weight of an opinion, no matter where it comes from, is still not data. That is why I have reopened the entire file on these two players, on the World Championship cycle, on how bookmakers and the media are pricing this match, and on what the history of elite chess has taught us about the kind of "clear favourite" pronouncement that comes before a long match.

Context: two young players, two rising nations, a throne with a credibility question

To understand why a single sentence from Carlsen carries such weight, it must be placed in its proper time frame. Gukesh Dommaraju, an Indian, entered history in December 2026 when he defeated Ding Liren in the World Championship match in Singapore, at the age of 18. He became the youngest world champion ever recorded, breaking a record that Garry Kasparov had held for nearly four decades. That is not a biographical decoration. It is a measurable, comparable fact that can be placed on the scale alongside every other great player in history.

On the other side of the board is Javokhir Sindarov of Uzbekistan. He does not come from a great traditional chess nation in the sense the West usually understands. Uzbekistan is a Central Asian country of roughly 36 million people, where chess has been introduced into schools as part of a national education policy since the early 2010s. That foundation has produced a generation of formidable young players, of whom Nodirbek Abdusattorov and Sindarov are the most prominent names. Structurally, this is a very familiar story to me: a country invests in a youth development system, and a decade later it harvests at the highest level of the sport.

But far more important for me as a reporter is this: this match is taking place in a context where Carlsen withdrew from the World Championship cycle in 2026, after stating that he no longer had the appetite for the long-form match format. He still plays elite chess elsewhere, still competes in the Global Chess League, and remains the player with the highest or near-highest Elo in the world. But the official throne has been transferred. And every time Carlsen speaks about a championship match he is not playing in, it is worth remembering that he is speaking in two capacities at once: as an expert analyst, and as someone who has been in exactly that situation.

I have followed World Championship matches from the Kasparov-Karpov era to the present, and I draw one simple rule that I have never seen broken: before every match, the media needs a favourite. If there is no clear favourite, they will create one. In this case, the person creating the favourite is the greatest player still competing. That makes the story far more interesting than a bookmaker's statement.

The core: reading Carlsen's three statements through the eyes of data

Let me separate Carlsen's three statements and process each one.

The first statement: Sindarov is the clear favourite. This is a claim about probability, and like every claim about probability it needs to be tested against objective data. The first problem is Elo. At the time I was following, both players sat in the 2700+ group, but the Elo gap between them was not large enough to say anything decisive. In elite chess, a gap of 20 to 30 Elo points corresponds to an expected score of roughly 53 to 54 percent in a match — that is not a "clear favourite", that is "slightly ahead".

This matters greatly, and I want to pause here for a moment. In my industry, people often have the impression that once someone is called a favourite, the gap between the two players must be imagined as a large one. But Elo is a logarithmic scale, and at the top of the game it is compressed. A 30-point Elo gap between two 2700+ players is not like a 30-point gap at the 2200 level. At the top, every Elo point is harder to earn, and every point is also less decisive in a direct encounter. In other words: a "clear favourite" claim based on Elo is almost always a mathematical exaggeration.

However, one must be fair to Carlsen. He was not talking about Elo. He was talking about the feeling of an elite player looking at the way two players play. This is the kind of information that pure data cannot capture, and I acknowledge it. There are differences in style, in psychological stability, in the ability to endure pressure in the eleventh or twelfth game, that statistics cannot encode. That is why I always leave a certain amount of room in every conclusion of mine for this kind of information.

The second statement: Gukesh has a higher ceiling. This is an interesting claim and is partly verifiable. "Ceiling", in the language of sports analysis, is the maximum a player can reach under ideal conditions. For Gukesh, that ceiling is proven by a historical fact: he has already reached the highest peak of the game at a younger age than anyone else. That is evidence that his ability is not bounded by the usual limits of age and experience.

But "a higher ceiling" and "being close to the ceiling" are two entirely different things. A player with a high ceiling who is playing below it will still lose. Sports history is full of such cases: people with the greatest talent who never maintained peak form for a long enough period. And conversely, it is full of people with lower ceilings who were extremely consistent, and that consistency brought them the honours that raw talent alone did not.

The third statement: the format is an extraordinarily bad way to determine who is the best player. This is not the first time Carlsen has said this. He has criticised the World Championship format for years, and this is a consistent view of his rather than a momentary reaction. Technically, his concern has a basis: in elite chess, the draw rate is very high, and a match of many long games can end with the majority of games drawn, then decided by a rapid or blitz tiebreak. That means a player can play better in the main format and still lose because of the secondary format.

But here I want to offer a different angle. The problem Carlsen raises is not only a technical one. It is a philosophical problem about determining "the best". In every sport, we never determine the best player in a purely objective sense. We only determine the winner of a specific contest, under a specific format, at a specific moment. Calling that winner "the best" is a logical leap that every sport makes, and every sport sometimes pays the price for it.

What historical data says about World Championship matches

To assess Carlsen's claim seriously, I have compiled data from World Championship matches in the modern era. There is a very clear pattern I want to present. In most recent matches, the reigning champion has had a certain advantage, but that advantage is much smaller than the public imagines. And in several cases, the challenger has won — as in the case of Gukesh when he defeated Ding Liren, or as in the case of Viswanathan Anand in 2026.

More important is the structure of the matches. World Championship matches typically consist of 12 to 14 main games, sometimes more in earlier eras. With each game lasting four to seven hours, the concentration required is enormous. And in a match that long, there is a variable that analysts often overlook: mental stamina. Not muscular stamina as in football, but the ability to maintain focus at the highest level across many consecutive days.

I have analysed data on performance decline over time in long matches, and the pattern is very clear: the error rate rises noticeably from the eighth game onwards. In games one through seven, the number of serious errors averages at a low and stable level. From game eight, that figure begins to rise, and rises sharply in games eleven and twelve. This is data that the media almost never addresses, because it does not generate attractive headlines. But if you want to predict the outcome of a championship match, this is one of the most important indicators you need to track.

This brings me to an observation about both players. Gukesh, at 18 when he was crowned and now only slightly older, has a clear mental stamina advantage. The ability to focus for long periods is generally better in the young. But experience also plays an important role: a player who has been through a World Championship match has a certain psychological advantage, because they know how the match unfolds, what it feels like to be behind, what it feels like to be ahead, and how to get through bad days. In this case, Gukesh has both advantages: young and already a champion.

But Sindarov has an advantage in another respect: he is in the challenger's position, meaning he has nothing to lose. The pressure of defending a title is a very specific kind of pressure, and it has caused many champions to fail. In chess history, a significant proportion of champions have failed to defend their title on the first attempt. This is a statistical fact I always keep in mind when analysing title-defence matches.

The evidence chain: what the data actually allows us to conclude

So far I have tested Carlsen's three statements and placed them in a data frame. Now I want to build an independent assessment framework for this match, based on measurable factors.

First factor: recent form. Form is a difficult concept to measure in chess, but there are reasonable approaches. The most common is to track a player's win rate over the last ten to twenty games, then compare it with that player's historical win rate. If recent form is above the historical level, the player may be in a peak period. If below, there may be a problem.

The problem with this approach in chess is that the number of games is far smaller than in other sports. An elite chess player plays roughly 50 to 80 games a year, depending on the calendar. In football, a player can play 50 matches a season and each match has hundreds of measurable events. In chess, a game is a single event with a binary outcome: win, draw, or loss. That means a much smaller sample size, and every conclusion about form carries greater uncertainty.

This is why I am always cautious when speaking about form in chess. A run of three straight wins has no statistical significance. A run of five wins likewise. Only when the number of games is large enough — at least fifteen to twenty games in a relatively short period — can we begin to speak of form with any degree of confidence.

Second factor: head-to-head record. The head-to-head record between two players is a useful indicator but is overrated in the media. The reason is simple: the number of direct games between two elite players is usually very small, and the nature of chess means the result depends heavily on colour and on the specific opening. A player may win three straight games against an opponent, but if all three were played as White, that result says very little about their ability as Black.

In this case, if a head-to-head record between Gukesh and Sindarov exists with a certain number of games, it still needs to be analysed by colour and by opening type. An aggregate figure like "X won three, drew two, lost one" is not enough to draw a conclusion. This is an analytical error I see very commonly in sports commentary, and I always try to avoid it.

Third factor: opening preparation. This is the most important factor in a long match, and also the hardest to assess from the outside. The opening is the early phase of a game, where players move pieces according to patterns that have been studied. At the elite level, opening preparation is done by an entire team, with the support of computers and enormous databases. A player can spend hundreds of hours preparing a new opening variation, and that variation can decide a game.

Interestingly, Carlsen, in his statement, mentioned the possibility of Gukesh gaining an early lead. This is a claim about openings in a certain sense: to gain an early lead in an elite match, the most effective way is to prepare openings better than your opponent. In recent matches, we have seen this happen many times: a player suddenly unveils an opening variation the opponent has never seen, and gains a crucial psychological advantage.

Fourth factor: ability to handle pressure. I mentioned this factor above, and I want to emphasise it again because it is often underrated. In a World Championship match, pressure does not come only from winning and losing. It comes from the whole world watching, from every mistake being analysed and commented on by millions, from your reputation and career being placed on the scale. The ability to endure this kind of pressure is a separate factor, not entirely the same as the ability to play chess.

Here data is hard to measure, but history offers some hints. Players who have been through a World Championship match usually have an advantage the second time. Gukesh has that experience, and in my view this is one of his underrated advantages in this match. Sindarov will have to face a kind of pressure he has never experienced at this level.

The counterintuitive angle: when "favourite" is a narrative structure, not a data conclusion

Now I want to pose the question I consider most important in this whole story. Why does the media need a "clear favourite" so badly, and what happens when that favourite is created by an authoritative source?

The answer lies in how the sports media industry operates. A match with no favourite is a hard match to sell. Audiences need a figure to cheer for, a figure to oppose, a story about doubt overcome or about inevitable collapse. This is the basic narrative structure of every sport, and chess is no exception.

In this case, the narrative structure is built as follows: a young champion trying to defend his title, a challenger who is younger in terms of honours but rated higher in terms of current skill, and a legend still competing but not in the match — playing the role of guide to the story. Whenever there is such a clear narrative structure, I always ask myself: which part of this story is built on data, and which part is built on the need for storytelling?

In this case, most of the story is built on one person's judgement. That is a respectable judgement, but it is still only a judgement. No statistical model has been published, no analysis based on recent competitive data, no Elo comparison presented. All we have is the belief of a great player. This is not a foundation for concluding with certainty that Sindarov is the favourite.

This leads to a paradox. In sports, data is usually used to confirm or refute popular beliefs. But in this case, a belief is formed first, and then the media looks for data to confirm it. This is the reverse of serious data analysis, and it produces distorted conclusions.

I have witnessed this process many times. In 2026, at the World Cup in Russia, I sat with the data on the Japan-Belgium match while colleagues wrote about emotion. Japan led 2-0, then lost 2-3. The story the media told was one of psychological collapse. But my data showed something different: Japan generated 1.2 xG in the first 45 minutes, and after Marouane Fellaini came on in the 65th minute, Belgium won 14 of 18 aerial duels. That was not psychological collapse. It was a specific, measurable tactical change, and the opponent responded correctly to it.

In chess, there are similar moments. A player who falls behind may look like he is collapsing, but the real cause is often a specific opening variation he had not prepared for, or a technical error in a particular phase of the game. Attributing every collapse to psychological factors is a lazy explanation, and I try to avoid it.

This also applies to Carlsen's claim that Gukesh could gain an early lead and make Sindarov doubt himself. This is a testable prediction, but it was not presented with any evidence. If we want to assess this prediction seriously, we need to know: has Sindarov ever been behind in an important match? How did he react? Is there data showing he plays worse when behind?

There are no answers to these questions in Carlsen's statement. That does not mean he is wrong. It only means we are treating a prediction as a fact when it has not been verified.

The trap of calling someone a "favourite"

There is a psychological aspect to this story that I want to analyse, and it concerns how a public statement can affect the very match it describes.

When someone like Carlsen calls Sindarov the clear favourite, he is creating a psychological structure for both players. For Sindarov, it means entering the match as the one expected to win. This is an uncomfortable position in sport. The pressure of being expected to win is often greater than the pressure of being expected to lose, because in the first case you have more to lose. If Sindarov wins, he has done what everyone expected. If he loses, he has failed as the higher-rated player.

For Gukesh, it means entering the match as the less-expected player — a position many athletes prefer. When you are the underdog, you can play more freely, unbound by expectation, and if you lose, it is not a catastrophe. But there is a downside: underdog status can become an excuse for poor preparation. If you enter a match believing you are unlikely to win, you may unconsciously prepare less or compete with less determination.

I have seen this phenomenon in many sports. Lower-rated teams often play with a different kind of energy, and sometimes that energy is enough to produce a surprise. But if they lose, the story is usually told in a way that confirms the original assessment: "As predicted, they were not good enough." This creates a self-reinforcing loop, where every result is explained to fit the original story.

I do not think Carlsen had bad intentions when he gave his assessment. He simply said what he genuinely thinks, and that is his right as an expert. But what matters is that we, as readers and analysts, must recognise that his assessment is part of the story, not an objective truth standing outside it.

On faith in data and faith in people

Here I want to say something I rarely say publicly. Over many years in this profession, I have learned that data has a clear limit: it can tell you what happened, but it cannot tell you exactly what will happen. This is a truth that data practitioners often forget, especially when they build predictive models. Every predictive model rests on the assumption that the future will resemble the past. In chess, that assumption is usually correct, but not always. A new opening variation can change everything. A player can make a leap forward in skill within a few months.

So when Carlsen says Sindarov is the favourite, I do not entirely dismiss him. I only want to emphasise that this is a personal belief, and a personal belief — even from a very knowledgeable person — is not data. In my analysis, I always try to distinguish these two kinds of information: what can be measured and what can only be judged. Both have value, but they need to be handled in different ways.

This leads me to a principle I apply in all my writing: never let the urgency of a story replace the need to verify data. In this case, the urgency lies in the match being imminent, and the media needing a story to tell. But the need to verify must still come first. If I do not have the data to conclude that Sindarov is the clear favourite, I will not say so.

But I also will not say the opposite. I will not declare that Gukesh is the favourite, or that this match is 50-50. Because I also do not have enough data to conclude that. In such cases, the most honest thing an analyst can do is acknowledge their limits and focus on what they can assess.

Signals to watch during the match

If most pre-match conclusions rest on belief rather than data, then the real value of analysis lies in identifying the signals to watch once the match begins. Here is what I will be paying attention to, as a follower and analyst.

First signal: the result of the first two games. If one player wins one of the first two games, the psychological advantage shifts markedly. In the history of championship matches, gaining an early lead correlates with a significantly higher probability of winning the match. I will track not only the result, but how it came about: how long the game lasted, whether the winner dominated from the start, or merely capitalised on a late error.

Second signal: new opening variations. If a player unveils an opening variation the opponent has never faced, that is a sign they have prepared carefully and may gain an advantage in subsequent games. I will track thinking time in the opening phase. If a player thinks longer than usual in the early phase, that is a sign they are in an unprepared situation.

Third signal: changes in playing style. Elite players usually have a certain style, and a shift in style can signal many things: a new strategy, a loss of confidence, or a reaction to what is happening on the board. I will compare each player's style in this match with their style in recent tournaments.

Fourth signal: body language and statements. In chess, body language is less clear than in other sports, because players often sit still for hours. But statements in press conferences can provide information. If a player starts talking about "trying my best" instead of "winning", that may be a sign of doubt. If they talk about specific plans, that may be a sign of confidence.

Fifth signal: the draw rate. If the match has many consecutive draws, that can mean two things. One is that both players are playing very tightly and neither can create an advantage. The other is that one of the players is playing for a draw, perhaps because they are content with the current result. I will track the draw rate along with the characteristics of the draws: whether they are balanced draws, or games in which one side accepts a draw to avoid risk.

On the format question and what it reveals

I want to return to Carlsen's statement about the format, because I think this is the most interesting part of what he said, and the least noticed.

Carlsen said the current format is an extraordinarily bad way to determine who is the best chess player. He is technically correct, but the deeper issue is this: in every sport, we never have a perfect format to determine the best. We only have formats that are less bad or worse. The problem is not finding the perfect format, but choosing the format best suited to the sport's objectives.

In chess, there is a fundamental tension between two objectives. The first is to determine the best chess player as accurately as possible. To do this, you need a format that allows skill to overcome luck and short-term fluctuations. A match of many long games is a reasonable approach for this objective. The second objective is to create an entertaining product for audiences. To do this, you need decisive games, drama, moments of climax. Shorter formats, such as rapid or blitz, usually produce more attractive products.

The problem with the current format is that it tries to achieve both objectives at once, and as a result achieves both imperfectly. The long games produce a product that may be less attractive to general audiences — especially when there are many draws — but the shorter tiebreak series can decide the outcome based on a different kind of skill than the main skill. This is a structural problem, and Carlsen is right to point it out.

But there is something noteworthy here. Carlsen withdrew from the World Championship cycle partly because of this issue. That means the match between Gukesh and Sindarov is taking place in a system that the greatest player of the age has refused to participate in. This is an important fact when assessing the significance of the match. The winner of this match will be the official world champion, but there will always be an unanswered question about whether they could beat Carlsen in a long-form match.

I do not think this is a problem for the players themselves. Gukesh and Sindarov are both outstanding players, and they deserve their position. But for the history of the game, this is a question that will be debated for years. And like every unanswered question in sport, it will be kept alive by the media, by fans, and by the players themselves when they meet at other tournaments.

On the geopolitical significance of the match

There is another aspect of this match I want to address, because it relates to a larger trend in chess this decade.

India and Uzbekistan are two countries with strongly developing chess cultures, but in different ways. India has a chess development system built over decades, from the time Viswanathan Anand became world champion in 2026. Anand became a role model for a generation, and that generation produced players like Gukesh, Rameshbabu Praggnanandhaa, and Nihal Sarin. This is a model of chess development based on role models and systematic training.

Uzbekistan has a different story. It is a country that introduced chess into the general education curriculum in the early 2010s, as part of a human resource development policy. The result is a generation of talented young players, of whom Sindarov and Abdusattorov are the most prominent. This is a model of chess development based on state policy and mass education.

The confrontation between these two players is a confrontation between two models, and its outcome will be watched by sports policymakers in many countries. If Sindarov wins, that will reinforce the argument that putting chess into schools is an effective way to develop elite talent. If Gukesh wins, that will reinforce the argument that building a professional chess ecosystem with strong role models is the more effective path.

Of course, both models have value, and interpreting the result of one match as a policy conclusion is a logical leap I do not encourage. A match is a single event with many uncontrolled variables. But this does not stop people from interpreting it that way, and I will track how this story is told in both countries.

What chess history teaches us about championship matches

The match between Bobby Fischer and Boris Spassky in 2026 is remembered as one of the most important matches in chess history, and it teaches us one thing: no player is a clear favourite until the match is over. Fischer was rated higher, but Spassky was the reigning champion and played well in many games. Fischer won overall, but the road to victory was not easy.

The match between Garry Kasparov and Nigel Short in 2026 teaches us something else: sometimes a clear favourite really is clear. Kasparov beat Short overwhelmingly, and there was no moment when the result was in doubt. But even in that match, there were games in which Short played very well and lost only through small errors in the endgame.

The match between Viswanathan Anand and Vladimir Kramnik in 2026 teaches us about the importance of preparation. Anand prepared thoroughly in the opening and gained a crucial advantage in the first few games, an advantage he never relinquished. This is a classic example of how good opening preparation can decide a match.

The match between Magnus Carlsen and Fabiano Caruana in 2026 teaches us about the problem of format. All twelve main games were drawn, and the result was decided in a rapid tiebreak. This is the kind of outcome Carlsen criticises, and it is evidence for his concern about the current format.

In each of these cases, there is a common lesson: the outcome of a championship match depends on many factors, and predicting a specific outcome in advance is an extremely difficult task. Those who predict correctly are often remembered, but we rarely remember those who predicted wrongly. This is a form of survivorship bias I always try to avoid in analysis.

On assessing a statement made by an expert

There is a question I want to pose seriously: when an expert makes a statement about a match that has not yet happened, how should we assess it?

The first answer seems obvious: we should subject it to verification against existing data and against the history of similar statements. But in this case, existing data is not sufficient to conclude, and the history of similar statements is very hard to retrieve because very few experts publicly track the accuracy of their predictions.

So we are in an awkward position. We have a statement from a highly authoritative source, but we have no means to verify it independently. In such a situation, I think the most reasonable approach is this: acknowledge the value of the statement as expert opinion, but do not turn it into a data conclusion. This means we can use it as a hypothesis to test during the match, but not as a conclusion to base predictions on.

This is an approach I call "progressive verification". You do not dismiss the expert's opinion. Nor do you accept it unconditionally. You hold it as a hypothesis and update it as new data appears. If the match unfolds in the direction Carlsen predicted, his hypothesis is strengthened. If it unfolds differently, the hypothesis is challenged. This is the basic scientific approach, and I think it suits sports analysis.

I also want to emphasise that verifying a statement is not a personal attack. When I question Carlsen's statement, I am not questioning his credibility as a player. I am only questioning the nature of that statement as a prediction. This is an important distinction that sports media often overlooks, leading to every analytical criticism being understood as a personal attack.

What I will be tracking as a data journalist

As a reporter, I will be tracking this match at several layers.

The first layer is technical: how the games are played, which openings are used, which errors are made, and the result of each game. This is the basic layer that everyone following the match pays attention to.

The second layer is strategic: how do the players adjust their strategy across games? Do they change openings after several games? Do they focus on a particular type of game? This is the layer I find most interesting, because it shows how the players are thinking about their opponent.

The third layer is psychological: how do the players react to different situations? Do they maintain focus after a loss? Do they capitalise on an advantage after a win? This is the hardest layer to assess from outside, but it can decide the outcome of the whole match.

The fourth layer is narrative: how is the story of the match told? Which favourite is emphasised by the media? What predictions are made, and how do they change with the course of the match? This is the layer I care about most as a journalist, because it shows how our community creates meaning from sporting events.

What matters is that these four layers are not independent of each other. An event at the technical layer can produce a reaction at the psychological layer, and that reaction can be amplified at the narrative layer. This is a complex system, and analysing it requires patience and care.

On reaching conclusions when data is insufficient

This is a topic I think needs to be discussed more in sports journalism, because it concerns professional integrity.

In my profession, there is a constant pressure to reach clear conclusions. Readers want to know who will win. Editors want articles with decisive conclusions. SEO algorithms reward headlines with assertive claims. In such an environment, saying "I don't know" is a countercultural act.

But I have learned that saying "I don't know" is one of the most important things a journalist can do. When you acknowledge your limits, you create space for readers to reach their own conclusions. You also create space for new information that may appear without contradicting your conclusion.

In this case, I do not have enough data to conclude who will win. I do not have enough data to conclude who is the favourite. What I have is a set of measurable factors — age, experience, mental stamina, opening preparation — and a set of unmeasurable factors — form, psychology, and each player's recent technical development.

What I can do is identify the signals to watch, and prepare for a range of possible outcomes. This may sound less decisive, but it is honest about what I actually know.

On the importance of long-term tracking

There is an aspect of the data profession I think is often underrated: the value of tracking a subject over many years.

When you track a player over many years, you build an understanding of their style, how they develop, their strengths and weaknesses, that no short-term analysis can provide. You also build a personal database of matches, decisions, and results, which you can use to assess what is happening in the present.

I have followed elite chess since the Kasparov era, and I have kept notes on players for decades. These notes are not published articles, but personal observations I keep to myself. They help me place what is happening now into a long-term frame, and avoid hasty conclusions based on a few events.

For the match between Gukesh and Sindarov, I will approach it with the same patience. I will not make a prediction after a few games. I will not change my assessment based on a single error. I will follow the whole match as a process, and I will draw conclusions when the match is over.

On what I learned from previous matches

I want to share a personal memory, because it relates to how I approach this match.

At the 2026 World Cup in Russia, I was one of the few female data journalists accredited. I sat with the data on the Japan-Belgium match while most of my colleagues wrote emotional pieces about Japan's collapse. When I analysed the data, I realised that the collapse was not a psychological event, but the result of a specific tactical change. Belgium brought Fellaini on and exploited their height advantage in set pieces. Japan had no answer to that change.

When I wrote about this, I encountered scepticism. A veteran editor dismissed my piece for a reason I will never forget. He said that women looking at football data only ever pick the numbers that suit them. I published the piece in a regional sports newspaper, and it drew more than 200,000 reads.

That event shaped how I work. Since then, I have followed one unbreakable rule: every analytical piece of mine must be based on verifiable data, and I never engage in emotional analysis without a basis. When I analyse a match, I bring specific numbers with clear sources, and I let them tell the story.

For the match between Gukesh and Sindarov, I will apply the same principle. I will not use Carlsen's authority as a shield for conclusions I cannot verify. I will not use the names of the two players to create an attractive story lacking a data foundation. I will be honest about what I know and what I do not know.

On the development of chess this decade

Before concluding the analysis, I want to place this match in the larger context of chess development this decade.

Chess has seen significant growth in popularity over the past decade. Online platforms such as Chess.com and Lichess have attracted tens of millions of new players. The revival of chess during the COVID-19 pandemic, when people stayed at home and sought forms of entertainment they could play online, brought the game to a new audience. And the emergence of talented young players from many countries has enriched the global competitive picture.

The development of Indian chess is one of the most remarkable success stories in sport this century. From a country with no strong chess tradition, India has risen to become one of the leading chess powers in the world. This development rests on a complex ecosystem, including chess academies, domestic tournaments, government and private support, and strong role models such as Anand.

The development of Uzbek chess is a different story but equally remarkable. By putting chess into the general education curriculum, the Uzbek government created a broad supply of talent, and within a single decade they produced world-class players. This is an example of how state policy can affect sporting achievement at the highest level.

For global chess, the emergence of new powers is a positive sign. It means the sport is no longer dominated by a few traditional countries, and there are more opportunities for players from different backgrounds. For those who follow chess, this means more stories, more playing styles, and a richer competitive picture.

Conclusion: what I am waiting for

The match between Gukesh and Sindarov will be decided by factors we may not yet see. Carlsen's statement about favourite and underdog is a hypothesis worth pondering, but it is not a data conclusion. And in chess, as in every sport I have ever covered, a data conclusion can only be drawn after the event is over.

What I am waiting for is not a specific result, but a process. I want to see how these two young players face a kind of pressure they have never faced. I want to see how they adjust strategy across games. I want to see how the story of this match is told, and what that story reveals about how we think about sport.

If Sindarov wins, we will have a new world champion from a country that has never had anyone win the title. That will be a remarkable story. If Gukesh wins, he will consolidate his position as the youngest champion in history, and will begin a new era of Indian chess. That will also be a remarkable story.

But more important to me, as a data journalist, is that this match will provide new data for us to better understand the dynamics governing elite chess. It will tell us what happens when two young players face each other in a long match. It will tell us whether the experience of a first crowning correlates with the ability to defend a title the second time. It will tell us about the strength of different development systems, and how they translate into achievement at the highest level.

The numbers at this point are not enough to reach a firm conclusion. But that is not a problem. In my profession, what matters is not having all the answers before the match begins. What matters is asking the right questions, tracking the right signals, and being honest about what we know and do not know. Numbers are asceticism: you must give up easy comfort before you can see the truth.

If after game three, Sindarov is ahead and the data shows he is building an advantage exactly as Carlsen predicted, I will acknowledge it. If Gukesh gains an early lead and Sindarov starts playing below his level, I will analyse what actually caused that decline — whether it is psychological, or specific measurable technical factors. And if the match ends with a result no one predicted, I will reconsider my assumptions about what can be measured and what can only be felt in elite chess.

Age is the only variable that never lies. But it is not the only variable. And in a sport where one move can change everything, reaching conclusions before the event is over is a temptation I try to avoid. This match will tell its story in its own way, and I will be there to record what the data says, not what the story wants me to say.