Fritz 20 and the Unanswered Question: Which Software Truly Teaches Chess to Vietnamese Players?

I remember a night in August 2026, when every chess tournament in the world was suspended because of the pandemic. The stadiums were empty, the clubs were shut, and I sat in a small room in Nha Trang, reopening an old game on my computer screen. My opponent was a piece of software called Fritz. It did not know I was 65. It did not know I had sat at the chessboard for 49 years. It did not know that behind every move I made were memories of tournaments long past, of opponents grown old, of games no one remembers anymore. It simply moved the pieces with absolute precision, without emotion, without hesitation, without fatigue.

After three hours, I realized something: the greatest chess teacher of my generation was not a human being, and that was both wonderful and sad. The stadium is empty, but the applause of 2026 still echoes in every old record. In the world of chess, this is truer than ever.

ChessBase, the German chess software company, has just introduced FRITZ 20. In its press release, it calls this product a "training revolution," a "personal chess trainer," a "comprehensive solution from beginner to professional." It is one of the oldest surviving chess software products on the market. Fritz was born in the 1990s and became a familiar name to any chess player in Vietnam who had access to a computer over the past two decades.

But behind that advertising language lies a larger question: what does chess software truly need to become a teacher, and are Vietnamese chess players being left behind in this technological race? The FRITZ 20 press release contains no specific metric for engine strength, no comparison with rivals, no data on training effectiveness. All that is offered are purely promotional phrases.

I have spent most of my career following Vietnamese chess, from grassroots tournaments in the provinces to young players trying to reach the international stage. Over those 49 years, I have witnessed a paradox: Vietnamese people play a great deal of chess, yet few have access to a structured training system. In large cities like Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City, some chess clubs manage to stay active, but in provinces like Khanh Hoa, where I live, finding a real chess teacher is a luxury.

Chess software appeared as a solution. When Fritz, Stockfish, and applications like Chess.com and Lichess became popular, anyone with a computer and an internet connection could train against the strongest opponents in the world. That was a genuine revolution, but not in the way the marketers promise.

The modern chess software market is divided into three main groups. First are open-source engines like Stockfish and Leela Chess Zero, free and far stronger than any human player. Second are integrated platforms like Chess.com, where users can play, learn, and analyze within a single interface. Third are traditional products like those from ChessBase, to which Fritz belongs.

What stands out is that the FRITZ 20 press release contains no specific figure on engine strength, no technical specifications, no comparison with rivals. All that is offered are phrases like "revolution," "comprehensive," "personalized." This is a sign that ChessBase is struggling to position its product in a market where raw engine strength has become a free, commodified good.

When Stockfish can beat any player with superior computing power, and when Lichess offers free analysis tools to everyone, the value of chess software no longer lies in its computing ability. That is why ChessBase must pivot toward "training" and "coaching." But the paradox lies elsewhere: they claim the product is for both beginners and professionals, while competitors all choose the path of specialization. Stockfish dominates engine strength. Chessable dominates structured learning. Chess.com dominates the integrated platform experience.

From the perspective of someone who has followed Vietnamese chess for nearly half a century, I see a large gap between what software advertises and what players truly need. On a visit to a chess club in Nha Trang in 2026, I met a group of about ten children training on an old computer. They played each other, analyzed games with free software, and more importantly, they learned from each other's mistakes. No software, however much it is advertised as a "revolution," could replace that space.

The true value of a chess training tool does not lie in its power, but in the connection it creates between the learner and the community. Software can point out a wrong move, but it cannot explain why the child chose that move. Software can offer millions of games for reference, but it cannot teach patience, focus, or composure under pressure. Those qualities can only come from people.

In the world of chess, there is a concept called ACPL — Average Centipawn Loss, a metric measuring a player's average error compared with the engine's best move. It is one of the most common measures in modern chess analysis. But when I look at the numbers, I always wonder: does average error truly reflect a player's progress? A player can reduce his ACPL to near engine level through software training, but that does not mean he understands chess more deeply.

True understanding comes from experience, from losing, from re-analyzing one's own games — things software cannot do on your behalf. I recall the story of a young player I once met in Khanh Hoa. His name was Hung, about sixteen, self-taught in chess through YouTube and free software. He could beat many older players at the local club, but had never competed at national level. When I asked why, he said his family could not afford to send him far to compete, and he did not know where to begin.

Hung's story is not unique. It reflects a reality: while training technology grows ever more powerful and accessible, opportunities for advancement remain unevenly distributed. Good software can help Hung play better chess, but it cannot open the door to the national stage.

This is precisely the blind spot of "training revolution" advertising: it ignores the role of systems, of opportunity, and of community. People often assume technology will democratize chess, that anyone with a computer can access the best training tools. That is technically true, but practically false.

In Vietnam, the digital divide remains a real barrier. From my observation, most young players in the provinces cannot afford paid software licenses. They use free or pirated versions, and therefore do not receive full support. Software advertised as a "comprehensive training solution" costing several hundred US dollars is a luxury for many families.

But there is a deeper paradox: even with the best software, Vietnamese chess players still lack the most important thing — a healthy, continuous competitive environment. Chess tournaments in Vietnam remain few in number and irregular in schedule. Young players often train alone for months without a real chance to compete. In that context, software however strong is only a tool. It cannot replace the atmosphere of a tournament, the pressure of a life-or-death game, or the joy of victory after hours of tension.

From a professional standpoint, I believe Vietnamese chess players should approach training software with sobriety. No software can entirely replace the role of a teacher, a club, or a community. But good software can be a valuable aid if used correctly. The key is to understand what you need. If you are a beginner, a free app with basic lessons may be enough. If you are a player seeking to improve, combining engine analysis, theory study, and actual competition is essential. No software can replace all of that in a single package.

So how should Vietnamese players view FRITZ 20 and similar products? I believe we must ask the reverse question: what will help Vietnamese chess grow? The answer does not lie in buying the strongest or most expensive software. It lies in building a support system from the ground up, where children can access chess early, where young players have regular competition, and where teachers can pass on not only technique but a love of the board. Software is only one piece of that picture. And like any piece, its value depends on where it is placed in the whole.

Every stadium I walk through has a secret door, and the entrance is always a person. In the world of chess, that door may be software, but the one who opens it is always a person. A record is never old; it is only waiting for someone who knows how to listen. And in chess, records are not numbers on a screen, but moments when a person surpasses himself.

In Vietnamese chess in recent years, there is cause for joy: more and more young people know chess and have access to modern training tools. But there is also cause for concern: we tend to believe technology can solve every problem. However strong FRITZ 20 may be, however much it is advertised as a "revolution" or "comprehensive solution," it remains only a tool. And a tool cannot replace a person. No algorithm can teach patience. No engine can inspire. No software can create those miraculous moments at the board — moments that come only when a human being is present.

As someone who has spent a lifetime observing and recording those moments, I believe the future of Vietnamese chess lies not in the strongest software, but in people willing to sit together at the board, patiently showing each other every move, and building a true chess community together. The stadium may be empty, but the applause of teachers still echoes in every move of their students.