Is a poker tournament gambling? No theory settles it. A hand does. I played this one myself, in an international tournament, and it ended in the worst way possible — that is, having done everything right. I am telling it because it brings into focus the flaw the format has carried since it was born, copied and not designed.
- The starting assumption
- A real hand, a structural problem
- Reading the opponent
- The show-down and the two cards left
- Why this demonstrates the problem
- What would have changed at the river
- The padia component yields to ludus approaching the river
The starting assumption
The starting point is twofold. On one side Crismani‘s assumption: establishing whether winning in a given game depends on chance is an inquiry to be made case by case, on the rules and the combinations of that game. On the other Caillois‘ classification, which places card games among those where the player’s fortunes decide.
The two components Caillois identifies in every game — padia and ludus — are not in balance in the traditional tournament. The first dominates, and as long as it dominates the discipline stays where the institutions have placed it.
A real hand, a structural problem
A Master tournament in a European casino, some years ago. Ten of us left, five per table: the final table bubble, when every elimination counts double. I had the button — the best position relative to the betting order, the one that favors aggressive play more than any other — and about fifty big blinds in front of me, not bad one step from the final table. I felt ahead of the table, mostly on experience, and that let me control the action.
The players before me folded. I looked at my cards: K-10 offsuit. From the button it was a hand to raise with, and I raised three times the big blind. The small blind folded. The big blind hesitated — I saw him hesitate — then just called.
The dealer spread the flop: K-10-5. I had two pair, the highest at the table.
Reading the opponent
That hesitation told me more than he imagined. With A-K or a pair from tens up he would have raised, probably going all-in to end the hand there. He did not: I ruled those combinations out of his range and placed him on two high cards or a low pair. After the flop I was reasonably sure he had hit the K.
It was not intuition. I had been watching that opponent for hours, and by then I knew what each of his movements meant. While I waited for his decision I began laying out the possible scenarios, to be ready for each.
There was something else I had decided before I even saw the flop. Raising from the button, I had chosen a strategy of deception: to send misleading information, so he would read the situation the way I wanted. For it to work, the flop had to help me and help him too — just enough to make him believe he was ahead. Had he not believed it, I would have played differently.
The show-down and the two cards left
He checked. That was what I was waiting for: I bet half the pot, the figure that would put him in a position to commit everything. He answered with the all-in, and I called instantly, laying the smallest chip of my stack on the felt.
The dealer called the show-down. He turned over K-Q: a pair of kings, the hand I had given him. I turned over K-10: two pair. I was ahead — and from that moment there was nothing more I could do.
Turn: 7. River: Q. He made two pair higher than mine and took the pot, which held a little over forty of my big blinds. [P. Semeraro, pp. 20-21]
I was not eliminated: seven big blinds were left, and I played them on the next hand. I finished the tournament in tenth place. I had read my opponent right, I had chosen the right strategy and carried it through. And I lost.
Why this demonstrates the problem
The point is not that I lost. Losing is part of the game, and one lost hand proves nothing.
The point is where my ability to play stopped. The moment I called that all-in, my opponent and I both stopped being players: neither of us could bet, fold, read the other or change plan. Two cards were left to come and no decisions left to make.
From there on the hand was played by the deck. And when the deck plays, skill is not beaten: it is taken off the field.
What would have changed at the river
Let us picture the same hand with a single difference: that the show-down had come at the river instead of the flop.
I would have seen the turn and then the river before committing my chips. I would have seen the Q come down, and I would have understood at that moment that his pair had become two pair better than mine. At that point I would not have called his all-in nor tried to induce it: I would have chosen to keep my chips and wait for a better spot.
He would have taken the pot anyway. But he would have taken it because I stopped in time, not because the deck decided for both of us: a win built, not a win that happened. What this means for variance is another article’s subject.
The padia component yields to ludus approaching the river
Between the flop and the river there is no switch, there is a slope. With every card revealed the table says something more, and every something more narrows the room left to chance: pre-flop you decide almost blind, at the river no cards are left to come.
It is along this slope that the padia component gradually yields the field to ludus. And precisely because it is a slope and not a jump, it can be measured: how much ludus is expressible in each phase is the calculation the Skill Poker Index rest on.
