Eight pieces, one knife, no cleaver and no bones splintered. The single skill that changes what you can cook.
A whole chicken is cheaper per kilo than any part of it sold separately, and jointing one takes about four minutes once you have done it half a dozen times. More usefully, it leaves you with a carcass, which is the only way to get stock without buying bones.
You need one sharp knife with a blade around fifteen centimetres. No cleaver, no shears except for the backbone if you prefer them, and no force. Every cut in this process goes through a joint or through skin — if you find yourself pushing hard against bone, you are in the wrong place by a centimetre or two.
Every one of these separations happens at a place the bird was already designed to bend. The shoulder, the hip and the knee are all ball or hinge joints with a capsule of soft tissue around them, and a sharp blade goes through that tissue as though it were butter. Bone is only ever an obstacle if you have missed.
The practical technique for finding a joint is to move the limb. Hold the body still with one hand and rotate the wing or leg with the other, and watch where the movement is actually happening. Put the knife there.
Eight pieces that cook at different rates, which is exactly the point. The breasts want fifteen minutes of high heat and nothing more. The thighs and drumsticks want an hour of gentle wet heat and will be tough and rubbery if given anything less. Cooked as a whole bird, one of those two groups is always compromised — which is why every roast chicken recipe is a negotiated settlement between them.
Jointed, there is nothing to negotiate.