Krafton writes the rules, runs the tournaments, signs the penalties: VTV3 puts the question to Vietnam's entire esports scene

On the night Krafton announced its sanctions against two Vietnamese PUBG players — Himass and TanVuu — I was in Busan, reopening my esports labour-market tracker as I do every evening. On the screen, the two crossed-out names were not sitting in the transfer-fee column, nor in the salary column. They sat in a cell I rarely have to touch: international competitive eligibility. Both players were banned from all global PUBG tournaments run by Krafton. Less than two days later, VTV3 — Vietnam's national broadcaster — spoke up. Not to judge guilt. But to question the system back: what exactly did they violate, and how was the penalty process carried out. A national broadcaster asking a game publisher about the rules written by that same publisher. That is the point where this stopped being a game-news item. It became a governance file. The context first. In esports, the power model is entirely different from football. Football has a world federation, continental confederations, independent referees, a court of arbitration for sport. Esports has few of those layers. In a title owned by a single company, as PUBG is, that company holds three roles at once: it writes the competition rules, it organises the tournaments, and it signs the penalties. Krafton is not merely the owner of the playground. It is simultaneously the referee, the record-keeper, and the judge. This three-in-one structure is not legally wrong — it is the inevitable consequence of intellectual-property ownership. But it creates a blind spot: when a dispute arises, there is no third party independent enough to say whether the ruling is right or wrong. The Himass and TanVuu case fell straight into that blind spot. VTV3 took a notably measured stance: it did not declare the two players innocent, nor call them victims. It demanded transparency. Specifically: which clause was violated, what the evidence was, how many steps the process involved, and who supervised it. That is a standard-setting way to frame the issue. Because in a system where the party signing the penalty is also the party writing the rules, what is missing is not the penalty — it is the explanation that should accompany it. One detail in the story that I consider the most important, yet the least noticed: VTV3 stressed that transparency must be guaranteed even for a showmatch — an exhibition event with less formal competitive weight. That is a heavy sentence. It implicitly acknowledges that in smaller events, in friendly fixtures, a grey zone of the rules genuinely exists. A penalty designed for official competition was applied to a looser playground. That is a question of proportionality between offence and punishment. I read deals and contracts for a living. People ask me what I look at before a penalty or a transfer is about to land. I look at motive, not at price. In this case, the motives are fairly clear. Krafton needs to protect the integrity of the tournament system it funds and operates. The players' managing teams need to protect their biggest asset: the player's competitive future. The fanbase needs an answer to believe the playground is fair. These three motives do not conflict. But they can only be satisfied at once by one thing: a transparent process. In my trade, a credible report must carry three signatures: the assistant coach, the agent, and the person in the kitchen. What I mean is: only when three independent sources tell the same story do I dare publish. In this case, so far, the public has heard only one side. The publisher issued a penalty but released no detail. The managing teams filed an appeal but have not published full evidence. The community reacted but mostly on emotion. Three sources, yet none has truly opened its data. There is a signal that shows the scale of the story. A number spread across social media within days: roughly 4.1 million signatures calling for justice for the two players. I always stay cautious with numbers like this, because they can be inflated, and an internet signature does not carry the same weight as a ballot. But even if the real figure is far lower, the scale of the reaction shows this is no longer a small side event. It has escaped the boundary of the gamer community, reached national television, and become a matter of public debate. Financially, this penalty is life-and-death for the two players' careers. Being banned from the entire international system means losing prize money, losing advertising tied to competitive image, and more importantly, losing developmental momentum as time passes. In esports, a player's career is far shorter than in traditional sport. Six months off the stage can be equivalent to losing the peak of an entire career. Those roughly 4.1 million signatures also show that their fan-driven commercial value is far from small — and that is a form of asset that sits in no contract. Tracking the news flow from both sides, I noted a few facts usable as anchors. First, the penalty targets two specific individuals, not an organisation or a team. Second, the scope is the entire international system — the ceiling of a competitive-eligibility sanction. Third, the players' managing teams have filed an appeal, meaning an internal review mechanism exists. Fourth, VTV3 itself acknowledges it is waiting for further developments, meaning the story is not closed. What is worth noting: an appeal mechanism exists inside the publisher's own system. It is like complaining to the very person who just signed your penalty. That does not mean the outcome is wrong, but it makes trust hard to build. In mature industries, people solve this problem with independent arbitration — a third party with no direct interest in the result. Esports does not yet have that layer. The contrarian view I want to put on the table: the issue here is not whether Himass and TanVuu are guilty or innocent. The issue is that anyone who lands in a similar situation in future will face the very same dark zone. If I focus on the charge, I turn a system failure into a personal story. And a personal story ends when the media wave recedes. A system failure stays. This is a kind of blind spot I am used to meeting in my trade. When an incident stirs controversy, the majority rush to the most direct question: who is right, who is wrong. But the most direct question is often the least valuable over the long run. The valuable question is: what mechanism will keep the next case from repeating the exact same quarrel. I also need to say plainly one downside of the wave of support. When the community has already assumed the two players are victims before the facts are published, public pressure becomes a double-edged sword. If information later emerges showing the penalty had grounds, the loudest voices will be the first to turn away. And public trust in the tournament system, after two such ruptures, will be far harder to mend. This is not defending the publisher. This is a reminder to stay disciplined with evidence, even when emotion tilts to one side. One more layer I am watching. The story is set against the Vietnam — South Korea competitive relationship, with several major Vietnamese streamers weighing in. When a governance dispute gets welded onto a national-rivalry frame, the risk of dragging the story off-centre is very high. I have sat on both sides of stories like this, enough to know that blaming a country is the fastest way to solve nothing. What comes next? The appeal will be the first time marker. If Himass and TanVuu's managing teams win fully or partially, the story will close for now, but the procedural crack remains. If the appeal is rejected without an adequate explanation, pressure to reform esports governance will be greater than in any individual case before it. As a market observer, I am not betting on the outcome of one petition. I am betting on a trend: esports regions growing as fast as Vietnam's — one that just won its first esports medal at a continental multi-sport games — will be forced to build a more professional governance layer, not out of morality, but out of scale. Once money and fans are big enough, grey zones like this will erode trust and damage the whole market on their own. My spreadsheet is full of formulas, but the answer always lies outside the cell. The Himass and TanVuu case is exactly that. No column of numbers taught me how to measure an audience's trust. Yet it is the most valuable asset Vietnamese esports currently owns — and also the easiest to lose, if the owners of the playground forget that fans forgive a wrong penalty, but not an unexplained one.