VTV3 Speaks Out on Esports Law and Organizational System After Penalties Handed to Himass and TanVuu

On the night VTV3 went on air, I was sitting in a small studio in Busan, my headset still carrying the fading station jingle. The bulletin about the penalties handed down to Himass and TanVuu scrolled across my phone screen, and what made me stop was not the names of the two Vietnamese PUBG players, but the way the anchor framed the issue: no judgement on who was right or wrong, only a question about how the system operates. That is a significant distinction. Over eight years of tracking this industry from both ends of a taut wire stretched between Hanoi and Seoul, I have grown used to bulletins that criminalise players, to hastily deleted posts, to staged apologies. This time, a national broadcaster walked into the middle of the arena and put on the table a question the global esports industry keeps avoiding: who writes the rules, who organises the tournaments, and who signs the penalties? When all three answers resolve to the same name, what is on trial is no longer two players.

I have followed Vietnamese PUBG since the days when domestic tournaments were held on small stages, with audiences sitting on the floor and organisers doubling as referees. Back then, nobody raised the question of conflict of interest, because the whole scene knew one another. But a region that has already won its first esports medal at the ASIAD can no longer operate like a grassroots league. And this penalty — applied across all global PUBG tournaments — is precisely the moment a young governance model hit the wall of its own design.

Krafton writes the rules, organises the tournaments, and signs the penalties — and that is the entire root of this controversy.

The clause they buried, I am only the one holding the shovel. In this case, what was buried is not a specific contract term but a legal void: no document states clearly what the two players violated, what procedure was followed, and who holds the right of reply. VTV3 asked precisely that question, and because the question was right, the answer becomes even harder to produce.

Before reaching the core, the context needs to be built thickly enough that readers do not slip into premature conclusions. PUBG, published by Krafton, belongs to the battle royale family, where the publisher not only updates weapons, maps and weapon stats on a live-service cycle, but also directly operates the international tournament system. This is a fundamental difference from traditional sports, where the rules are issued by a federation, tournaments are run by independent organisers, and penalties are decided by a disciplinary committee — three separate bodies. In PUBG, those three bodies sit inside one machine.

Where does Vietnam sit in this picture? It is a rising region. A market with enough players to produce names mentioned beyond its borders, with enough streamers that a single post can draw hundreds of thousands of interactions within hours, and with enough pull that a national broadcaster puts esports into its mainstream news. But it is also a region where governance infrastructure has not kept pace with the growth of its player base and audience. That gap is not unique to Vietnam — it is the common pattern of emerging esports markets. The difference is that when this gap collides with a global penalty, it becomes a crisis of trust.

The penalty in this case carries the broadest scope a player can receive without being removed from the scene entirely: a ban from all global PUBG tournaments backed by the publisher. For a professional player, this is not an administrative sanction. It is an income freeze. The season dies, but the numbers never die — and here the numbers are the days of competition lost, the events missed, the prize money out of reach, the opportunities to be seen by international scouts that evaporate.

Himass and TanVuu are identified as two PUBG players of Vietnamese nationality. The information available to me does not include their specific in-game roles, does not include performance statistics, and does not include the names of their managing teams. That means these two enter the story not as competitive subjects but as administrative subjects — people under sanction, people filing appeals. How a case positions human beings determines how the public sees those human beings.

Both have managing teams filing appeals. That detail is worth more than it appears. The existence of a professional representation layer shows the Vietnamese PUBG scene now has its own agency and management structure, no longer just groups of friends forming teams. But it also raises another question: appeals go to whom, and who sits on the other side of the table to rule? When the rule-maker, the tournament organiser and the penalty-issuer are the same organisation, appeals tend to become an internal procedure rather than a genuine appellate hearing.

Let us pause on the number that set Vietnamese social media ablaze: 4.1 million signatures demanding justice for the two players. This figure appears in the headline of a related article, and I must say plainly that it needs independent verification before being used as a measure of public sentiment. Four million signatures could be four million genuinely angry people, or four million clicks from a much smaller pool of users, most of whom signed without reading the details. But even discounting by half, even discounting by three quarters, the remaining number still says one thing: the Vietnamese PUBG community is large, young, and highly capable of self-organising.

Community power is an asset for Vietnamese esports, but it cannot replace an accountability mechanism.

Within that wave of reaction, the two names mentioned most besides the players are Độ Mixi and PewPew — streamers with major influence in the Vietnamese gaming community. Their reaction has double value. On one hand, it extends the story beyond the borders of a single title, pushing it into the broader current of Vietnamese gaming culture. On the other, it carries risk: when weighted voices take one side before the facts are published, public pressure can unconsciously substitute for verification.

And there is one detail that made me pause longer than the 4.1 million figure. A Vietnamese player reportedly cried and deleted the game in frustration. I do not know how accurate that detail is, and I have no way to verify it with two independent sources. But I know how this kind of detail works within the information flow: it does not need verification to spread, it only needs to be felt. And once it has spread, every dry analysis of procedure, regulation and appellate authority becomes background noise.

That is why I want to separate the two layers of this story. The first layer is the human story: two young players, a heavy penalty, an outraged community, a real wave of emotion. The second layer is the system story: a publisher holding three roles at once, a region without an independent federation, an unpublished process, and an appeal mechanism whose independence has never been tested. Both layers are real, but they run at different speeds. The emotional layer runs in seconds. The system layer runs in years.

Now to the part VTV3 actually put on the table. What is notable is that the broadcaster did not declare the two players innocent. It did not conclude that Krafton ruled wrongly. It asked two questions: what exactly did the two players violate, and how did the handling process unfold? That is the framing of a verification body, not a court. And it is technically precise, because in a system where the penalty-issuer is also the rule-maker, what is missing is not a verdict — what is missing is an explanation.

I once sat in a press room in Busan after an exclusive of mine was denied by a club and I was accused of fabrication. I lost contact with almost the entire board for a week. The lesson I drew was not to stop reporting, but never to publish without two independent confirmations. That principle applies to both sides. It applies to journalists covering players, and it applies to publishers issuing penalties. The asymmetry here is clear: when a journalist is wrong, credibility is lost; when a publisher is wrong, someone else's career is lost.

The biggest blind spot in the official story is not the verdict — it is the gap between the verdict and the rulebook.

When a player is banned from an entire global tournament system, people assume a specific rule was violated, that the rule was published in advance, that verification followed a set sequence, and that the sanctioned party had a full opportunity to respond. Those four propositions sound entirely reasonable. But none of them is automatically established merely because a penalty has been issued. A penalty exists independently of its transparency.

In the analysis I was able to access, the violated clause is marked as undefined. That is a small detail in wording and an enormous one in consequence. If it is unknown what rule was broken, then no one — not fans, not the press, in some cases not even the players themselves — can independently assess whether the punishment fits the act. A disciplinary system where the punishment is known but the act is not will always produce a sense of injustice, regardless of whether it is correct.

Another detail worth noting: the penalty is said to relate to an event of a showmatch nature. If that is accurate, it raises a question of proportionality between the tier of the event and the tier of the sanction. A showmatch is a high-performance, lower-stakes competitive setting, usually organised for exhibition or promotion. Applying a sanction designed for official competition to such an event raises the question of whether the current rulebook differentiates by event tier, or applies a single measure to all.

This is the regulatory grey zone. And grey zones are where disputes recur. When rules are not tiered, every event can become the object of the heaviest sanction, and every player can become the object of uncertainty.

A contract looks spotless, but the legal ink is pitch black. In this case, what looks spotless is the press release, and what is pitch black is the void that was never written down.

Now to the power structure. This is the part I consider most important, and the part the original analysis rates at the highest risk level. In traditional sports, a principle of separation of powers was built over centuries: the federation issues rules and regulations, tournament organisers operate events under those regulations, and an independent disciplinary committee handles violations. These three bodies do not sit under one roof, for a very simple reason: if they did, the sanctioned party would never believe it was treated fairly.

Esports has no such structure. There is no independent international federation standing above publishers to issue common rules for the discipline. The reason lies in the nature of intellectual property: the game belongs to the publisher, the rules are defined by the publisher, and therefore competitive governance authority also rests with the publisher. With PUBG, Krafton holds all three roles: rule-maker, tournament organiser, and penalty-issuer.

This concentration of power does not automatically mean abuse. That must be stated clearly to avoid the trap of oversimplification. A publisher holding full authority can absolutely operate transparently, fairly and professionally. But this concentration creates a structure in which the legitimacy of every decision depends entirely on the voluntary goodwill of the party holding power, rather than on an external control mechanism. And voluntary goodwill cannot be litigated, cannot be voted out, cannot be replaced by a procedure.

A system that is transparent only when the party in power chooses transparency will always be most fragile at the exact moment transparency is needed most.

When a dispute erupts, the sanctioned party has only one path: an internal appeal. But an internal appeal directed at the very party that signed the penalty is a procedural paradox. It is like one party to a lawsuit sitting in the judge's chair of that same case. No assumption of malice is needed to see the problem. It is enough to acknowledge that people, in any organisation, tend to defend their own prior decisions.

This is why VTV3's core demand — publish the violated rule and publish the handling process — is not an emotional demand. It is the minimum technical requirement for a disciplinary system to be regarded as legitimate. Without publication, every penalty is formally correct and substantively vague. And vagueness, in sports governance, is the most fertile ground for prolonged disputes.

There is one more aspect I want to dig into, because it is often overlooked in heated debates. This penalty applies to the entire global tournament system. That implies the existence of a centralised, cross-event competitive-eligibility registry managed by the publisher. This is no small matter. It means Krafton holds a global eligibility registry, and a name struck from that registry is blocked from every event in the system. The mechanism is effective for enforcement, but it also means that errors in the handling stage are multiplied by the scope of application.

A narrow penalty affects one event. A penalty within a centralised registry affects an entire career. When the margin of error is multiplied by the scope of application, the need for procedural precision becomes more urgent, not less. This is a rule every mature legal system acknowledges: the heavier the penalty, the higher the standard of proof.

So what is the standard of proof here? I do not have the answer, and that is precisely the problem.

Let us turn to the regional view. The story is framed within a current the media calls the Vietnam-Korea PUBG drama. This framing has its own power, because it turns a governance dispute into a national confrontation. And once it is a national confrontation, every technical analysis tends to be swept along by collective emotion.

I live in South Korea, and I report on esports for this market. That gives me a useful vantage point on both sides of the wire. On the Korean side, Krafton is regarded as one of the most serious publishers in terms of tournament governance. They have systems, experience, dedicated staff. On the Vietnamese side, the same publisher is seen as an external force, distant, and in this case, closed. Neither side is entirely wrong. But the perception gap between the two is the catalyst for the argument.

When a community feels it is facing a force beyond its control, the natural response is to organise and resist. Four million signatures are one expression of that response. But collective resistance cannot create an accountability mechanism. It creates pressure, and pressure only works if there is a door to push it through.

In esports, that door often does not exist.

Without an independent arbitration committee, every dispute ends with the stronger party confirming itself.

Now to a detail I believe is undervalued in the whole story: Vietnam's first esports medal at the ASIAD. This event is rarely mentioned in commentaries on the penalty, but it is the key to understanding the full context. A region that has just achieved a peak result on a multi-sport international stage is simultaneously handling a crisis of trust in governance. These two events do not contradict each other; they are two sides of the same process.

Competitive achievement moves first. Governance capacity moves later. This is the typical pattern of emerging esports regions. When a country begins producing players of international calibre, pressure on governance infrastructure grows exponentially — but governance infrastructure is built in years, not in seasons. That gap produces events like this: a technically correct penalty can become a communications tragedy, simply because no one prepared an explanatory mechanism.

In traditional sports there is a mechanism I have always thought esports should learn from: referees must explain decisions on the spot. When a football referee shows a red card, he does not need to deliver a long verdict, but spectators, players and coaches all have the right to know why. That on-the-spot explanation mechanism does not reduce the referee's authority. It increases the legitimacy of that authority. And in football, it was precisely the absence of that mechanism for decades that produced VAR — a technological solution to a communications problem.

In truth, fans are usually the most forgotten party in governance disputes. They pay for tickets, they spend time following, they invest emotion in their team. But when a penalty is issued, they receive no explanation beyond a short press release. They occupy exactly the position of a courtroom observer barred from the hearing room.

This is the piece I want to emphasise in the contrarian section of this analysis. Public opinion is leaning toward the two players. The community largely believes they were wrongly or at least excessively punished. But looking at the logic, we do not know what actually happened. The violated clause has not been published. The handling process has not been published. The evidence has not been published. Under those conditions, the community defaulting to the innocence of the two players is a conclusion built on emotion, not on data.

That does not mean the penalty is correct. It means we currently lack the basis to conclude in either direction.

And when we lack the basis to conclude, the correct demand is not acquittal — it is disclosure.

This is exactly where VTV3 placed the focus correctly, and also why I consider that broadcast far more valuable than an ordinary news item. It did not side with the players. It did not side with the publisher. It sided with transparency — and in a dispute where neither party will publish information, siding with transparency is siding with the right place.

There is a long-term risk few mention. When a community organises a campaign on the scale of 4.1 million signatures to demand justice, and when the final outcome fails to meet expectations, the consequence is not merely disappointment. The consequence is a decline in trust in the entire system — including institutions that could help in the future. A community whose trust has been damaged will be harder to mobilise for genuinely important issues later.

This is why the handling of this penalty matters more than the penalty itself. The two players can recover their careers. But an accountability mechanism, once trust in it is lost, is very hard to rebuild.

Let us talk about the road ahead, but in branches rather than a single forecast. Three scenarios are possible, and they do not entirely exclude one another.

Scenario one, the worst from a governance standpoint: the penalty is upheld in full, the appeal is dismissed, and no disclosure is made regarding the violated rule or the handling process. In that case, the two players lose their international competitive opportunities, the community loses trust, and the argument over conflict of interest in the publisher governance model simmers on. I consider this a medium-probability scenario, and the one causing the greatest long-term harm.

Scenario two, the compromise: the penalty is reduced or upheld but accompanied by disclosure of the violated rule and the handling sequence. In that case, the community may be partly satisfied by the increase in transparency, even if the final outcome is unchanged. This is a medium-probability scenario, and the usual way a publisher handles a communications crisis.

Scenario three, reform: the appeal succeeds in whole or in part, and the event becomes a catalyst for a clearer rulebook, tiered by event level, with a higher disclosure standard — including for showmatch-tier events. This scenario is less likely, but has the highest long-term value.

What is notable is that none of the three scenarios resolves the root problem: the absence of an independent federation. A penalty correctly handled within the current framework is still only correct within a framework whose legitimacy depends on the goodwill of the party in power. Genuine reform requires something far larger: an independent arbitration mechanism, or at least an appellate committee with members outside the publisher.

This is not something that can be resolved in one season. But it is something that must begin with an event like this.

A gift is never nothing — the receiver knows it, and the giver knows it even better. In this case, what is being given away is not a sum of money but trust. And once trust has been given without a guarantee mechanism, the giver always has reason to regret it.

Let us look at the industry's transmission layer. There is a chain of impact from upstream to downstream. Upstream is the publisher — where power concentrates and where the crisis originates. Midstream is the clubs, players, managing teams and domestic tournament system — where appeals take place, career risk is borne, and actors must navigate a legal framework they do not control. Downstream is the fan community, mainstream media, and governance expectations — where the story is amplified and transformed into a public debate.

Upstream, the concentration of power creates reputational pressure for reform. Midstream, the appeal path is the main transmission channel, and also the decisive node for whether the story calms or escalates. Downstream, the arrival of VTV3 and the signature wave push the issue beyond the core esports community, turning a disciplinary case into a debate about public governance.

This impact is a double-edged sword. It raises accountability, but it also raises reputational risk on both sides. A dispute pushed onto national television will no longer end with a short press release. It will end with a quiet negotiation in which neither side wants to lose.

There is one positive note I want to acknowledge, though it does not belong to the penalty. Vietnam's ASIAD medal and VTV3's arrival together paint a broader picture: Vietnamese esports is entering a phase where governance issues are no longer settled behind closed doors. That is a sign of a region maturing. Maturing does not mean the end of mistakes. Maturing means mistakes are placed on the table publicly.

From my vantage point, I see an opportunity the parties may be missing. Krafton could turn this event into a step forward in its relationship with the Vietnamese market by disclosing, in a controlled manner, the information VTV3 and the community are requesting. That is not a concession. It is an investment in long-term trust in a growing market with mainstream media pull.

The managing teams of Himass and TanVuu are also in a position to create change. If they pursue not only an outcome for their two clients but also raise the issue at the regulatory level, this event could become a precedent. The first precedent of an emerging region compelling a global publisher to publish its process.

And VTV3, by choosing to ask about transparency rather than judge guilt, did something many specialist sports media avoid. The broadcaster held the position of a verifier, not an advocate. And that is the right position.

In my profession, there is a principle I learned from failure. When misunderstood and cut off from sources, the natural reflex is confrontation. But the most effective path is not confrontation — it is finding another direction and continuing to work. Applied to this story: instead of forcing one side to win and the other to lose, shift to building a mechanism. That is the harder road, but the only one with durable results.

The season dies, but the numbers never die. And the most important number here is not 4.1 million signatures, nor any performance statistic. The most important number is how many rules are published clearly, and how many processes can be independently verified.

The ball rolls on the grass, but the transfer rolls on the desk — and in esports, that desk is usually inside a room with no windows, no minutes, and no one signing an explanation.

I do not know how this penalty will end. I do not know what rule was violated. I do not know how the handling process unfolded. But I know one thing for certain: if, after everything settles, no rule has been written more clearly, no process has been published, and no independent appellate mechanism has been established, then next time someone else will sit in their small studio, read a short press release, and wonder whether this system truly belongs to the players.

What I want to see next is not a reversed penalty. It is a two-page document listing the violated rule, the handling sequence, and the name of the signatory. Those two pages are worth more than any press release, because they turn a system built on goodwill into a system built on procedure. And in an industry that has reached international scale, procedure is the only thing that can outlast waves of emotion.