I thought I had outgrown watching professional wrestling. Like many people, I left it behind in my late teens, convinced that film and television offered richer, more sophisticated storytelling.
Returning to it years later, I realised I had misunderstood what wrestling was actually trying to do.
What I had mistaken for simplicity was something else entirely. At its best, professional wrestling is long-form storytelling performed live, through physicality as much as dialogue, unfolding in front of an audience whose response ultimately determines what works and what fails.
For most people, “professional wrestling” means WWE. That assumption is fair. The company elevated the form into a global spectacle and produced some of the most recognisable figures in modern pop culture, from Stone Cold Steve Austin and The Rock to John Cena and The Undertaker. But judging wrestling solely by WWE today is like judging cinema by Marvel Studios alone, or food by McDonald’s. It can be fun and impressive, but it rarely lingers.
WWE’s dominance exists largely because it once thrived in a competitive ecosystem. When that rivalry vanished, so did much of the urgency. The presentation grew bigger, glossier and increasingly consequence-free.
There are, of course, other wrestling companies, many of which have carved out regional markets without seriously challenging WWE’s global grip: the United States' Ring of Honor and Total Nonstop Action, New Japan Pro Wrestling, Consejo Mundial de Lucha Libre in Mexico, or all-women promotions such as World Wonder Ring Stardom.
For WWE fans, however, the emergence of All Elite Wrestling represents the first viable alternative since the fall of World Championship Wrestling in 2001. Founded in 2019, AEW was built by wrestlers who had cultivated devoted followings outside the WWE system, particularly in Japan. Their goal was simple: create a space where wrestling could feel unpredictable, international and creatively alive again.
Competition matters in wrestling, as it does in any creative industry. For nearly two decades, WWE had no meaningful challenger, and many fans sensed the product stagnating. AEW’s early years were uneven, as any start-up would be, but under Tony Khan’s leadership the company has found its rhythm.
AEW has also shown how global outreach can be achieved through collaboration. Khan struck deals with New Japan Pro-Wrestling and Consejo Mundial de Lucha Libre to share talent and cross-promote, and later purchased Ring of Honor, folding it into the wider AEW framework. The result is more room for wrestlers to develop and stand out.
What makes AEW compelling is not simply that it is different, but that it trusts its audience. Characters are allowed depth. Motivations are clear. Performers succeed because they can wrestle, speak, or ideally do both. Wrestling is treated not as spectacle alone, but as a living narrative, unfolding one match and one microphone at a time.
At its best, a professional wrestling match showcases the abilities of both performers while briefly making you forget that the outcome is predetermined. Critics often dismiss wrestling on those grounds, arguing that unlike boxing or Mixed Martial Arts, victory is scripted rather than earned.
But even “predetermined” only goes so far. What wrestling can never script is the audience. Their reaction – belief, rejection or indifference – ultimately dictates what comes next. If fans refuse to accept a champion, a rivalry or a character, no amount of planning can force it to work. Wrestling companies survive or collapse on that response alone.
That is what makes professional wrestling so fascinating, and so difficult. Making audiences truly care is rare in any medium. Wrestling has no single formula for achieving it. Each performer and storyline must find its own way to feel authentic and compelling in the moment, shaped in real time by crowd reaction. In that sense, wrestling functions like any great fiction: alive, adaptive, and only as powerful as the belief it earns.
Wrestling is not a sport in the traditional sense – it is theatre. Closer to opera or drama, where performers tell stories not through dialogue alone but through movement, timing and risk. The aim is not to win, but to convince. If a move makes you wince, it has done its job, even as both performers work meticulously to protect one another from serious harm.
It is gladiatorial without life-and-death stakes. There is often a clear line between hero and villain, which, in an age dominated by the anti-hero, can feel refreshing. Its accessibility is precisely why it deserves more nuance, not less.
Wrestling is also reliably present. There are multiple shows each week and major events every month. Television seasons end. Film franchises burn out. Wrestling, by contrast, keeps going. And the difficulty in making that continually interesting is why it's so fascinating to watch its ebbs and flows.
Being a fan today is more accessible than ever. What was once a hobby built on videotape trading and expensive pay-per-views is now widely available through streaming. Netflix houses WWE’s classic shows and documentaries, AEW is available on Starzplay in the Middle East, and most major promotions now run their own subscription services.
So go in with an open mind, and venture beyond WWE. It's an art form like any other, and there's something for everyone if you're curious enough to look.
