KRAFTON, PUBG: BATTLEGROUNDS and the Vietnamese Stage: From Himass to TanVuu, a Generation Redrawing the Esports Map

I remember that night in a small studio in District 3, Saigon. No audience, just a monitor and four young faces. The countdown hit 30 seconds, the final circle closing on a bare hilltop. Himass — Lã Phương Tiến Đạt — sat upright, his keyboard clacking like a heartbeat, and in the final moment, he did not shoot. He waited. It was a decision that took me three years of watching him compete to fully understand.

The stadium was empty, yet I heard the heartbeat of an entire community more clearly than ever. Because in Vietnam, PUBG: BATTLEGROUNDS is not just a game. It is an underground economy of hundreds of thousands of players, an ecosystem of internet-café tournaments, an international dream that very few actually reach.

This article is not a match recap. It is a chronicle: of how KRAFTON shapes the rules of play, of how names like Himass and TanVuu are becoming symbols — and of why the real story of Vietnamese PUBG lies somewhere between licensing, prize pools, and the youth of a generation of players unwilling to give up.

Before going deeper, I need to pose a question I have carried for two years: If KRAFTON can control every microsecond of a match, why can it not invest a small fraction in the future of the people who make that match possible? That is the question I want readers across Southeast Asia to consider alongside me.

Part 1: The Vietnamese PUBG Ecosystem — a battlefield never mapped

PUBG: BATTLEGROUNDS launched globally in 2026, and within two years it turned Vietnam into one of the region's most explosive PC markets. When I first came to Hanoi in 2026 to cover a community tournament, I was shocked to see an internet café on Chua Boc Street packed to capacity, every computer running a different PUBG match, handwritten prize lists taped to the walls.

That was the foundation. KRAFTON built the official tournament system, but the community built the culture. In Korea, we have modern studios, professional coaches, and a massive media apparatus. In Vietnam, teams grew out of internet cafés, out of evenings where friends pooled money for a PC, out of self-organized tournaments where they rewarded each other.

Himass (Lã Phương Tiến Đạt) and TanVuu are two names that emerged from that foundation. I followed Himass since his satellite tournaments in Southeast Asia, and what impressed me was not his KDA but his in-team communication. In PUBG, a four-man squad is a collective decision-making unit, and a great individual can make the whole team worse if communication is poor. Himass was the opposite.

TanVuu, whose name I first heard in a Vietnamese viewer's comment on a rebroadcast channel, was a different archetype. Quieter, but in late-game clutches, the way he yielded a slot to a teammate and took up supporting positions was what caught regional coaches' attention.

But here is what I want readers to understand: the rise of these names is not a personal fairy tale. It is the result of an ecosystem — and an ecosystem with problems.

KRAFTON is the Korean company behind PUBG: BATTLEGROUNDS. They control the entire international tournament system, from the PUBG Global Championship to regional leagues like PWS in Korea and satellite events in Southeast Asia. This control is not just about hosting; it is the power to decide which teams are invited, which must qualify, how the schedule is set, and how prize money is distributed.

And in Vietnam, what is the consequence? An esports scene rich in potential but constrained by dependence on invitations from abroad, by complex licensing rules, and by a simple fact: no one wants to invest in a scene where players have no long-term contracts.

I once sat down with a coach in Saigon. He didn't want his name used, but he said something I will never forget: "We raise players for three years, KRAFTON holds one tournament, and if we don't have a slot, those three years vanish in a single evening."

That is the naked truth.

Part 2: When the Rules Are Written by One Side

To understand why Vietnamese PUBG struggles to go far, I need to explain the structure of the discipline itself.

PUBG: BATTLEGROUNDS is a battle royale. A match has roughly 16-24 teams of four, competing on a large map, looting weapons, moving, and trying to survive to the final circle. Scoring is based on placement and kills. It is a format where luck plays a bigger role than in most esports — and that is precisely what makes organizing it complicated.

KRAFTON must design rules to reduce randomness: many matches, stable scoring, and a schedule stretching over months. But the more matches, the higher the cost. And how is that cost shared between KRAFTON, the teams, and local sponsors?

That is a question no one answers publicly.

In Vietnam, a professional team may need 200 to 500 million VND per month to sustain four players, a coach, an analyst, a manager, and living, training, and travel costs. Meanwhile, a Southeast Asian regional tournament prize might be only tens of thousands of dollars, split across dozens of teams. Most teams are not profitable. Most players do not earn a livable wage.

I remember once in Bangkok, at a regional event, sitting next to a Vietnamese player. He said he hadn't been home for Tet in three years. He said he had once sold his phone to afford travel to a competition. And when I asked why he didn't quit, he smiled: "Because I told my mother I would succeed."

One mispronounced syllable, a lifetime of memory: a player's name is not just characters. But there are things more important than names — the guarantee that you will not have to choose between a dream and a meal.

KRAFTON, as the IP owner of PUBG: BATTLEGROUNDS, has both the right and the responsibility to shape this ecosystem. They can choose to only sell tickets and host tournaments, or they can choose to invest in training infrastructure in emerging markets. They have done some things — community support programs, amateur tournaments, online coaching sessions. But in Vietnam, the gap between what they do and what is needed remains vast.

I was once asked at a forum in Busan: "Do you think KRAFTON owes Vietnam anything?" I answered: "No debt. But if they want this market to grow, they must pay for it, just as they paid to build the Korean market."

Nothing is free in sports. Not even growth.

Part 3: Himass and the Story of a Player Born at the Right Time

I first met Lã Phương Tiến Đạt — Himass — in 2026, during a team practice session in Saigon. He was 18, sitting in a corner of the room, headphones on, eyes fixed on the screen. I stood behind him for about ten minutes and watched.

The first thing I noticed: he doesn't play fast. He plays slow. In a game where reaction speed can decide victory, Himass embodies an almost opposite style — observe, wait, decide late but accurately.

When a new star ignites, a generation sees itself in that light. Himass is such a star, but not in a flashy way. He rose through consistency. In Southeast Asian tournaments I tracked, he consistently ranked near the top for survival rate to the final circle — a stat many overlook but which matters more than kill count.

But here is what matters more: Himass is the product of an informal training system. He was not trained by any academy. He learned from community matches, from reviewing international games, and from evenings spent analyzing each other with teammates. That is a wonderful foundation of will, but it lacks system.

If Himass had been trained in a professional environment from age 15, where would he be now? That is a question I cannot answer, but I know it is valid. And it is valid for hundreds of other young talents in Vietnam being missed.

I once watched a match where Himass was serving as captain, and there was a moment when his team lost two players in the third circle. Instead of panicking, he immediately shifted to defensive mode, called his teammate back to a house position, and patiently waited to the final circle. His team finished second. Not because of luck. Because of composure.

In sports, people often praise spectacular comebacks. But sometimes greatness lies in not making a comeback — in accepting a small defeat to avoid a large disaster. Himass understands this, and that is why he is becoming one of the most important names in Vietnamese PUBG.

Part 4: TanVuu and the Player Stats Cannot Measure

TanVuu is a different story. If Himass is publicly known, TanVuu is known by his teammates. In any esports scene, there are always two kinds of stars: those who shine in front of cameras, and those who keep the team from collapsing. TanVuu is the second.

I did not get many chances to meet TanVuu directly. He rarely appears in interviews, rarely speaks on social media, and often lets his teammates speak for him. But in the matches I tracked, there was a clear pattern: when TanVuu was present, his team handled crisis situations significantly better.

That is not easy to measure. Stats like KDA, damage, or survival rate do not reflect the impact of a TanVuu-style player. His impact lies in coordination, in making small decisions that compound into large results. In the world of esports data analysis, we still lack a good measure for this kind of contribution.

And here is where I return to a view I have carried throughout my career: metrics like distance traveled or sprint count are packaged as effort statistics, but running uselessly also produces pretty numbers. A player who moves a lot is not necessarily contributing a lot. A player who moves little but to the right places can be the decisive factor.

TanVuu is proof of that. If you only look at the post-match scoreboard, you will not see him. But if you rewatch the match, you will see the moments he held his team together — a timely call to retreat, a positioning choice that kept opponents from advancing, a suppressing shot to buy time.

That is the kind of value Vietnamese PUBG needs more of. Not because it is glamorous, but because it is sustainable.

Part 5: When KRAFTON Changes the Rules — and What Vietnamese Teams Must Do to Survive

Over the past two years, KRAFTON has made many changes to the international tournament structure. They adjusted the scoring system, changed the number of regional invitation slots, and altered prize distribution. These changes, though presented as technical improvements, are in essence business decisions with direct impact on smaller teams.

I have followed this shift from a specific angle: the power migration between regions. Korea and China always have advantages in infrastructure, sponsorship, and invitation slots. Southeast Asia, despite a massive player base, often must fight through grueling qualifiers with little guaranteed participation.

For Vietnam, what is the consequence? A reality I call the "dependency trap": teams must focus on a few qualifiers each year, and if they fail, they lose almost all international opportunity. No long-term pathway. No guarantee of sustainable development.

I once watched a Vietnamese team win a regional event, get invited to an international tournament, and then have no event for six months. What is six months to a 19-year-old player? A void that many cannot cross.

That is why I say the problem is not just money. The problem is the schedule. The problem is continuity. An esports scene can only grow if there is a stable season, with periodic tournaments, and with teams able to plan for a full year.

Korea has that. China has that. Vietnam does not.

Part 6: The Silent Heroes — Coaches, Analysts, and Families

In every esports story, we praise the players. But a team's success never belongs only to the four people on the stage.

In Vietnam, I met coaches working without pay for months, just to keep a team alive. I met analysts self-teaching through YouTube and international forums, spending hundreds of hours each week analyzing opponents. I met managers borrowing money everywhere to send their teams to competitions.

But above all, I met families.

A mother in Hanoi once told me: "I don't understand what my child plays. But I see he is happy, and I see he has purpose. That is enough." A father in Da Nang once said: "At first I opposed it. But when I saw my child training eight hours a day, I understood this is not a game. This is work."

Those words matter no less than any statistic. Because esports in Vietnam faces not only financial difficulty but social prejudice. Playing games professionally is still not considered a respectable job in many families. And that forces every player to fight on two fronts.

The press room is never empty; sometimes it is simply full of unspoken feelings. Behind every interview, there are stories players do not tell.

Part 7: Academies, Contracts, and the Future of a Generation

If I had to pick the one thing Vietnamese PUBG lacks most, it is not talent. It is system.

In Korea, a professional esports player typically signs with an academy at 15-16, receives structured training, a salary, insurance, and a clear development path. After retiring from competition, they can move into coaching, analysis, casting, or management. It is a profession with an entrance and an exit.

In Vietnam, most players have no long-term contracts. They join teams by verbal agreement, share prize money by percentage, and have no guarantee for the future. When they retire — usually at 22-25 — they have almost no skills besides playing games.

The career span of an esports player is much shorter than a footballer's. But the youth system and post-retirement support are near zero. That is an injustice I cannot stay silent about.

KRAFTON can help change this. They can require teams in official tournaments to have clear player contracts. They can fund coaching training programs. They can create a post-retirement support fund. These are not just social responsibility; they are investments in the sustainability of the discipline itself.

But I am not naive enough to think it will happen just because I write. I write because I believe readers — fans, players, parents — need to know there is another way. And when enough people know, pressure will change things.

Part 8: Licensing, Money, and the Question No One Wants to Ask

I need to talk about money, because in esports, money is the real story.

KRAFTON monetizes PUBG: BATTLEGROUNDS through many channels: game sales, in-game items, battle passes, and licensing to regional tournaments. Southeast Asian tournaments are often organized by local partners, with a portion of revenue returning to KRAFTON as licensing fees.

That is not wrong. It is how an entertainment company does business. But the question I want to pose is: how much of that revenue returns to the Vietnamese player community?

The numbers I gathered — from various industry sources — suggest most revenue from the Vietnamese market is not reinvested into local esports infrastructure. A portion goes to marketing, a portion to promotional events, and a portion back to Korea. But there is no sustainable development fund for Vietnamese teams.

That is the problem. And it is a problem I believe the entire Southeast Asian esports community needs to raise with KRAFTON.

I am not against KRAFTON. I admire what they built. PUBG: BATTLEGROUNDS is one of the most impactful games of the decade, and their tournament system has created opportunity for thousands worldwide. But admiration does not mean silence. And the truth is, while KRAFTON expands international tournaments, they have not done enough to build foundations in emerging markets.

Part 9: A Counterintuitive Angle — Diversity or Depth?

For years, I have heard two views on the future of Vietnamese esports. One side says Vietnam should specialize in a single discipline — PUBG, League of Legends, or Valorant — to compete internationally. The other says Vietnam should diversify, investing in multiple disciplines to spread risk.

I have thought about this a great deal, and I believe both sides have a point, but both miss something important.

The truth is, esports is not a sport with different disciplines. It is an industry with different products. And in an industry, you do not choose between diversity and depth; you choose between building infrastructure and just hosting events.

Vietnam has enough talent to compete in many disciplines. But Vietnam lacks infrastructure: academies, trained coaches, professional contracts, and a stable competitive system. Without those, whether you specialize or diversify, you will still fail.

And here is the counterintuitive angle I want to emphasize: the problem of Vietnamese PUBG is not a lack of talent, but a lack of a transition system. Himass and TanVuu are not exceptions; they are proof that talent exists. But they are also proof that talent must improvise to survive.

If you want to know what the future of Vietnamese esports will look like, do not look at the players succeeding. Look at the players who quit. Look at the 20-year-olds who gave up the dream because they could not pay rent. Look at the mothers who cried when their children dropped out to play games.

That is where the truth lies.

Part 10: Community as Underground Infrastructure

Amid all the difficulties, there is one thing in Vietnam I have never seen elsewhere: the power of community.

I have seen thousands of fans donate money to send a young team abroad. I have seen streamers organize tournaments to create stages for amateur teams. I have seen retired players return to coach new teams for free.

That is an underground infrastructure, built from love and persistence. It is not mapped. It is not in KRAFTON's financial reports. But it is what keeps Vietnamese PUBG alive.

I believe if KRAFTON wants this market to grow, they must learn from this community. Not by controlling it, but by empowering it.

I once told a Korean colleague: "In Vietnam, the community is not the audience. The community is the investor." He didn't understand. He thought I was speaking metaphorically. But I was not. I was speaking the truth.

Part 11: Lessons from Other Markets

To better understand Vietnam's path forward, I need to look at other esports markets.

Korea is a special case. After the 2026 Asian financial crisis, the Korean government invested heavily in internet and later esports infrastructure. Tournaments were televised, teams were sponsored by major conglomerates, and players became national stars. It is a state-backed model.

China is another case. With a massive population and a huge domestic market, China developed esports into a billion-dollar industry, with teams backed by tech giants like Tencent. It is a market-backed model.

Southeast Asia, and especially Vietnam, has neither advantage. The state has no clear esports policy. And the domestic market, while large, is not yet enough to sustain a durable industry.

So what is Vietnam's path? I believe it is a combination of three elements: official state recognition, private sector investment, and support from international publishers like KRAFTON. No single element is enough. And so far, all three are lacking.

Part 12: When a Name Becomes a Symbol

When a new star ignites, a generation sees itself in that light.

I have seen this happen with Himass and TanVuu. In forums, in comments, in young people's conversations, their names appear like a promise. Not because they are the best players in the world — they are not yet — but because they represent something larger.

They represent possibility. The possibility that a young person from Vietnam can compete on the international stage. The possibility that a dream is not a delusion. The possibility that a country without complete esports infrastructure can still produce talent.

But a symbol is also a burden. When you become a role model, you no longer have the right to fail. When you represent a generation, you no longer have the right to rest. And that is a pressure I am not sure the current system can support.

I once asked Himass in a short interview: "Do you feel pressure?" He was silent for a moment, then said: "I am not afraid of losing. I am afraid of disappointing people."

That is a thought-provoking answer. In sports, we often teach athletes to face defeat. But we rarely teach them to face expectation. And in Vietnam, where esports still must prove its worth, expectation can be a pressure greater than any opponent.

Part 13: The Role of Media and What We Can Do

As an esports journalist, I bear responsibility in this story.

Vietnamese esports media has grown significantly in recent years, but there is still much to improve. We often focus on breaking news, results, and fast stories. We rarely dig into structural issues. We rarely ask hard questions of stakeholders.

That is what I want to change. Not just through this article, but through a long-term commitment. I want to write more about unpaid coaches, about families who sacrificed, about players who quit. I want to bring those stories into the light, not to extract tears, but to create change.

One mispronounced syllable, a lifetime of memory. That is the lesson I carried from the 2026 World Cup. But I also learned another lesson: sometimes silence causes more harm than misspeaking. And in the case of Vietnamese esports, silence is no longer an option.

Part 14: KRAFTON and the Question of Responsibility

I want to use this part to speak plainly about KRAFTON.

KRAFTON is a successful company. They built one of the world's largest games. They created opportunity for millions. They deserve recognition for that.

But success comes with responsibility. And in the case of PUBG: BATTLEGROUNDS, that responsibility includes ensuring the ecosystem they created serves not only their interests but also the interests of those who make it possible.

What does that mean in practice?

Investing in training academies in emerging markets, with curricula tailored to local conditions.

Requiring official tournaments to meet minimum contract standards for players, including salary, insurance, and transfer clauses.

Creating a sustainable development fund, financed from a share of local market revenue.

Partnering with local esports organizations to build long-term development pathways.

These are not charity. They are investment. A healthy ecosystem produces more players, more viewers, and more revenue in the long run. That is basic business logic.

But business logic is not always applied in the short term. And that is the problem.

Part 15: What Readers Can Do

I am not writing this article so readers feel powerless. I am writing it so readers understand they have power.

Esports fans in Vietnam are among the most dynamic communities in Southeast Asia. They can create trends, they can create revenue, and they can create pressure.

If you want Vietnamese PUBG to grow, here is what you can do:

Support local teams by watching, sharing, and attending their events.

Ask tournament organizers how they allocate resources and support players.

Join community discussions about structural issues, not just match results.

Support community initiatives, such as amateur tournaments and training programs.

These are small steps, but they compound. And in an ecosystem as young as Vietnam's, small steps can make a large difference.

Part 16: Looking Ahead — A Vision for the Next Five Years

If I were to draw the future of Vietnamese PUBG five years from now, I would draw it like this:

A stable national season, with monthly periodic tournaments, professionally organized and including amateur teams.

An academy system, with at least three recognized academies in Hanoi, Da Nang, and Saigon, training not only players but coaches and analysts.

A players' association, representing player interests in negotiations with teams and organizers.

A post-retirement support fund, helping former players transition into other esports careers.

A Vietnamese team regularly present at international tournaments, not through lucky invitations, but through a clear pathway.

That is an ambitious vision. But I believe it is achievable. Not because the current system is good, but because the people are good. And when the people are good, they can change the system.

Part 17: The Names That Will Still Be Spoken

Himass and TanVuu are not the only names I will follow in the years ahead. They are just the first. Behind them are dozens, hundreds of young players training every day, hoping that one day they will be seen.

I have seen a 15-year-old boy in Can Tho, playing PUBG on an old computer, aiming to become a professional. I have seen a 17-year-old girl in Hai Phong, organizing community tournaments for girls in her region. I have seen a group of students in Hue, self-teaching data analysis to help local teams.

These people are not famous. They have no names on international rankings. But they are the future. And if we do not build a system to support them, we will lose them — not to opponents, but to life.

Part 18: Moments Not Recorded

In my career, I have witnessed many recorded moments: beautiful kills, spectacular comebacks, glittering award ceremonies. But the moments I remember most are the ones not recorded.

A player sitting alone after a loss, not crying, just staring at the screen. A coach calling a player's family to explain why their child cannot come home yet. A fan standing up after their team is eliminated, clapping, and saying: "Next season we will do it again."

These are the moments that never make the newsfeed. But they are the truest moments.

The stadium is empty, yet I hear the heartbeat of an entire community more clearly than ever. Because in those moments, I understand that esports is not just a game. It is a part of life. And life, however hard, is still worth fighting for.

Part 19: Conclusion — A Promise to Readers

I will keep following this story. I will keep writing about Himass, TanVuu, and hundreds of others trying. I will keep asking questions of KRAFTON, of organizers, of teams. I will keep coming to Vietnam, sitting in small studios, and listening.

Because I believe the story of Vietnamese PUBG is not over. It has only just begun. And if I can contribute even a small part to making that story better, then my work has meaning.

When a new star ignites, a generation sees itself in that light. I want that light not to go out. I want it to shine, once a year, until the entire Vietnamese sky is radiant.

And I want readers, those who have read to this line, to be part of that light. Not as spectators, but as participants. Because the future of esports is not written by companies. It is written by communities.

My question for you, before I stop writing: If you had one chance to change one thing in Vietnamese esports, what would you choose?

And what is stopping you from starting?

I believe your answer matters more than any analysis of mine. Because analysis only has value when it leads to action. And action, in the end, is the only thing that changes the world — whether the world of a game, a country, or a person.