VTV3 Speaks Out on Esports Law and Organisation System After Penalties for Himass and TanVuu

In its broadcast segment on the Vietnamese PUBG scene, VTV3 placed two questions on the table and left the answer section blank. Which clause did Himass and TanVuu violate? How was the disciplinary process carried out? The national broadcaster did not judge who was right or wrong, and that is precisely the most notable part of the story. It only demanded something that sounds simple: transparency.

On the other side of the screen, the story had already travelled far beyond a press release. A Vietnamese player reportedly cried and deleted the game. Two of the community's biggest streamers, Do Mixi and PewPew, weighed in. A petition wave was said to reach 4.1 million signatures, a figure I treat as data pending verification but impossible to ignore given its scale. And in the middle of all that noise, two names, Himass and TanVuu, were banned from all global PUBG tournaments.

I have followed esports from collegiate events in North America to livestream rooms back home, and I have rarely seen a technical penalty turn into a debate about law and organisational structure. This time it did. A single play is never just a single play. It is where a fate turns.

The facts need framing. Krafton, the South Korean publisher of PUBG, issued the penalties against two Vietnamese players. The scope goes beyond one event: it covers the entire global PUBG tournament system backed by Krafton. That is the widest possible sanction short of a permanent total ban.

Notably, the penalty reportedly applied even in the case of a showmatch, an exhibition format with lower competitive stakes than an official event. The players' managing teams have filed appeals. The fan community, to a very large degree, sides with the two players and demands justice. VTV3 aired the story, raised the question of esports law and organisational structure, and noted that the community agrees with a transparency-first framing rather than a guilty verdict.

A wider context matters too. Vietnam recently secured its first esports medal at the Asian Games, a milestone that put the country's esports on the continental multi-sport map. That is a competitive achievement. Running parallel to it is another gap: institutional capacity.

In traditional sports, the structure is relatively separated. A federation writes the rules. An organiser runs the event. An independent disciplinary committee handles violations. And above them, a sports arbitration court usually serves as the final appeal layer. In esports, that structure barely exists. The game publisher does everything.

That is why a case involving two PUBG players could escalate into a debate about law. Not because the penalty is too heavy, but because no one outside the system can verify whether it is correct.

The core issue lies in a three-in-one architecture: the publisher is simultaneously the rule-maker, the tournament organiser and the penalty issuer. In this case, Krafton writes the rulebook, Krafton runs the international events, and Krafton announces the sanctions. When those three roles sit in the same room, every ruling carries an unanswered question about conflict of interest, not because the publisher is necessarily biased, but because the structure cannot prove otherwise.

Compare football to see the gap. When a footballer is suspended, he can appeal to higher levels and, in certain cases, take the matter to a sports arbitration court. In PUBG, players or their managing teams file appeals to the very party that issued the penalty. A review mechanism exists, which deserves credit. But its independence remains an open question.

I was once reprimanded by my editor for turning a match into poetry. Apologies, but only poetry preserved that moment. Here too: the penalty lines can be read in three sentences, while what is actually being dissected is a long silence behind a signature. A signature on a contract is only the moment a long silence ends.

The next silence is tier-based standards. A showmatch is not on the same level as a world championship. If the same rulebook and the same sanction scale apply to both, then either the rules are too broad, or the sanction scale lacks tiers. Both possibilities lead to the same outcome: players cannot predict their own risk before sitting down at the machine.

Transparency, meanwhile, is far simpler. The publisher can disclose the violated clause, the related documentation and the procedural steps taken. Failing to disclose creates a vacuum, and any vacuum gets filled with speculation. Speculation is always larger than the truth, in both directions.

For the players, the economic consequences are direct. A ban from the entire global tournament system means losing eligibility and losing income tied to international competition. But this is where the data gets interesting. A player's commercial value comes from the record sheet, and also from the community. The petition wave, even pending verification, shows these two names command a fan base large enough to generate media pressure without playing a single match.

In other words, a player's competitive value and commercial value are separating, and the penalty only touches one half of that.

Regionally, Vietnam sits in a peculiar position. Its competitive scene is ahead of its governance capacity. A country can win a continental medal while its domestic tournament system has no independent appeal mechanism. This is the typical pattern of emerging esports regions, and it is nobody's private weakness. It is the consequence of esports growing faster than its own rulebook.

A word on the transmission layer. Upstream is the publisher. Midstream are the teams, players and managing teams. Downstream are the fans and mainstream media. An ordinary disciplinary case stops at the midstream. This one went straight downstream, and once VTV3 covered it, it gained an amplification layer most esports disputes never have. That is why it will be hard to close quietly.

Interestingly, proposals for an esports legal framework often surface in debates like this. But their limits deserve level-headed treatment. National law can regulate relationships among domestic organisations and set standards for contracts, minor protection, taxation and labour. National law struggles to regulate a private rulebook run by a foreign company unless there is a higher-level agreement. Frankly, no statute can force a foreign publisher to open its rulebook if it chooses not to.

So the more feasible fix lies in three concrete steps. Disclose the violated clause and the process. Build a tier-based rulebook so a showmatch is not judged by a world final's yardstick. And establish an appeal channel with independent participation, even in an advisory capacity. None of these needs new legislation. They need goodwill from the publisher, and sufficient pressure from the community.

Now the hardest part to hear. The community has already assumed the two players are victims, and that reflex is understandable. But as of now, the clause they are accused of violating has not been published. Empathy may be emotionally correct, yet it stands on thin evidentiary ground. A poem must be read to the end before we pass judgement.

If documents later show the penalty had grounds, the 4.1 million-signature wave will face a hard question: is it opposing the penalty, or opposing the way the penalty was announced? Those are different things, and conflating them is the fastest way to lose your own legitimacy.

The second blind spot sits on the other side of the story. Most anger is aimed at the publisher. But the institutional gap belongs to the whole industry, including domestic organisations. If a similar case happened a few years from now, what appeal mechanism would the Vietnamese community have ready to use? Today the answer is almost none. Nobody has built it, and nobody had an incentive to build it until they needed it themselves.

And here is what I want to say plainly: the real victory in this case is not a reversed ruling. It is forcing the system to explain itself. A published clause, a described process, a tiered sanction scale: those carry longer-term value than any erased penalty. The stadium is empty, but the community has never been absent. They sit in their rooms and light a star every night, and the right question is what those stars are shining on.

Based on my experience covering matches and disciplinary cases over many years, three things deserve tracking in the coming weeks. The appeal outcome for the two players' managing teams. The likelihood the publisher discloses the violated clause. And whether this case becomes a catalyst for a more transparent governance framework, or ends as an online storm with an expiry date.

I do not know whether Himass and TanVuu violated anything, and I do not think I need to know before demanding something basic. But I do know this: if a penalty cannot be explained, what is being protected is not the law, but the power that writes the law. And when power does not need to explain itself, tonight it is two PUBG players, tomorrow it is any one of us.