Permanent Bans on Two Vietnamese PUBG Players and the Gaps in Esports Disciplinary Procedure

Minute 67 of a match without a ball. That is how I picture the moment when the account of Lã Phương Tiến Đạt — known to the community as Himass — was permanently locked. No whistle, no VAR screen replaying in slow motion, no fourteen-second window for anyone to intervene. Only a notice from KRAFTON, and a peak career closed like a file deleted from a server.

I have experienced something similar on a much smaller scale. In 2026, when I was a VAR assistant at the Incheon broadcasting station, I sent a warning signal fourteen seconds late during the FC Seoul versus Jeonbuk Hyundai Motors match on K League Classic round 29. Lee Dong-gook's goal was awarded because I did not make it in time. For three nights I could not sleep, rewinding and replaying the footage, asking myself how to optimize the decision-making process. But what haunted me most was not that goal. What haunted me was that no one — not me, not the main referee — could go back and fix it.

In football, we have VAR to minimize errors. In esports, what do we have?

The story begins with an accusation. Soopi, a Korean female PUBG player, accused two Vietnamese players — Himass and Trần Tấn Vũ (Tan Vuu) — of cheating at the PUBG Asia Stars 2026 tournament. KRAFTON, the publisher of PUBG: BATTLEGROUNDS, then issued permanent account bans against both. No hearing was announced. No evidence was made public. No appeal mechanism was specified.

And then FIFA — the world football governing body — stepped in. Not with an official statement on rules, but with a social media post, described as trend-baiting, tagging the PUBG scandal right before the FIFA ASEAN Cup 2026 — a newly created regional tournament organized by FIFA, bringing together national teams from Southeast Asia and South Asia such as Laos, Brunei, Myanmar, Timor Leste, Bangladesh, Malaysia, Indonesia, Singapore, Pakistan, Thailand, Vietnam and the Philippines.

This is where two ecosystems collide. One side is PUBG — a first-person shooter, where KRAFTON is simultaneously the rule-maker, the ticket-seller and the referee. The other side is FIFA — the football institution, where VAR was born to answer the question: how can a wrong decision avoid destroying an entire tournament?

Two systems. Two philosophies. And one Vietnamese player caught in between.

Let us start with the number. KRAFTON issued a permanent ban. In rule terminology, that is the heaviest penalty — no automatic reduction, no time limit, no escape route through time. In football, the heaviest penalty is usually a time-limited suspension, accompanied by a clear appeal process. Here, there is nothing.

Himass is not an unknown name. He is a PGS 3 champion, a multiple-time APAC MVP, holder of the all-time kill record in the PGS system, and a member of the PUBG Nations Cup 2026 championship team. In the community's words, he is one of the best PUBG players in Vietnam at present. Tan Vuu won PGC 2026 — a tournament described as the World Cup of PUBG.

Placed beside football, this penalty is equivalent to banning Lionel Messi and Kylian Mbappé from playing forever based solely on another player's accusation, with no trial, no public evidence. I am not saying they are innocent. I am saying we do not know.

And here is the first crack. Every VAR error is a crack in the mirror that reflects the rules. In this case, the crack is not in the act of cheating — it lies in the gap between accusation and verdict. No one published evidence. No one described the evaluation standard. No one indicated whether there was a hearing. The causal chain the public sees has only two links: Soopi accused, KRAFTON banned.

In VAR, we have a principle called the clear and obvious error threshold. If an error is not clear and obvious, VAR must not intervene. Here, it is reversed: if an accusation is not clear and obvious, why is a permanent penalty imposed?

Another factor makes the case more complex: the cross-border element. A Korean player accused two Vietnamese players. A Korean publisher issued the penalty. The event took place in a third location. In football, we have independent disciplinary committees at FIFA, UEFA and AFC — bodies separate from tournament organizers and sponsors. In PUBG esports, KRAFTON is the publisher, the tournament organizer and the disciplinary body. There is no independent referee. There is no sports court.

The noise of the stadium is not written in the rules, but it carries legal weight. In this case, the noise does not come only from the fan community — it comes from FIFA itself, a globally credible institution posting about a case over which it has no jurisdiction.

Why did FIFA do that? The answer may lie in timing. The FIFA ASEAN Cup 2026 is a new tournament that needs exposure. A scandal already spreading virally is the cheapest way to attract attention. But there is a problem: FIFA is stepping onto a pitch that is not its own. It does not govern PUBG. It has no jurisdiction over cheating in PUBG. It is merely borrowing the heat.

Meanwhile, the Vietnamese community reacts predictably: defending its star. It quickly rebutted Soopi, emphasizing the prestige of PGC over regional events. This is a natural reaction of any community when a member is attacked from outside. But it is also a sign of a larger problem: we are judging the case by national emotion, not by evidence.

I have been in a similar position in a different situation. In 2026, I built a VAR data model to evaluate players for a consulting firm. My model indicated that defender Kim Min-jae had a high card-risk and advised against signing him. Napoli signed him anyway. Kim Min-jae became a pillar who helped them win Serie A. I had overlooked teammates' covering ability and the difference between how Italian referees interpret the rules compared with Korea. I wrote a ten-page self-criticism and removed the model.

The lesson I drew: data does not explain context. And in this PUBG case, we do not even have data to begin with.

There is a counterintuitive angle here. What the community is arguing about — did Himass cheat? — may not be the most important question. The more important question is: why does a multi-million-dollar esports ecosystem still operate with a twentieth-century disciplinary process?

Look at the structure. The PGC total prize pool reaches millions of USD, with the champion receiving about 500,000 USD, roughly 13 billion VND. At that scale of money, a disciplinary penalty should follow equivalent procedural standards. But there is nothing. No independent third party. No guaranteed right of appeal. No obligation to disclose evidence.

A wrong decision does not destroy a match; the silence after it is what ruins trust. In this case, KRAFTON's silence — no evidence disclosure, no process description — is the most damaging thing in the long run. Even if Himass and Tan Vuu actually cheated, this handling still sets a dangerous precedent: a publisher can end anyone's career without explanation.

And there is another blind spot: esports careers are shorter than football careers, but the post-retirement support system is close to zero. A permanent ban does not just end a playing career — it wipes out the ability to earn a living from the game. In football, a suspended player can still move into coaching, commentary or management. In PUBG, if the account is permanently locked, that path closes too.

The FIFA question also needs to be raised. On the pitch we seek not justice, but an excuse to stop arguing. FIFA has no jurisdiction here. Its post about this case — whatever the intention — turned a disciplinary story into an entertainment story. It does not help find the truth. It only raises the temperature.

It is worth noting that the FIFA ASEAN Cup 2026 structure itself reflects the immaturity of a new product. Two divisions, group stage as a single round-robin with points, group winners meeting in the final. Division 1 has an additional third-place match between the two group runners-up. The group stage runs from 24 September to 2 October, the Division 2 final is on 2 October, and the Division 1 final and third-place match are on 5 October. With a short single round-robin format, a single upset can flip a group. This is architecture friendly to dark horses and harsh on favorites.

FIFA's inclusion of South Asian teams such as Bangladesh and Pakistan in a tournament branded as Southeast Asian also shows a commercial expansion goal rather than regional authenticity. That is not wrong commercially, but it dilutes identity value — the very thing that is the main selling point of a regional tournament.

Back to the main story. What I want to see next is not an apology, nor a reversed verdict. What I want to see is a precedent.

VAR was born from the fear of error, but it nurtures the fear of late truth. Esports is at a similar point. If KRAFTON discloses evidence and process, it can turn this case into a governance step forward. If it stays silent, it is building a system where trust is never repaid.

When I worked with 1,247 VAR decisions from five European leagues during the 2026 pandemic, I found something interesting: with no spectators, referees' VAR consultation time fell 22 percent, but the rate of upholding the original decision rose 15 percent. The absence of stadium noise made referees more confident in their initial judgment. In esports, the noise does not come from the stands — it comes from social media. And that noise is growing louder than the evidence.

The Himass and Tan Vuu case will not end here. It will leave a scar in community memory, a precedent about publisher power, and an open question about who truly holds jurisdiction in an industry without a court.

And perhaps it is time esports needed an independent adjudicatory body — a VAR of governance, where disciplinary decisions are not made by a party with commercial interests. Football took more than a century to build disciplinary committees separate from organizers. Esports does not have a century. But it can learn from football's mistakes — if it is willing to look in the mirror.