This is Wrestling Empire.
[pulsing music and grunts]
Every space in its strange little world
is liminal. Bare rooms and surreal streets full of idly shuffling, hostile men watched by a dreamily
drifting camera. A soundscape of identical overlapping footfalls and grunts of exertion.
[a soundscape of identical overlapping footfalls and grunts of exertion]
Pop the Twin Peaks soundtrack beneath any given clip of Wrestling Empire, and it will just work.
[The Twin Peaks soundtrack underscores crunching and grappling noises]
It is, by a wide margin, the weirdest wrestling game ever made. But when it comes to faithfully
modeling the reality of Pro Wrestling, it’s also the most accurate. Shockingly, hilariously,
tragically accurate. Lemme tell you why.
[synth music]
Every other wrestling game focuses on the
upper crust of the wrestling world. You’re either stepping into the boots of your wrestling heroes,
or playing through a rags-to-riches pro wrestling self-insert fanfic. But the truth is, for every
John Cena, there are hundreds or thousands of bruised dreamers, wrestling in Elks’ lodges and
middle school cafeterias for a handful of small bills. Holding out for a day in the spotlight
they may never get. Or never get again.
Dennis Stamp [middle aged wrestler]: I don’t do any tricks, but I just jump.
I stay fit. I watch what I eat. Y’know, I’m only 50 now, and the phone could ring at any time, y’know?
- Pat: And that is the world of Wrestling Empire. It’s
the Dwarf Fortress of fake combat sports. It’s a one-man project with a shockingly complex
combat system, and a systemic free-roam sandbox mode. You can create a character,
or pick an existing wrestler from a massive roster spanning multiple promotions. Once you choose,
it’s up to you to make it to your matches on time, keep yourself fed, manage your relationships,
and stay in shape. It’s an unforgiving simulation, and while success is possible, Wrestling Empire is
most often a Pro Wrestling Tragedy generator. But to understand it, you’ve got to live it.
We’ll do that through Buddy Buchanan, our unwitting guide to Wrestling Empire.
Buddy Buchanan is in his mid-40s and still at it. He’s got a decent bod, and a disastrous haircut.
When we join him, he’s mid-contract with a major promotion, which is something, but the
“enhancement talent” clause is the mark of a man who has decided to swallow his pride for a steady
paycheck. Enhancement Talent is polite wrestler talk for a Jobber, which is impolite wrestler talk
for a person who loses for a living. Their matches are usually short exhibitions staged to establish
how cool and strong someone else is.
-Gorilla Monsoon: Look at the size and power of the Ultimate Warrior! And the agility!
[Warrior’s opponent bellows as he is slammed to the mat] - Bobby Heenan: Oh, one arm!
-Pat: It’s not glamorous, but for a middle aged ham-and-egger, that’s not a bad lifestyle.
So together with Buddy, we step out onto the surreal streets of Wrestling Empire.
Our first few months with Buddy are uneventful. He walks around, eats floor hot dogs,
and goes to his matches. Most of them end in draws or defeats. Sometimes things get bloody,
but there’s always enough money in the bank for a beer after work
and a cleanish hotel room.
But one fateful autumn night, Buddy actually gets a win.
[Referee counts: …2….3]
[bell rings]
Perhaps, just for that moment, Buddy allows
himself to imagine a better future. A winning streak. A title shot. Maybe even one last run
at the top of the card. But that distant glimmer turns out to be the headlights of an oncoming
train, and it’s hauling 200 tons of shit. Before slinking out of the ring, Buddy’s
embittered opponent hits him in the dick and balls so hard that he has to lay down.
Buddy stumbles back to his hotel room to sleep it off, and wakes up the next morning feeling
reasonably okay. Tonight he’s wrestling a match for a charity show. It might feel good
to do something nice for someone else. But on his way to the ring, he’s attacked by
Whack Oz. Maybe he saw the nut punch incident and sensed weakness. Or maybe
he just doesn’t like Buddy’s face. Real quick, I think it’s important to point
out that this is one thing that Wrestling Empire gets deliberately wrong about wrestling. Backstage
attacks and out-of-ring violence happen a lot in wrestling programming, but very, very rarely in
wrestling reality. In fact, having a reputation for deliberately or negligently injuring other
wrestlers can be a career-ender. Either way, by the time he makes it to the
ring for his match, Buddy’s already gassed. Almost right away, Buddy gets dumped out of the
ring and onto the floor. It’s a move that he’s taken hundreds of times before, but this time, it feels
different. Try as he might, he can’t get back into the ring, and the match ends via count out.
Buddy can’t seem to make it to the curtain on his feet, so he crawls. On the other side of the
curtain, he’s informed that he’s suffered a severe neck injury, and he’ll be out for up to 10 weeks.
Before we can finish calculating the sum of missed paychecks, Buddy is summoned to the GM’s office,
who informs us that the promotion is understaffed and they need him on commentary.
Now if you’re saying “Hmm, a severely injured man being asked to return to work? That doesn’t
seem that realistic…” you’re wrong.
[tense, ticking music]
This is the first place the bizarre reality of Buddy’s world
overlaps with real-life wrestling. This sort of thing happens. Worse things happen.
A lot of people know that in 1998, The Undertaker threw Mankind off Hell In A Cell,
and he plummeted 22 feet through an announcer's table.
But fewer people know that he got back up
and climbed the cage again. Then he got dropped through the roof in a botched chokeslam. Then,
with a concussion, internal bleeding, several missing teeth, and a dislocated jaw,
he stood up and continued the match. Also, Taker had a fractured ankle the whole time.
When Kerry Von Erich lost his foot after a motorcycle accident, he continued wrestling with
a prosthetic hidden in his boot. His disability stayed a secret until after his death.
In the first moments of an ROH bout with Takeshi Morishima, Bryan Danielson suffered a broken
orbital and detached retina, and continued to deliver a barn burner of a match.
In all of these cases, we can celebrate the grit and dedication of the performers. But
if we zoom out a bit, we can see that these acts of valor and self-neglect happen in an
environment that encourages them, or makes them necessary. Vince McMahon’s rebranding
of wrestling as “sports entertainment” was meant to put the product alongside
Hollywood and major league sports in the eyes of viewers, but you’d be hard pressed to find
an entertainer or athlete who would endure the punishment pro wrestlers are subjected to.
If Tom Brady’s eyeball is popping out of its socket, he’s not gonna finish the
game. If Jason Statham is bleeding from all of his holes, he’s gonna get a ride
to the hospital. But unlike actors and NFL players, wrestlers don’t have unions (and
we’ll talk about unions again) to back them up, and tomorrow’s pay day is never guaranteed.
So out of either pride, or pragmatism in the face of an unforgiving economic reality,
we decide to take the extra cash and Buddy drags his injured ass to the commentary booth.
After the match, we start our trek to the hospital, and it seems like crawling is
the only option. Buddy inches along, and we pray that he makes it before he passes
out on the floor. Eventually a kind passerby offers to take him the rest of the way.
In the hospital, Buddy begins his long recovery. Each day, we watch his bank account shrink. One
morning, he picks up the dirt sheets and reads that his promotion’s ratings have
jumped dramatically since Buddy Buchanan’s disappearance. So that feels great.
The next day, the doctor informs us that Buddy can accelerate his recovery with an expensive surgery.
Weighing the risks and cost of surgery against the lost wages, we decide to go for it. And once
again, Wrestling Empire proves itself to be the most accurate wrestling sim in the world.
Even the top tier of pro wrestlers at WWE and AEW are classified as independent
contractors (even if they’re forbidden from working elsewhere). Most of them have to buy
their own health insurance and cover their own medical costs. For a handful of top earners,
it’s fine. But for everyone else, it’s fucking bullshit.
In the mid 1980s Jesse "The Body" Ventura stepped into an elevator with
NFLPA executive director Gene Upshaw.
-Jesse Ventura: I ‘member big Gene looked at me and all he said to me was
“you boys need to unionize.” And I said, “I know, Gene.”
He started backstage conversations about unionization and its possible benefits,
like better pay and health care, but momentum was squashed when Hulk Hogan reportedly snitched to
Vince McMahon. It’s an important moment in wrestling history, and Wrestling Empire is
the only wrestling game that addresses it. It’s brutal. Even more so for the obscure upstarts
and run down vets. If they get hurt, they can’t work, and they don’t get paid. So they work hurt,
or they go into medical debt, or both. Luckily we have enough cash in the bank to pay
for the surgery, and in a few weeks, Buddy’s back on his feet. But on the
way out of the hospital, another doctor approaches and makes a proposition.
[tense music]
Normally, we’d say no to drugs. But here’s the thing. We need it.
Wrestling is a body business. A wrestler needs strength, agility, and endurance to do what they
do in the ring. They need the stamina to do it up to 200 nights a year. On top of maintaining
that incredible athletic function, wrestlers also have to consider form. You don’t need
to be 0% body fat and jacked as hell to be an incredible wrestler, and there’s plenty of proof
out there. But when mainstream audiences have been conditioned to conflate aesthetics with ability,
and the bosses who hand out opportunities have demonstrated a strong preference for the
improbably swole, the muscles aren’t a matter of vanity. They’re a life preserver.
For a wrestler saddled with these unrealistic standards, steroids can be just what the doctor
(or guy who knows a doctor) ordered. Steroids can help amass and maintain the bulky, shredded
physiques we’ve come to expect from Wrestlers. In addition to those visible enhancements,
they can also reduce muscle and joint pain, and even help accelerate recovery
times. These benefits have caused many, many road-worn wrestlers to hit the gas.
But that help can come with a lot of hurt. There are the medical risks,
and the risks of getting caught. Despite pro wrestling being a staged competition,
performance enhancing drugs are still stigmatized. After a major steroid scandal in the early 90s and
a string of untimely wrestler deaths in the early thousands, the WWE introduced
a random testing policy. Violations can result in suspensions and firing.
It’s an arrangement that protects the company— and puts more pressure on the individual wrestlers,
who were still expected to work the same grueling schedules, under the same conditions.
- Vince McMahon: If you can't cut it, get out.
You know, if for some reason you have to rely on drugs, illegal drug usage, to make it?
Boy, you're gonna self-destruct.
- Pat: Trapped between impossible expectations and career-threatening punishment, it seems like
there are no right moves. Stay clean and live every day in pain. Take your time on the mend
and watch the spotlight move on to the next guy. Or roll the dice and go big. If you get busted,
the company will be fine— but you won’t.
Buddy decides to accept the risks and
the stigma and gets geared to the gills. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll help us turn things around.
[tense, ticking music]
The next morning, he’s summoned to the boss's office, who tells Buddy that it’s time for a new
look, and he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. Buddy leaves the office with a new set of edgier
duds — not quite feeling himself, but willing to make it work. It’s another absurd turn of events
that's pulled from wrestling reality. At promotions with more hands-on leadership,
a wrestler can find their identity erased and rewritten at the drop of a hat. Evil dentist
Dr. Isaac Yankem can become the Hell-born Demon Kane. Even wrestling royalty like Dustin Runnels
can be transformed into a pansexual enigma like Goldust. Sometimes these changes can be an attempt
to freshen an image and reinvigorate the audience. Other times they’re purely punitive.
Compared to those pivots, a fresh pair of leather pants seems downright mild. We shuffle out of the
office and to the vending machine, hoping to fuel up for our match.
But once again, Buddy Buchanan is brutally blindsided, and snack time is ruined.
In a daze, he stumbles towards the curtain. About halfway there,
Buddy Buchanan pisses his pants.
[pained grunt and gushing splash]
I mean, really lets it rip.
And now at this point I gotta say, I think maybe the game's gone a bit too far. There is no w—
[cheerful triumphant music]
Well.
- Stone Cold Steve Austin: S’anyway, goddang yoke’ picks me up with one arm and slams the shit outta me —
— literally! He slammed
the shit out of me. I shit my pants. I’m lucky I wore black trunks. And it wundn’t like a gigantic
shit, but I mean, y’know, I sprayed!
- Pat: Real-life pro wrestlers are an itinerant
warrior class who travel from town to town, eating fast-casual food, slamming protein and
pre-workouts, and then jumping up and down on top of each other. So it’s no wonder most of
them have at least one story about pissing or shitting themselves in the ring.
Once again, Wrestling Empire captures a reality stranger than fiction.
Another wrestler— the guy who just jumped us at the vending machine— seems to take pity,
and tells us to take care of our mental health.
Or maybe he’s just making fun of us.
In his piss-soaked leather pants, Buddy trudges to the ring to lose another one,
then trudges back out to take a ref shift because we need the fucking money.
After one of the worst days of his life, Buddy is simply too tired to make it back
to the hotel so he lays down on the floor. He wakes up to his coworker taunting him about
the piss pants thing — and fair enough, I guess. Buddy hasn’t showered yet,
so I imagine there’s a bit of a smell. Buddy Buchanan goes back to sleep.
[a bang, gurgling noises]
Snow falls on Empire Avenue, but Buddy is not feeling in the holiday spirit. He’s booked
in a Christmas gimmick match against Hong Xin, a masked martial artist. Buddy shuffles to the ring,
which is overflowing with presents. You might think that these shenanigans are beneath a
seasoned grappler and expert martial artist. But you would be wrong.
This is another thing that Wrestling Empire understands about wrestling. Wrestling is not a
genre of entertainment, it’s a medium. The squared circle can be home to underdog sports stories,
vicious blood feuds, technical showcases, or pure clown shit. Whichever story a performer
is dropped into, the most important thing is that they commit fully.
So Buddy — aching, tired, jacked up on horse testosterone, and over the hill — picks up
an elegantly wrapped Christmas present and smashes it into the forehead of his opponent.
The match gets surprisingly violent, spilling out of the ring onto the floor,
but it ends with an anticlimactic tap out. But as Buddy tries to make it through the curtain,
it becomes clear that something is wrong. After every few steps, he collapses to the
ground. The hospital is a 50 meter crawl, and Buddy has no choice but to drag himself towards
the medical intervention he so badly needs. Halfway through the gymnasium, someone finally
offers him a hand. But it’s too late.
[Buddy’s death rattle]
[shocked crowd murmers]
On Christmas Eve, Buddy Buchanan
dies on the floor, 20 meters from the hospital. He leaves behind 11 thousand dollars in cash,
and a 38% win rate. This is the same place most
of my Wrestling Empire campaigns have ended. An anti-climactic, undignified death outside
the ring. When it happens in the game to one of our repulsive little guys, it’s shocking
and darkly funny. But, unfortunately, this is one of the saddest things that this wrestling fever
dream gets right about wrestling reality. There is no retirement plan for pro wrestlers.
It’s get rich or die trying.
- “Rowdy” Rody Piper: Wrestling,
it has a tremendous entrance plan. You come in, it’s “boy, here you are.” You rock n’ roll and
everything is wonderful — it’s got no exit plan! What would you have me do at 49, when my pension
plan I can’t take out until I’m 65. I’m not gonna make 65. Let’s just face facts, guys.
[slow, simple piano music]
- Pat: When David Shoemaker wrote his history of American pro wrestling, just about every major character
had an unplanned exit. And after living through the surreal simulations of Wrestling Empire,
the reasons why are clear. Part of being a wrestling fan is
knowing this. You want your favorite to win and get big moments in the spotlight,
but you also want to see them to live and retire in health, and maybe even die at a reasonable
age. And the wrestlers know it too. They live it, and they keep going.
- Bryan Danielson: And y’know, that’s all the stuff that’s just bad about wrestling.
Y’know, the injuries, and the toll it takes on your body,
and the toll it takes about your family. We were talking about all the different options and stuff
that I have. Y’know, I could go back to school, I could go work in the mill. But right before
my dad got up to make me a tuna sandwich, he turns to me and he says, “y’know but,
this was the life you always wanted.”
[soft piano notes]
Silly, stupid, janky, and unsettling as it is,
Wrestling Empire still serves as a scathing indictment of an entertainment industry
badly in need of a labor revolution — so wrestlers can chase their dreams safely,
and so we can cheer them on without fear. So that’s Wrestling Empire. It’s tragicomic,
ugly, frustrating, and weird. But not as weird as the real thing.
[pulsing synth music]