Paul Heyman has weighed in on a topic that sits right at the intersection of pro wrestling and gaming: he says writing for video games is a lot easier than writing for wrestling programming.
That perspective carries some weight. Heyman isn’t just a legendary on-screen presence and longtime creative mind in wrestling; he also has real video game credits. He’s notably listed as a writer on WWE ’13, giving him a firsthand view of how stories are built in both mediums.
The idea that video game writing comes easier than weekly wrestling TV might surprise some fans, but it tracks when you look at how each world operates. Wrestling is a live, ever-moving target. Video games are built under controlled conditions, on a defined timeline, with far fewer last-minute variables.
In a game, writers and designers map out the narrative months or years in advance. They lock a roster, decide on key beats, produce voiceovers, and iterate in a closed environment. Once the arc is set, you can polish. The story doesn’t have to absorb injuries, travel delays, broadcast standards changes, or a stadium crowd that suddenly turns a segment upside down. When something isn’t working, you tweak it in development or refine it post-launch.
Weekly wrestling TV is a different animal. Scripts have to land against live audiences and changing realities in real time. Talent may be unavailable. A match might need to be shortened. A hot crowd reaction can force a pivot. A storyline meant to peak at a premium live event could change course because of health, timing, or business needs. Creative teams have to hit those moving targets while still protecting characters, building payoffs, and fitting into a tight broadcast format.
Heyman’s background helps illustrate the gap. WWE ’13 leaned into structured, thematic storytelling, and Heyman holds a writing credit on the title. In that medium, the goals are clear: deliver an engaging mode, celebrate a defined era or roster, and ensure the player’s path is coherent and rewarding. It’s collaborative and complex, but the variables are finite.
Contrast that with the week-to-week grind of televised wrestling, where Heyman has spent decades shaping acts, angles, and payoffs. The job isn’t just writing dialogue or booking finishes. It’s constant triage: maintaining momentum, reacting to the unexpected, pacing long arcs, and keeping the locker room aligned with creative direction. That’s before you even factor in network timing, sponsor integrations, and the ever-present clock of live TV.
Why does his comparison matter? Because it reframes fan expectations around storytelling across platforms. The narrative you experience in a wrestling video game is designed to be definitive and replayable. The narrative you watch on television is designed to survive the chaos of real life while still delivering emotional peaks. When a show changes on the fly or a feud zigzags, it’s often because it has to.
For WWE, the lesson is bigger than a medium-to-medium comparison. The company’s gaming output and TV product increasingly inform each other. Video games celebrate eras, characters, and signature matches; TV has to create the moments future games will immortalize. The stability of gaming can preserve and present a perfect version of a story. The volatility of TV can create the organic, can’t-miss energy that no script can replicate. Both are valuable. Both feed the fanbase in different ways.
It’s also a reminder of how creative success gets measured. In gaming, success is a well-reviewed mode, strong engagement, and a cohesive experience. In wrestling TV, success is heat, reactions, ratings, ticket sales, and meaningful payoffs that make fans believe they need to see the next show. The metrics drive different choices, which in turn shape how stories get told.
Heyman’s comment underscores another key difference: control. In video games, creative teams control nearly every input. In wrestling, the audience is a character in the story, responding in real time. That participation can elevate an angle into something unforgettable—or send a segment back to the drawing board within minutes. When an arena rejects a storyline, the writers don’t get a patch; they get another live episode next week and a mandate to fix it.
None of this diminishes the craft of video game writing. Building a compelling campaign or career mode that feels authentic to wrestling is challenging. You have to capture the cadence of promos, the logic of feuds, and the spectacle of big matches. But once you lock a chapter, it stays locked. In wrestling TV, every chapter can still change on the day of the show.
Heyman has long been a bridge between creative ideation and execution, whether orchestrating a faction on television or shaping narrative beats in a game. His take, rooted in experience on both sides, is a practical one: tighter control and longer lead times make video game writing fundamentally more manageable. Weekly wrestling programming demands a level of flexibility and crisis management that most mediums don’t require.
For fans, the takeaway is simple. Enjoy the polish of the games and the unpredictability of the shows for what they are. The mediums are cousins, not twins, and each has its own storytelling strengths. If a video game story feels airtight while a TV angle evolves week to week, that’s the nature of the platforms, not a lack of effort.
And for WWE’s creative ecosystem, Heyman’s point highlights a continued opportunity: using the stability of video game modes to honor history and deepen characters, while leveraging live TV’s chaos to create the next wave of moments worth memorializing. The best version of modern wrestling lets both approaches shine.
As someone with a writing credit on WWE ’13 and decades of hands-on TV experience, Heyman is uniquely positioned to make the comparison. His view adds useful context to the ongoing conversation about how wrestling stories get made—and why they feel different depending on where you experience them.
