The Last of Us at No.1: A Ranking Without Criteria and the Trap of Every 'Greatest of All Time' Debate

The day Kinda Funny Games published its list of the 100 greatest games of all time, I was sitting in a small studio in Binh Duong, headset on, eyes fixed on the screen preparing to commentate an LMHT match. My phone kept buzzing on the desk. I thought a new bet had come in. It had not. An entire generation of players was arguing over whether The Last of Us deserved the number one spot.

Within two days, the comment section under the announcement turned into a genuine battleground: the defending camp called it “a cinematic masterpiece of the industry,” the opposing camp called it “a film with a few extra buttons.” Someone dragged Sekiro into the comparison. Someone else argued The Last of Us Part II deserved the top spot over the original. Nobody agreed with anybody.

And that is exactly the point I want to make from the start: this argument is not about The Last of Us. It is about nobody bothering to define “greatness” before casting a vote.

I say this as someone who once went on live television and declared that Hanoi FC playing 4-3-3 was suicide, only to be hit in the face by a 3-1 win using exactly that formation. I know what it feels like to make a claim without clear criteria. It is fun. It generates engagement. And it is analytically meaningless.

The list of the 100 greatest games published by Kinda Funny Games places The Last of Us – developed by Naughty Dog, released in 2026 – at number one. It is a single-player product with no competitive mode, no balance patch, no season. It sits entirely outside the ecosystem I follow every day.

But the community reaction sits squarely inside that ecosystem.

The way this list was released closely mirrors how esports rankings are released: a media outlet with relative credibility, a controversial placement, and a complete methodological void. The announcement does not state the ranking criteria. There is no weighting for gameplay, narrative, popularity, or historical influence. No voting panel is disclosed. There is no sales data, completion rate, or player count.

The article itself records a question from the community: does this list evaluate by gameplay quality, popularity, or historical influence? There is no answer.

So everyone picks their own yardstick and argues with someone using a different one. This is what I call a “two-yardstick argument.” It cannot end, because the two sides are not measuring the same thing.

In esports, I have seen this hundreds of times. When a writer places a player in the all-time top five, fans immediately split: the “trophies” camp counts titles, the “peak form” camp counts moments, the “meta influence” camp counts how many times that player changed how others play the game. Three camps, three yardsticks, three different conclusions, and none of them logically wrong.

That is precisely what is happening with The Last of Us.

The first thing to say: the number one spot for The Last of Us is not a claim about gameplay quality. It is a claim about design priorities.

Naughty Dog built The Last of Us on what I call a “cinematic model” – narrative-led, with a combat system good enough to serve the story but not the centrepiece. The player is taken through a controlled emotional journey with tightly designed pacing. This is a safe approach at the design layer, but extremely ambitious at the production layer: it demands a huge budget, facial performance capture, scene direction, and a script good enough that players do not drop out.

The Last of Us Part II goes the opposite direction within the same franchise. It is more ambitious structurally – non-linear storytelling, shifted perspectives, forcing the player to replay the same events from the other side. Its gameplay is also broader: movement, stealth, and combat systems are far denser than the original.

And here is where I see a strange parallel with esports.

In esports, there is an eternal argument between “the team playing a proven style” and “the team playing a high-risk experimental style.” The safe team usually wins titles because they optimise probability. The experimental team usually creates moments nobody forgets, but also usually loses in the semi-finals.

When fans argue over which team is “greater,” they are arguing exactly what the games community is arguing: safe but perfect, or ambitious but flawed?

The Last of Us Part I is the safe but perfect team. Part II is the ambitious but flawed team. The list puts Part I at number one and Part II lower – a predictable choice, not a discovery.

But there is a detail I consider far more important, and almost nobody mentions it in the wave of argument.

This list was published by a media organisation with Western roots, with an editorial board familiar with console gaming. The canon of “greatest games” they built has a clear axis: from Pong to Clair Obscur: Expedition 33. It is a linear axis, using Western products as milestones, and using a very recent title as the endpoint of history.

This is identical to how Western esports rankings often overlook Asian tournaments, or rank players by LEC standards and apply them to LCK. Not out of malice. But because canon is always built from where people sit.

I know that feeling. In 2026, sent as a field reporter to the World Cup in Russia, I mispronounced Luka Modric's name three times in a row in the first half. The audience laughed. The editor-in-chief reprimanded me. But precisely because I had to rewatch the footage to correct myself, I noticed a detail: how Modric's off-ball movement created space for Vrsaljko to push forward. I wrote a piece about that detail, and it drew over 200,000 views.

The lesson was not “don't mispronounce names.” It was: what people do not see is often more important than what they argue about.

In the argument about The Last of Us, what people do not see is this: the list has no methodology. A list without methodology is not data. It is opinion presented in the form of data.

I have done the same thing. In 2026, I declared on air that Hanoi FC playing 4-3-3 was suicide. I had no data. I only had a feeling. And my feeling was wrong. But that clip was shared more than any correct analysis I have ever produced.

That is the nature of the attention economy: a wrong but controversial opinion has higher media value than a correct but bland analysis.

The list of the 100 greatest games is a product of that economy. The structure of the announcement says so: controversy first, list second. Cause and effect are inverted to maximise tension.

This is a familiar pattern. I have seen it in esports rankings, in “top 10 greatest players” pieces, in everything designed to generate a lively comment section.

But there is an important difference. The article about The Last of Us is at least honest enough to record both camps. The opposing camp says the game leans toward narrative over gameplay. The defending camp says its historical influence is undeniable. And there is a notable detail: even critics concede The Last of Us is “one of the most outstanding games in history.”

That is a very skilful media tactic. It converts a split into an apparent near-consensus by conceding a weaker claim.

I am not saying that is bad. I am saying it is design.

There is a deeper layer I want to dig into, because it relates directly to my job.

When I commentate a match, I never say “this team is better.” I say “this team has a lower PPDA, presses higher, and transitions faster.” That is a verifiable claim. It can be wrong, and when it is wrong, I know where I went wrong.

A list of the “100 greatest games” gives me no such ability. It does not tell me how The Last of Us beats Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, by how much, and why. It only tells me the ranking.

And a ranking without criteria is a form of fortune-telling.

I have a professional bias against heat maps in football: they look very scientific, but often conceal a player's real role in the tactical system. A player with a beautiful heat map might just be chasing the ball, while the tempo-setter has a heat map as pale as water.

A greatest games ranking is the same. It looks authoritative, but often conceals what is being measured. And when the yardstick is hidden, the ranking becomes an instrument of power rather than an instrument of knowledge.

This is where I see a parallel with VAR.

The space for subjective judgement in VAR is larger than people think. “Clear and obvious error” is itself an ambiguous clause. Two referees watching the same slow-motion replay can reach two different decisions, and both can justify them with the exact wording of the law.

A greatest games ranking is the same. “Greatness” is an ambiguous clause. People can rank The Last of Us first and twentieth, and both can justify it with the exact word “greatness.”

The difference is: in football, there is a decision-making body with accountability. In a games ranking, there is nobody.

And this is why I think this argument will never be resolved. Not because The Last of Us is undeserving. But because no referee will step forward to explain the decision.

There is another angle worth discussing: the rise of the back-three in modern football. I have always argued it is not tactical progress, but a way for coaches to avoid reputational risk when a back four gets torn apart. Three centre-backs are a media shield: lose, and it is the system; win, and it is the coach's vision.

The games industry has an identical shield: calling a title “the greatest of all time.” If it sells, it is the developer's vision. If it sparks controversy, it is “different community tastes.”

Nobody takes responsibility. And that is precisely the crux.

Now to the part where I might be wrong.

There is a possibility I have overlooked: perhaps this argument really is huge, and I am only seeing the tip of the iceberg. The article quotes “one gamer,” “some people,” “many people” – but with no numbers, no platform, no timeframe. I have no way to measure the true scale of the argument.

If the argument really did spread that far, my conclusion – that this is a staged controversy – would be wrong. And I would have to write another piece to correct it.

But even if I am wrong about scale, I am right about structure. A list without published criteria cannot be verified. A claim that cannot be verified is not knowledge – it is dogma.

That is why I am always suspicious of every “greatest of all time” ranking. Not because I hate them. But because I have made them myself.

I also have to admit another possibility: perhaps I am being too harsh because I come from an industry – esports – where everything is quantified. Metrics, win rate, pick-ban, gold difference. I am used to every claim needing a number. Perhaps that is my limitation, not the article's.

But if so, the article deserves even more scrutiny. Because it is talking about a field I understand, in a language I was not given.

There is another signal I want to record, even though it sits outside the main article.

In the same news section of this outlet there are headlines about LCK, about VCT Pacific 2027, about VCT Champions 2026, about MLBB Vietnam. Those headlines carry no figures, no sourcing, no measurement window. They are leads, not evidence.

And this is what I want to say to those who do this job like I do: leads are very easily mistaken for evidence. I have made that mistake. In 2026, when every tournament was postponed by the pandemic, I sat watching FIFA Online 4 with colleagues on Zoom and commentated as if those were real matches. I wrote a piece arguing home advantage disappears without a crowd. It was good. But it rested on an assumption, not a measurement.

I learned that: I do not speak in numbers, I tell stories with numbers – and sometimes the story is better than the numbers.

But only when I admit it is a story.

My prediction: within a month, this argument will fade, and the list will be replaced by another list. The lifecycle of canon rankings is very short.

But one thing will outlast it: the question of criteria.

Next time you see a “greatest of all time” ranking – in games, in esports, in any field – ask one question: what are they measuring?

If they cannot answer, you are reading an advertisement, not an analysis.

And if you still want to argue, argue about the criteria first. Because the biggest comeback does not happen on the pitch, it happens in the commentary box.