My first Evo was all the way back in 2003, when it was held at Cal Poly Pomona. It was a ragtag yet passionate operation where a bunch of weirdos crammed into one of the university’s big halls to play fighting games and watch the best of the best from across North America (and the Japanese players they convinced to come attend) duke it out. There were a bunch of PlayStation 2 consoles and arcade machines, a few projection screens, and some seats if you wanted to either watch or play some games. There were no ads or major announcements–the entertainment during downtime consisted of fan-made combo videos and somebody playing the overhead levels of Contra III. Despite all of the tech hiccups and the obvious drive to run things as cheaply as possible, we all loved it there.
Never would I have dreamed that, almost a quarter-century later, Evo would become one of gaming’s most-talked-about annual events: a celebration of love and community in fighting games that even people not really into the genre would tune in to watch online. Evo now occupies an entire, massive hall in the Las Vegas Convention Center, where thousands of players from around the world come for a chance to compete and share their passion for fighting games in a variety of ways–be it entering tournaments, running side events, drawing and selling art in the Artists Alley, cosplaying, or just playing casual sets all day with people they’ve never met before. In a way, the main Evo event has morphed from a tournament into a full-blown fighting game convention, where the tournaments are now just a major part of the show, not necessarily the sole reason why many of the people are there.
But with that rapid growth has come a massive price tag. If you didn’t purchase admission early, a weekend competition pass to Evo 2025 was around $250, plus $10 for each of the official tournament games you wanted to enter. If you paid early and just wanted to watch or play casuals with other attendees, that would still set you back $180. That’s not taking into account all of the other expenses: gas or airfare to get to Las Vegas, and then lodging, transportation, food once you’re there. And that doesn’t take into account a bunch of other miscellaneous expenses you might unexpectedly run into (Is your joystick bag too big? That’s a checked-bag fee). Sure, there are ways to cut costs–the tried-and-true method of cramming a gaggle of people into a single hotel room is a favorite–but oftentimes they can wind up costing just as much or more. Staying at a cheaper hotel that’s farther away from the LVCC? The moment you step into 105-degree Vegas summer heat, you’re going to ditch the idea of walking and get a Lyft instead.
While Evo was just as lively this year as it was in 2024–and much better-run in general–several people I know who were usually reliable event attendees weren’t there. In fact, the majority of the faces I saw frequently from attending weekly and monthly Portland-area fighting game gatherings didn’t go to Evo. For some, a big reason was work or life conflicts, but even when those were factors, another thing always came up: “It’s just too expensive.”
And it’s not just Evo that’s priced out of reach, either–a lot of big fighting game events have become quite costly to attend. My partner and I went to Combo Breaker in the Chicago suburbs in 2023 and had a fantastic time. We’d love to go back, but for us, it’s almost as expensive as Evo. I’d like to attend Community Effort Orlando, but that’s both an expensive outing and an extremely long flight from the Pacific Northwest. I can only afford to attend one big fighting game event per year, so I need to pick wisely.
It wasn’t always like this. Fighting games are viewed as something of a “working class” esport. Many beloved players over the years have come from distinctly less-privileged backgrounds: inspirational tales of kids who had to get good at fighters because they wanted to make their quarters in the arcade last longer, or because they only had a few games for their console. Top players in all games have emerged from places all across the globe. The great class equalizer is “How well can you hit your buttons?”
Despite this, it’s extremely hard for many players to be able to join these big competitions. Incredible players in many regions–including North America itself–are simply unable to come and compete on the global stage due to prices of travel, lodging, and tournament entry. Depending on your nationality, you might have a long, arduous, and expensive visa process before you can come and play anywhere else besides your home country–and you’re not necessarily guaranteed approval. (It’s a minor miracle that the Pakistani Tekken champions managed to get to their first Evo events at all a few years back.) For many talented but unknown players without sponsorships, these obstacles are exceptionally difficult to surmount.
Big tournaments can be an even harder sell if you’re just a typical fighting game player. Statistically, you’re probably not going to win Evo and recoup any prize money. In fact, you’re very likely to go 0-2 in a major game. And most folks know that, so essentially, you’re paying for a fun weekend with other fighting game nerds. But how much is the average fighting game player willing or able to pay for that experience when they can just go online to find people to spar against?
It’s true that many younger fighting game players have likely grown through online competition, but many players also value the in-person, communal aspect of fighting games. But local options for smaller in-person meets and tournaments can be limited depending on where you live. Running even a small fighting game event can put you at a financial risk–event spaces don’t come cheap, especially when internet packages are factored in (since events are generally expected to be livestreamed). Perhaps, if you’re lucky, you can find a place willing to provide you some space at a discount–some of the monthly fighting game gatherings here in Portland happen at card and tabletop game stores and bars. Then you’ll likely discover that being a Tournament Operator is a tiring, often thankless position. Many who try to establish local events go into burnout after a short while–it takes a certain mentality and dedication to make this work consistently, and not everyone can manage it.
In addition to this, there’s been a severe decrease in the number of established, moderately sized fighting game events over the past several years. As Evo and other big fighting game events increase in price, more affordable mid-size regionals like SoCal and NorCal Regionals, Kumite in Tennessee, and East Coast Throwdown have vanished. Some of these events were put on pause during COVID and never came back. Some grew too big for the hotel and college student-union ballrooms they were hosted in but weren’t big enough to afford a convention space. Some went away because the organizers were just exhausted or needed to move on with life.
Meanwhile, the players who do have the means to attend the big events–either out of pocket or through sponsorships–tend to have an advantage. Events like the Capcom World Tour, the Tekken World Tour, and the SNK World Championship offer massive prize pots, but getting into these events often means entering as many big qualifiers as possible–which requires travel, and that requires money. And the sponsors are only willing to pay for events that look like good investments–meaning those small- and mid-size tournaments that are around struggle to bring in non-local top players that could encourage more people to attend.
This situation doesn’t just hurt the players, but those who enjoy watching the games, too. Everyone loves seeing underdogs and/or new blood do well–just look at how many hearts the young Micky won over in his third-place Street Fighter 6 run at Evo this year. But think about the many other talented players out there we don’t even know about who could have similar amazing performances on those grand stages. They can’t, because the hurdles are too much to overcome.
What can be done to fix this? It’s difficult to come up with a clear solution, but there are ideas. Many publishers already hold online qualifiers for some of their big events, though there are caveats–in some cases, you still have to worry about your travel and lodging costs. The idea of global online tournaments is shaky, since even the most robust rollback netcode can buckle under the weight of a cross-continental journey–or even just shoddy Wi-Fi.
Perhaps the publishers and hardware-makers themselves could help. Helping sponsor some smaller, local events in metro areas would be a step forward in community engagement, and could lay the groundwork for bigger, better events moving forward. Maybe a community “scholarship” fund could be established to help promising players afford travel to big events and make their mark. Maybe we can offer discounted event passes in some cases. I’m really just spitballing here, but it’s clear that if we don’t start to nip this problem in the bud, it could do lasting damage to the soul of the fighting game community.
While I had a fantastic time at Evo 2025 and am glad to see how far it’s come, it also feels like it’s veering in an alarming direction. The eye-rolling Chipotle ad placements are one thing–of course the commercial element is going to have to come in when the payouts get big. Rather, it’s the fact that so many people I know won’t or can’t go to Evo anymore. Evo used to be where you went because all of your fighting game friends from everywhere would be there, together, for that one weekend of the year. But Evo and other big tournaments are feeling more and more exclusive. Fighting games should be open to everyone, and we need to make the path to potential glory as wide as possible.
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