A Medium essay titled "Professional Wrestling Is Stupid (And I Love It)" makes a case that wrestling fans have been muttering for decades: the stupidity isn't a bug. It's the whole show. Published in early October 2026 under the tagline "Because sometimes the dumbest shit is the most fun," the piece celebrates wrestling's spectacle, melodrama and over-the-top storytelling over any claim to realistic competition.
It's a small essay with a surprisingly timely argument, and it's worth unpacking why.
The Argument: Absurdity Is a Feature
Per the essay's framing, wrestling's appeal comes from embracing the ridiculous rather than apologizing for it. Theatrical excess, campy characters and soap-opera-scale feuds aren't things to be explained away. They're the product.
That's a useful correction to the oldest wrestling conversation in the book, the one where a fan gets asked some version of "you know it's fake, right?" The essay's answer, in effect, is that this misses the point. Nobody asks whether the plot of an opera is realistic. The question is whether it moves you, or in wrestling's case, whether it makes you scream at a TV about a man in face paint.
Why This Is Landing Now
The timing matters. According to the context around the piece, wrestling fandom is in something like a cultural renaissance: mainstream acceptance is growing, streaming platforms are investing heavily in wrestling content, and younger audiences are discovering the genre without irony or shame.
That last part is the real shift. For a long time, a lot of wrestling fandom came wrapped in a defensive crouch, whether that meant the "guilty pleasure" label or the ironic-viewing alibi. The essay's very format, a love letter that admits the thing is stupid and then refuses to feel bad, reads like the post-shame version of that conversation.
The "Dumb Fun" Defense in an Age of Prestige
Here's my take, and it's mine, not the essay's: wrestling's moment feels like a reaction to how much of our entertainment talks itself up. We live in an era of prestige culture, where every show wants to be a Serious Drama with a cinematic score and a thinkpiece waiting in the wings. Wrestling doesn't audition for that. It wants you to gasp when a chair comes out and cheer when the hero kicks out at two.
That honesty is refreshing. There's no pretense about what's being sold, which is exactly why the "guilty" part of guilty pleasure starts to look unnecessary.
Wrestling Has Company in the Silly Aisle
The essay's angle invites comparison with other beloved "silly" media, and the obvious neighbors are the ones fans already defend without blinking: anime, superhero movies and reality TV. All of them run on heightened emotion, exaggerated stakes and characters who announce their feelings at full volume. Few people feel the need to apologize for loving a power-up montage or a reunion-episode meltdown.
Wrestling is the same recipe with the dial turned further and the performers doing it live, in front of a crowd that is part of the performance. Where a superhero film hands you a villain monologue, wrestling hands you a villain and then lets 15,000 people boo him in real time. That's my read, anyway, and it's hard not to see why the format keeps finding new audiences.
What the Camp Gets Right
Camp gets a bad rap as the thing you do when you're mocking something. The more interesting reading, and the one this essay leans toward, is that camp can be sincere. Wrestling's theatrical excess works because everyone involved commits fully. The wild entrances, the cartoonish rivalries and the melodramatic betrayals only work if nobody winks too hard.
That sincerity may be why younger viewers are showing up without the ironic armor. If you don't need a layer of detachment to enjoy something, you can simply enjoy it.
What We Can and Can't Say
To be clear about the limits here: this is an opinion essay, not a data report. The claims about wrestling's mainstream acceptance and streaming investment are broad trends, and the essay doesn't hand us specific figures, platforms or deals, so neither will I. What it does offer is a clear emotional thesis, and plenty of fans will recognize themselves in it.
The Takeaway
The most telling thing about "Professional Wrestling Is Stupid (And I Love It)" is the parenthetical. It concedes the insult and keeps the love, which is the exact move that turns a guilty pleasure into just a pleasure. In a media landscape that keeps asking us to take everything seriously, a genre that cheerfully refuses might be the most honest entertainment going.
