It's the sad thing about entertainment, it's not always about who

Jake “The Snake” Roberts, a man who walked the stage of wrestling with both brilliance and tragedy, once spoke with candor: “It’s the sad thing about entertainment, it’s not always about who is the best.” Though the words are simple, they pierce deeply, for they unveil one of the eternal struggles of human life: that in a world of spectacle and applause, merit does not always win the crown. The greatest heart, the sharpest mind, the strongest will, may be overlooked if they do not also please the fickle gaze of the crowd.

The ancients knew this truth well. In the theaters of Athens, not every master poet won the laurel; sometimes the voices that thundered loudest, not those that spoke most truly, captured the prize. In the arenas of Rome, not every gladiator of great skill became beloved; many who survived countless battles were forgotten, while others, who played to the crowd with showmanship, lived forever in memory. Entertainment, as Roberts laments, bows not only to excellence, but to spectacle, charisma, and the shifting tastes of the people.

Roberts himself was a craftsman of his art. He was known not for brute force alone, but for psychological mastery, for weaving drama into each movement. Yet even he recognized that in the realm of wrestling—and in all of entertainment—being the most skilled is not always enough. The game is larger, harsher: it requires politics, presentation, and the blessings of chance. His sadness is not bitterness, but truth-telling: that talent alone does not always open the gates of glory.

History offers us many such examples. Vincent Van Gogh, now celebrated as one of the greatest painters, died in obscurity, selling almost nothing in his lifetime. His art was brilliant, but the world did not yet have eyes to see it. Conversely, lesser talents, fashionable in their day, were showered with gold and honor, only to be forgotten within a generation. So too in music, in sport, in politics—true greatness may be eclipsed by those who better fit the moment’s desires.

This truth is both bitter and instructive. Bitter, because it offends our sense of justice—we wish to believe the best will always rise. Instructive, because it reminds us that life’s victories are not always handed to the most deserving. To walk in such a world requires resilience: the artist, the athlete, the dreamer must labor not only for recognition, but for love of the craft itself. For applause may fail, fame may pass, but the integrity of one’s devotion remains.

Roberts’ words also shine with a hidden challenge: do not measure your worth solely by external reward. If the world of entertainment—or any world—does not always honor the best, then each soul must find honor in their own effort. To seek only applause is to live enslaved to others’ whims; to strive for excellence for its own sake is to live in freedom. The ancients called this arete—the pursuit of virtue, the fulfillment of one’s own highest potential, regardless of recognition.

The lesson, then, is clear: strive to be the best, but do not be broken if the world does not always crown you so. Your greatness may not always be acknowledged in the moment, but it lives in the work itself, in the lives you touch, in the legacy you leave. Applause is fleeting; mastery endures. Live not for the shifting desires of the crowd, but for the steady fire within.

And so remember Roberts’ lament not as despair, but as wisdom passed down: the world is not always just in its rewards. Yet the true victory lies not in the trophies or the cheers, but in knowing you gave yourself fully, that you held nothing back, that you pursued excellence even when unseen. In this lies a deeper honor than the stage can offer—the honor of a soul faithful to itself.