Why WWE Is Afraid of a “Top Guy” Under 35

Bronn Breakker is under 30, has the talent and charisma to define WWE's future. But the company seems too comfortable replaying its past.

The company that built megastars from Hulk Hogan to John Cena is sitting on a goldmine of young talent. So why won’t it trust them to run the show?

For decades, WWE has thrived on the myth of the “Top Guy”—the singular performer who embodies the company’s identity and drives ticket sales, merchandise, and cultural cachet.

From Hulk Hogan to John Cena, WWE has built its empire on the back of stars whose personas transcended the ring. Yet in 2025, despite a roster filled with athletic, charismatic, and social media–savvy talent, no performer under the age of 35 has been allowed to claim that mantle. The question isn’t whether WWE has the talent—it’s why the company seems unwilling to trust them with it.

The Comfort of the Familiar

WWE’s creative leadership has long leaned on nostalgia as a business model. Legends return for marquee matches; long-retired stars dominate advertising campaigns. The company’s risk-averse corporate culture—shaped during Vince McMahon’s final years of control and continuing under Triple H’s stewardship—has made the notion of elevating a young, unproven headliner seem reckless. The logic is simple: when a returning John Cena or Cody Rhodes can spike ticket sales and TV ratings, why gamble on an untested 28-year-old?

Every generation of WWE has had its chosen one. Hulk Hogan defined the 1980s; “Stone Cold” Steve Austin and The Rock carried the Attitude Era; John Cena was the 2000s Iron Man. Each represented not just the company’s creative direction but its cultural footprint. Yet in 2025, with global expansion, billion-dollar media deals, and a stacked developmental system, WWE seems curiously unwilling to let anyone under 35 claim that spot. Instead, the company continues to orbit around familiar faces—Roman Reigns (40), Seth Rollins (38), Cody Rhodes (39)—all veterans of an earlier wave. WWE’s roster brims with promise, but its decision-makers appear to have a deep-seated fear of youth in power.

“WWE doesn’t have a talent problem—it has a trust problem.”

But this dependence on legacy names has stunted WWE’s ability to build the next generation of icons. While AEW and New Japan Pro Wrestling have embraced a youth movement—think MJF or Will Ospreay—WWE remains tethered to the past, preferring to position stars like Roman Reigns (age 40) or Seth Rollins (age 38) as the enduring faces of its brand. It’s a strategy that works in the short term but risks alienating younger audiences who crave fresh identities and storylines.

The Illusion of Opportunity

WWE has tried to project an image of generational change. In recent years, performers like Austin Theory (27), Bron Breakker (27), and Rhea Ripley (27) have been positioned as “future main eventers.” Yet “future” is the key word—these stars are allowed to orbit the main event but rarely break through it. Theory’s brief stint as U.S. Champion ended with creative drift; Ripley, while a dominant Women’s World Champion, often takes a backseat to male faction storylines. Even LA Knight, who became a phenomenon at 41, represents a cautionary tale of WWE’s slow, hesitant push system: he only gained real traction once fan response became impossible to ignore.

This pattern reflects a systemic reluctance to fully invest in youth without layers of control. WWE’s developmental system, NXT, was designed to prepare the next generation for the main roster, but its graduates often find themselves repackaged or sidelined. The few who do break through—like Gunther (37) or Dominik Mysterio (27)—do so within carefully managed narratives that prioritize brand stability over individual autonomy.

A Corporate Culture of Control

Since the late Vince McMahon era, WWE has leaned heavily on nostalgia marketing: returning legends, recycled catchphrases, and constant callbacks to “the good old days.” Even under Paul “Triple H” Levesque’s creative leadership, that comfort zone remains. Familiarity equals safety in the eyes of executives, and safety equals steady quarterly earnings.

When John Cena or Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson can spike ticket sales and streaming numbers overnight, it’s hard for corporate strategists to justify investing in a 28-year-old still proving themselves. Yet this logic breeds creative stagnation. Fans have seen the same title feuds and faction wars for years—while talents like Carmelo Hayes (30) and Tiffany Stratton (25) are told their time “will come.”

The deeper issue lies in WWE’s evolution from a wrestling promotion into a multimedia conglomerate. Since merging with Endeavor under TKO Group Holdings, WWE operates less like a creative enterprise and more like a global entertainment brand governed by quarterly earnings and shareholder expectations. In this climate, “star power” isn’t cultivated—it’s risk-managed.

Younger talent poses a unique set of risks, including social media volatility, evolving audience loyalties, and the potential for public missteps. Rather than allowing a performer to organically rise through audience support—as happened with The Rock or “Stone Cold” Steve Austin—modern WWE scripts micromanage character arcs to fit corporate branding goals. As a result, younger wrestlers rarely receive the kind of unfiltered exposure that can create larger-than-life superstars. They are trained, marketed, and managed, but seldom trusted.

“You can’t manufacture the next Austin or The Rock in a boardroom.”

WWE’s reluctance to crown new kings stems partly from its post-merger identity under TKO Group Holdings. The company now operates as a publicly traded entertainment giant, not a wrestling promotion. That means image control, brand safety, and data-driven decision-making. The unpredictability that once created stars like The Rock or CM Punk now appears as a calculated risk.

In this ecosystem, younger talent is micromanaged rather than cultivated. Promos are scripted, storylines are vetted through corporate PR, and spontaneity is discouraged. For wrestlers under 30—those most likely to resonate with Gen Z audiences—this sterilized environment leaves little room to forge organic charisma.

The Cost of Playing It Safe

The reluctance to elevate younger wrestlers isn’t just a creative problem—it’s a long-term financial one. WWE’s audience is aging; Nielsen data consistently shows that the median viewer age is in the mid-50s. While merchandising and live event revenues remain strong, the company risks becoming culturally stagnant if it can’t connect with younger fans through equally young, relatable heroes. A generation raised on social media and gaming doesn’t identify with nostalgia alone—they identify with authenticity, rebellion, and evolution.

AEW, by contrast, has demonstrated that younger stars can drive both narrative and business success. MJF, Darby Allin, and “Hangman” Adam Page all reached top-guy status before the age of 30, and AEW’s willingness to let their characters blur the lines between kayfabe and reality has resonated with younger demographics. WWE’s refusal to follow suit isn’t due to lack of talent—it’s a fear of losing control.

On paper, WWE does showcase younger performers. Austin Theory, Bron Breakker, Rhea Ripley, and Dominik Mysterio—all under 30—receive steady television time and championship opportunities. But their narratives often serve established stars rather than replacing them. Theory’s once-hyped main event run fizzled into creative limbo; Breakker’s intensity feels capped by the “rookie” label; Ripley’s dominance still orbits around Judgment Day’s group dynamic instead of her own narrative agency.

WWE, meanwhile, treats social media charisma as an accessory, not a foundation. Performers like Logan Paul (29) prove the company knows youth appeal matters, but instead of nurturing homegrown versions of that energy, WWE imports it from the outside.

This illusion of opportunity creates a ceiling: a performer can be successful, but never the success story. Even LA Knight, who surged to superstardom in 2023–24, had to wait until his forties—and until fan chants drowned out creative hesitation—to get a real push. In WWE’s world, “breakout” often means “break out after a decade.”

The Path Forward

If WWE truly wants to secure its next era of dominance, it must rediscover its appetite for risk. Letting younger talent lead doesn’t mean abandoning veterans; it means allowing the new generation to define this moment in wrestling culture, rather than endlessly replaying the past. The tools are already there—Carmelo Hayes’ charisma, Tiffany Stratton’s mainstream potential, and Bron Breakker’s raw power all point toward a future WWE keeps promising but never quite delivers.

To evolve beyond nostalgia, WWE must retake creative leaps. That means allowing its younger talent to make mistakes, experiment, and connect with fans organically. Carmelo Hayes could be a generational talker; Tiffany Stratton has crossover potential with mainstream audiences; Bron Breakker could embody the hybrid of athleticism and authenticity that modern fans crave. What they need isn’t more screen time—they need narrative trust.

The company that once turned a blue-collar brawler into a global icon (Austin), a third-generation athlete into a megastar (The Rock), and a reality show contestant into the face of a decade (Cena) has seemingly forgotten how those transformations happened: through risk, not rehearsal.

Until the company breaks its habit of prioritizing its legacy over its future, the phrase “top guy” will remain a relic of the past—echoing through arenas filled with fans waiting to believe in someone new.