The 'Martial Arts' Label and the Classification Battle in Global Combat Sports

On the stands of the Lumpinee Stadium in Bangkok, on a March evening, I sat next to a young data analyst from Singapore. He opened his laptop, typed a few lines, then turned and asked: 'Do you think this fight should go into the MMA database?' I looked down at the ring — where two fighters were locked in a clinch in the classic Muay Thai manner, a technique anyone who has watched the UFC knows is heavily restricted under the Unified Rules. His question, seemingly a dry technical matter, touched the heart of a problem smoldering in the global combat sports industry: classification. Over 37 years of watching arenas from Tokyo to Las Vegas, from Bangkok to Rio de Janeiro, I have witnessed martial arts transform from a local traditional discipline into a global industry worth billions of dollars. Along with that expansion came a persistent problem never fully resolved: the label 'martial arts' is used to refer to far too many different things. Under that label, we have MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) — where striking and grappling are combined within a relatively unified ruleset; professional boxing with its four major sanctioning bodies (WBA, WBC, IBF, WBO) operating on an entirely different logic; kickboxing with its own rules under Glory, K-1, or Thai promotions like Lumpinee and Rajadamnern; grappling disciplines such as ADCC and IBJJF with their own scoring systems; sanda and wushu taolu — two branches of Chinese martial arts with completely opposite philosophies; Vovinam — the traditional Vietnamese martial art with its own belt and form systems; and even unofficial bouts on improvised stages. Each of these disciplines has its own logic. MMA scores based on a synthesis of striking effectiveness, control, and finishing ability. Professional boxing scores by round, with different weights across rounds. Glory kickboxing emphasizes the volume of significant strikes. Taolu — the performance division of wushu — is scored by judges on difficulty and precision of movement, with no direct opposition. Sanda combines striking and grappling, but with rules different from MMA. Vovinam has its own system of kicks, punches, and locks, judged under the standards of the Vietnam Vovinam Federation and the World Vovinam Federation. Confusing these disciplines is not rare. Even professional analysts sometimes merge data, leading to skewed conclusions. For ordinary fans, knowing which discipline a fight belongs to — and therefore how it is scored — can determine whether they understand the result correctly or incorrectly. To understand why classification matters so much, let us start with a concrete example. In MMA under the Unified Rules, a grappler can win a fight by controlling an opponent on the ground for the majority of the time, even if they land no significant strikes. In professional boxing, the same cannot happen — you must land, and the volume and quality of strikes determine the score. In Muay Thai under Lumpinee rules, a tight clinch and knee strikes can earn a higher score than hard punches. When an analyst merges these three data sets, they are creating a statistically meaningless mixture. An MMA fighter with a high decision-win rate may be undervalued if compared to a boxer with the same rate — because in MMA, winning by decision is no less valuable than winning by knockout. In boxing, knockout is the more celebrated way to finish, but it does not always reflect a higher level. The same happens with so-called fundamental metrics: striking accuracy, takedown defense, submission rate. Each of these metrics is meaningful only within a specific ruleset. Takedown defense, for instance, is completely meaningless in boxing — because takedowns are not part of the sport. Yet I have seen 'greatest punchers of all time' comparison charts placing Muhammad Ali alongside Khabib Nurmagomedov, based on metrics designed specifically for MMA. More dangerous still are cases of fighters switching disciplines. When a famous Muay Thai fighter like Rodtang Jitmuangnon moves into a hybrid format, their prior record cannot be used to predict the outcome. In a pure Muay Thai fight, they may have hundreds of wins, but under MMA rules, their takedown defense could be zero. Conversely, a classical wrestler may dominate MMA in their weight class but fail completely in a pure wrestling tournament if they are unfamiliar with that discipline's specific scoring system. The distinction between MMA and traditional martial arts is even more complex. Wushu taolu — the performance division of Chinese martial arts — is scored by a panel of judges based on difficulty and precision of movement. It is a serious competitive sport, but its logic is entirely different from any combat discipline. Applying a win-loss analytical framework to taolu would lead to meaningless conclusions, because in taolu there is no 'loss' in the sense of direct opposition. Sanda — also a branch of Chinese martial arts — is a genuine combat discipline, combining striking and grappling, but with round-splitting and scoring rules distinct from both MMA and kickboxing. The coexistence of taolu and sanda under the single label 'wushu' is a perfect example of how multi-layered the label 'martial arts' has become. In Vietnam, Vovinam is a similar case. It is a traditional martial art with a system of kicks, punches, locks, and performance forms — meaning it contains both combat and performance elements within a single discipline. A Vovinam practitioner can compete in combat in their weight class and also perform forms. These two formats are scored under two entirely different systems, yet sit under a single label. At the organizational level, this diversity creates different ecosystems. UFC, ONE Championship, Bellator, and PFL operate under the MMA model with exclusive contract structures. Professional boxing operates under a freer model, with four competing sanctioning bodies and individual promoters holding power. Kickboxing has Glory and Thai promotions with even higher title fragmentation. Grappling has ADCC and IBJJF with open tournament systems. And sanda, taolu, and Vovinam exist mainly within national championships and multi-sport games, with entirely different organizational models. These differences have clear economic implications. UFC revenue comes from PPV, television, tickets, and sponsorship. Professional boxing revenue depends more heavily on PPV and major fights. Kickboxing in Thailand relies on live betting audiences and local sponsors. Taolu and sanda depend on state investment and federation development programs. Applying one model's analytical framework to another will produce financially mistaken conclusions. Even at the fan level, these boundaries have an effect. MMA viewers expect a fight that can end by knockout, submission, or judges' decision. Professional boxing viewers expect a fight decided by scorecards after many rounds. Muay Thai viewers at Lumpinee may assess a fight based on odds shifting continuously during the bout. And taolu viewers assess a performance based on entirely different artistic and technical standards. Back to the question of the young analyst in Bangkok: should a Muay Thai fight go into the MMA database? Technically, the answer is no — because if it does, that data will distort metrics and lead to meaningless comparisons. But in practice, the boundaries are not always clear. Some fighters compete in both disciplines. Some promotions combine rules. Some bouts take place under hybrid rules that do not fully belong to any single discipline. Interestingly, while analysts try to classify sharply, the fighters and promoters themselves are actively blurring the boundaries. The crossover phenomenon — fighters moving from one discipline to another — has become part of marketing strategy. A boxing champion moving to MMA, or an MMA fighter challenging a boxer, creates events with enormous commercial appeal, despite the fact that direct comparison is technically meaningless. But here is the counterintuitive point: it is precisely this ambiguity that is expanding the combat sports market, not shrinking it. Fans do not come to watch a pure sport — they come to watch clashes between schools, between styles, between cultures. Sharp classification, commercially speaking, may be a bad thing. What analysts often overlook is this: fans do not need a perfect classification system. They need a story. And the best story often lies in the grey zone — where a traditional wrestler faces an MMA striker, where a Thai fighter faces a European kickboxer, where the boundary between disciplines matters less than the question: who will win? However, as journalists, we need to distinguish between enjoying the grey zone and analyzing it vaguely. We can enjoy a crossover event for its entertainment value, but we must not use its data to draw scientific conclusions about a specific discipline. Professionalism lies in knowing when to classify and when to leave diversity intact. Over the years, I have witnessed no small number of skewed analyses because the author could not distinguish between disciplines. An article about 'the greatest fighters' lumping boxing legends together with MMA champions, based on incomparable criteria. An analysis of 'striking effectiveness' merging data from disciplines with entirely different rules. These mistakes not only mislead readers but also damage the credibility of sports analysis as a whole. There is one truth I have learned after decades: before becoming a genius celebrated by the media, every fighter is just a child learning to endure scrutinizing eyes in the gym. Those eyes do not distinguish disciplines. A child training Vovinam in Hanoi, a child training Muay Thai in Isan, a child training wrestling in Dagestan — they all endure silent years before anyone calls them talented. And it is precisely that silence that is the only truly comparable point across disciplines, because everything else — rules, scoring, contracts — is different. The question for professionals in combat sports is not 'how do we classify everything sharply', but 'how do we help fans understand the differences between disciplines without losing their excitement for cross-border clashes'. That is a balancing challenge — between analytical accuracy and the pull of storytelling. For me, after 37 years of watching arenas, the label 'martial arts' remains one of the most interesting words in the industry. It is frustratingly ambiguous, but that is precisely why it reflects the richness of a constantly evolving sports industry. When the media buzzes about a new crossover event, true talent still trains quietly in the gym — whether it is an MMA cage, a boxing ring, or a taolu floor. The young analyst's question in Bangkok will be asked many more times, and each time we answer, we have another chance to understand better the discipline we watch.