Pakistan's esports path without government support

The beginning at arcades

Muzamil opens by recalling the moment he first saw Arslan Ash play Tekken at a world championship. “What a powerhouse,” Muzamil says, remembering footage of the Pakistani player competing on the global stage, a moment that felt unlikely when Muzamil was younger and had never personally followed Tekken, though he had watched Dota and other esports championships.

Arslan’s path started much earlier, in the arcades of Pakistan. He played games constantly from childhood, drawing crowds and winning matches. When he was young, he didn’t learn Tekken through study or coaching. “It was a natural thing,” he says. His mother was his greatest influence, teaching him from a young age to win and to compete. She was athletic herself and insisted he pursue excellence at whatever he chose.

School became secondary to gaming at moments. Arslan remembers himself in class while his friends studied, but when the tournament came, he was always among the top students. He studied because his mother demanded it. The mindset was simple: if you play, you must win. If you don’t win, there is no money behind it.

The first tournament and the shift to competition

In 2012, at age 13, Arslan played in Pakistan’s biggest gaming tournament at the time, the GMC. He had played locally before, but this was national. He won. “I won 200-300 people in Pakistan,” he says, meaning he defeated hundreds of competitors in the brackets. The prize was 20,000 rupees. For a teenager from a middle-class family with no prior winnings, it was transformative. “It was the first time of life,” Arslan recalls.

After that win, tournaments followed. Not always, but regularly. Lahore tournaments happened every two or three months. He earned money sporadically but steadily. By his late teens, Arslan had become locally famous. He shifted his focus from casual play to purposeful preparation.

The critical decision came when he was studying for college entrance exams (CSS and other competitive tests) while simultaneously dominating the Tekken arcade scene. He realized he could compete internationally. At that moment, his mother made an emotional offer: she would invest in giving him one year to pursue gaming seriously, with tournament travel and living expenses covered. If he failed to earn sustainable income within that year, he would return to education. She told him: “Because if you go out in a tournament and die, so that is not something. I need a proper year and I will freeze to study. If it is not there, then I will do it from there.”

That was the gamble that changed everything.

The leap to international competition

When Arslan stepped into global tournaments, the players were mostly Korean and Japanese. He had to overcome the psychological barrier that he, a Pakistani from outside the esports infrastructure of East Asia, could ever win. “If you’re my brothers, if I tell you 10 years ago, I have to go outside and there are all Korean players. There are Japanese players. I would say you are crazy,” he reflects.

The crucial skill wasn’t just game mechanics. It was mental resilience under pressure. “Because playing a game is another thing. The main thing is you have to beat your mind,” he says. Big prize money was on the line in matches, and every decision was made under emotional weight. That’s where Arslan’s advantage lay.

He was sponsored by a UAE-based company that discovered him through YouTube videos of his King of Fighters gameplay. They saw talent from Pakistan and took a chance. From there, his path accelerated.

The world championship and the refused offer

Arslan won the world championship in Tekken. The details are unclear from the conversation, but the moment itself is electric. He heard crowds, saw stadiums, experienced the weight of representing his country on stages most Pakistani gamers never see.

During this rise, he received an offer from a Japanese company. They wanted him to move to Japan, become a Japanese resident, and represent Japan instead of Pakistan. It was a tempting path. Japan has government support for esports, full infrastructure, professional salaries, and a path to being recognized as a national athlete.

Arslan refused. “I liked this country,” he says. He had family, he had attachment, and the international sponsorships were already coming to him. “I wanted to convey that the international brand has already approached me and I don’t need to go to any other place.” His choice to stay and represent Pakistan was not born of necessity but of principle.

The structural problem: no Pakistani esports infrastructure

Muzamil presses on a critical point. For a 25-year-old with a world championship title, where is the career path for the next kid who wants to pursue esports? Arslan’s answer is sobering.

“Sustainability in this career in Pakistan is not,” he says flatly. Japan, Korea, and the Philippines have government boards, national selections, and professional leagues. Pakistan has none. There is no equivalent to the PCB in cricket. There are no national teams, no government recognition, no infrastructure.

The fighting game community in Pakistan has roughly 2,000 active players spread across different cities, many of them playing online or at home without ever visiting an arcade or bootcamp. But the game itself receives no commercial attention. Sponsors look at audience numbers. PUBG and Free Fire reach millions of Pakistanis on mobile. Tekken reaches a fraction of that. Companies follow the money, and Tekken’s money in Pakistan is minimal.

Competing in the current landscape requires individual hustle. Players must win tournaments for prize money, secure sponsorships on their own, and build audiences through streaming. There is no employer, no safety net, no career ladder.

Building infrastructure from within

Yet Arslan is not waiting for government action. He is running bootcamps across Pakistan, recruiting top players from Lahore, Faisalabad, Islamabad, and Karachi. He pays their living expenses and gives them focused training time. Their results are good. They are winning national competitions and catching international attention.

He streams on Twitch, averaging 300-500 viewers. Pakistani audiences prefer YouTube, so the Twitch community remains small. But his purpose is clear: to create visibility for Pakistani esports talent so that international brands see what is possible.

Muzamil notes that Arslan’s refusal to leave Pakistan, combined with his rising profile, might be the spark that changes how Pakistan sees esports. “You believe that Pakistan will make a future. And in the e-sports, do you think that how do you feel?” Muzamil asks near the end.

Arslan replies with steady conviction. “Pakistan has a lot of talent. Talent has a lot of talent in every show. If you talk about players, if you talk about marketing and media, it’s a lot of talent.” The infrastructure will follow, he suggests, if builders like him keep pushing.