Why the MVP Award Is a Subjective Metric—and a Weak Argument for “Greatness”

Across American sports, the Most Valuable Player award is often treated as an authoritative declaration of superiority. Fans cite MVP totals as shorthand for greatness, broadcasters lean on them to shape legacies, and front offices quietly allow them to influence market value. Yet the MVP, particularly in leagues where it is decided by media voters, is not an objective measurement of performance. It is a reflection of narrative consensus, and when used to argue who was truly the best or greatest player in a given season, it frequently collapses under scrutiny.

At its core, the MVP is not governed by a consistent or measurable standard. The term “most valuable” sounds precise, but value is never clearly defined. In the NBA, Nikola Jokić won MVPs for historic efficiency and advanced metrics dominance, while Joel Embiid’s MVP case leaned heavily on scoring volume, head-to-head narratives, and a growing sense of voter fatigue toward Jokić. Both cases were defensible, yet they rested on different definitions of value. The award did not reveal who was definitively “better”; it revealed which interpretation of value resonated more strongly in that season’s media environment.

The ambiguity becomes even clearer when team success enters the equation. Russell Westbrook’s 2017 NBA MVP, driven by his triple-double average, came despite the Oklahoma City Thunder finishing sixth in the Western Conference. Years earlier, players on top-seeded teams with superior efficiency and defensive impact were dismissed for lacking a compelling storyline. In other seasons, the exact opposite logic prevails, and MVP voters insist the award must go to the best player on one of the league’s best teams. The criteria shift, but the award remains singular, creating the illusion of consistency where none exists.

The NFL offers an even starker example of subjectivity. The MVP award has effectively become a quarterback trophy, regardless of whether a non-quarterback delivers a historically dominant season. Cooper Kupp’s 2021 Triple Crown receiving season, Christian McCaffrey’s all-purpose dominance, and even defensive juggernauts rarely stand a realistic chance. Meanwhile, quarterbacks with strong but not extraordinary seasons are elevated because the position itself is perceived as inherently more “valuable.” This positional bias is not analytical; it is philosophical, and it exposes how MVP voting reflects assumptions rather than measurements.

Baseball, often considered the most statistically rigorous sport, is not immune. Mike Trout produced multiple seasons where advanced metrics such as WAR clearly separated him from the field, yet he lost MVP races because his team missed the playoffs. In other years, voters emphasized team success while downplaying individual dominance, even though baseball is the sport least dependent on single-player team impact. The MVP debate becomes less about performance and more about what voters believe the award should symbolize that year.

These inconsistencies are compounded by the human element. MVP voters are influenced by market size, media exposure, narrative arcs, redemption stories, controversy, and fatigue. LeBron James spent much of his prime as the league’s most impactful player while losing MVP races because he had already won “too many,” while younger or newer stars benefited from freshness. This phenomenon does not reflect a decline in excellence; it reflects a shift in appetite.

Modern sports analytics further undermine the authority of MVP awards. Advanced metrics now offer granular insight into efficiency, defensive impact, lineup influence, and contextualized value. Yet MVP voting rarely adheres strictly to these tools. Metrics are cited selectively, often only when they support an already-favored narrative. The final decision remains interpretive, not empirical, which places the MVP closer to an editorial judgment than a scientific conclusion.

None of this is to say MVP awards are meaningless. They capture something real: how a season was perceived, which performances captured public imagination, and which players symbolized the story of that year. But perception is not proof. Consensus is not correctness. Recognition is not synonymous with supremacy.

When MVP totals are used as definitive evidence in debates about who was the best or greatest player, the conversation shifts away from performance analysis and toward reputation management. The award tells us who fit the narrative of value in a given moment, not who stood alone in excellence. In a sports culture increasingly obsessed with legacy shortcuts, the MVP remains a powerful symbol—but a deeply unreliable metric for truth.