In WWE, there are far more performers who have regressed more so than they have improved - a sad byproduct of a stifling product in which repetition fosters familiarity and all that familiarity fosters.
Much like the Creative Writers homogenise the performers they are paid to present as unique "larger than life!" entities, the fleet of redundant road agents do nothing except copy and paste. The in-ring action is so often much of a muchness. In an ultra-regulated landscape in which creativity is discouraged - those agents paid their dues, you understand, in an era that has comprehensively passed them by - it's little wonder that the so-called promised land is simply a place to make money, not legacies. This over-produced structure manifests as a sea of rest holds - so many bloody rest holds it borders on parody - and signatures deployed with a soulless, mathematical precision to elicit increasingly mild pops on flagship broadcasts indicted by their silence.
The discourse has changed irrevocably: we don't wish to see the starlets of the Independent shine on the WWE stage, because the WWE stage isn't a showcase. It is, transparently, a lure with which to drown stars in moneyed mediocrity.
But even within the doors of Titan Towers, sheer talent - sheer commitment - shines through the creative darkness...