Obviously, Vince McMahon is a genius.
The man is a master promotor. No matter how terrible the WWE product becomes, the effectively brainwashed hardcore audience invariably returns to the fold. It doesn't matter that Roman Reigns will headline WrestleMania 40. It won't matter that Vince will probably refer to it as WrestleMania XL, trolling the continuity crowd with his maddeningly inconsistent whims. It doesn't matter that Backlash has taken a back seat to an hysterically overstuffed show on Saudi Arabian shores on which women, who we are now to take as seriously as their male counterparts, are not permitted to perform. With one slickly-produced epic video package alone, McMahon's empire is capable of obscuring awful hypocrisy and chasmic episodic storytelling by creating a sense of excitement unlike any other wrestling company on the planet. It doesn't even matter that he refuses to call wrestling wrestling.
Vince McMahon perfected FOMO before we even had an acronym for it.
Obviously, McMahon' fingerprints are all over the vast legacy of his own creation. The Undertaker, his greatest creation ever, roamed the yard for a quarter of a century. McMahon was astute enough to realise that Kurt Angle, in 1999, was never getting over as a white meat babyface, and thus repurposed him as heel deluded into believing, hilariously, that he was a white meat babyface. Even now, as Vince's tastes become ever more obsolete, his vision of Braun Strowman is the most over babyface in WWE not named Daniel Bryan.
All that written...