The Ukrainian StarCraft legend Oleksii White-Ra Krupnyk gave an extensive interview to the Players portal. In the first part of the conversation, we discussed his passion for StarCraft, the birth of esports, and his journey on the professional scene.
How did your journey as a pro StarCraft player begin, and what made you believe in esports?
First of all, I’ve been drawn to video games since childhood. It was something completely new, something I had never seen before. I was born during Soviet times and witnessed the collapse of the USSR — which, honestly, I was happy about. Back then, everyone had to be the same, they drilled into us that the West was our enemy, that Lenin was our great leader, and that the party was leading us into a bright future. Meanwhile, there was constant shortage, empty store shelves, and even buying a car required waiting in line for decades. I had just been inducted into the Young Pioneers when the Soviet Union collapsed.
After that, more game consoles started appearing. Odesa, my hometown, was a place where many families were connected to sailors, and they always brought back something new from abroad. That’s when consoles like Dendy and PlayStation started showing up. My friends and I would gather to play Tanks, Mortal Kombat, Street Fighter, and other games. There were long queues just to play. I loved that feeling.
Then the first PC gaming clubs started popping up, and I began going there to train and play. Back then, games like Doom, Warcraft III, and Age of Empires were huge. Sometimes, we wouldn’t even play — we’d just watch others because we couldn’t always afford to play ourselves.
But when StarCraft came out, it was something else entirely. Three completely different races, stunning graphics — it was love at first sight. At first, we played by our own rules: no attacking for 30 minutes, then war. We gathered in gaming clubs that had 4-6 PCs, playing against each other, and I started getting really good. I kept beating my friends.
That’s when more experienced players heard about me. Some tournament players came to challenge me — and completely crushed me with photon cannons. They had experience, while we had been living in our own little bubble. There was no internet, no proper tournaments yet, but the community was growing.
That’s how I met Roma Topolchan, our local Odesa champion. He already had tournament experience, and we started training together. He even took me to my first tournament, a 2v2 event. Funny thing — I showed up with a broken arm in a cast. Playing like that was uncomfortable, to say the least. We managed to win a few rounds, but got eliminated pretty quickly.
After that, I felt a mix of sports drive and frustration. I knew I could play better — I just needed to train harder. This was around early to mid-1999, and from that moment on, every evening, we gathered and trained for six hours straight.
How did your training sessions go back then? What did you focus on?
We picked our races and worked on different strategies for each one — aggressive rushes, various early-game attacks, and observing how our opponents reacted. We also focused on macro gameplay, developing different aggressive moves, understanding timing windows, and analyzing what our opponents were doing against us. The goal was to figure out how to defend better and strengthen our play while identifying our own weaknesses. There were countless aspects to improve on.
Our training reached a whole new level when we set up four PCs at a friend’s house and started practicing for the Forstar international tournament in 2001. This event was organized by Oleg Sentsov in Simferopol, featuring 32 top players. The tournament had both 1v1 and 2v2 formats.
In 2v2, two teams from our Odesa-based White clan won the tournament. In 1v1, however, the top two spots were taken by players from moscow’s strongest clan at the time — orky. But in team games, both of our squads defeated them. I personally finished fourth, losing by a single pylon in one of my matches.
We practiced every possible tactic. And when it came to 2v2, almost no one in the world could beat us. We dedicated an insane amount of time to it and knew exactly what would happen at every minute of the game. One key thing about teamplay — even if you were a legendary solo player like SlayerS_'BoxeR', you could never beat a well-coordinated duo, even if they weren’t as strong individually.
What was your first major tournament victory? What did you win?
I think it was a tournament in Odesa, organized by GreenJek at Club K — the most popular gaming club in the city at the time, with a strong local scene. This was around 1999-2000. Players came from Kyiv, including Unforgiven, and before the tournament even started, they said: "Guys, maybe you should just hand over the prize to us right away? No point in playing, we’re going to beat you anyway."
We told them they’d have to play for it, and I ended up winning. After the tournament, Unforgiven put down his mobile phone — which was a rarity back then — and challenged me to a 1v1 match for it. I beat him 3-0 playing with different races, but we didn’t take his phone — we let him keep it, just to be sportsmanlike. The whole club was behind me, around 30 people cheering, because that kind of arrogance needed to be punished. I mean, if you show up to a tournament and say, “Just give us the prizes,” then what’s the point of holding the tournament at all?
My first international win was the Forstar tournament in Simferopol, organized by Oleg Sentsov. That was a fantastic event — very friendly, with big prizes for that time: a monitor and a printer. Those were really valuable rewards back then. After the tournament, all the players and organizers took a trip to Alushta, brought along a case of beer and cognac, and celebrated the victory. But more than the party, what mattered was just hanging out with the community — you realize that these people are your scene, your family.
Then came WCG Ukraine 2003. I actually lost in 2002 — I underestimated my opponents and was really frustrated afterward. But in 2003, I bounced back. There was one city slot for the Ukrainian championship finals and one national slot for WCG, and I won.
That victory meant a lot to me mentally. After my 2002 loss, I went through a rough period — tilted hard, partied too much, got into some bad situations and fights. One of them nearly got me killed, and I had to have surgery. That’s when I made a decision: to go all-in on StarCraft professionally. It was safe, it helped me grow as a person and as a strategist, and I wanted to make a comeback — to prove to myself that I was still capable of winning international tournaments.
How did your family react to your involvement in esports?
They didn’t see it as anything serious. To them, I was just playing in a computer club. But we didn’t play all the time — we had a schedule. We went to the gym in the evening, then gathered at the club at a set time. Since this was a team effort, we had to coordinate our schedules.
In 2000, my father bought me a computer. I had convinced him that I needed it for university studies — I had just enrolled in Odesa Hydrometeorological Institute to study oceanography. I was inspired by Jacques-Yves Cousteau and wanted to become an oceanologist.
But my father soon realized that I was constantly playing StarCraft. Relatives complained that they couldn’t reach us on the phone because the dial-up internet was always connected. My father would get angry and even started removing the fuses to cut off power. But I waited until he fell asleep, screwed them back in, and kept training until 4-5 AM. Then, I’d wake up at 8 AM and go to university. Sometimes, I skipped classes altogether — we had an infamous gaming club in Odesa called "Black Milk" on Tairova, where we spent entire days playing 1v1 matches, refining our strategies for upcoming tournaments.
Overall, my family was against it. They said, “What are you doing? These are just games; they won’t get you anywhere in life. You need an education and a job so you can work for your pension.” But I looked at how pensioners lived and thought, “Is that really the future I want?” I knew esports had huge potential. At the time, technology wasn’t advanced enough, but with the rise of the internet, everything was bound to grow exponentially.
I believe the real rise of esports began in the late '90s when South Korea started organizing tournaments that filled entire stadiums. We watched SlayerS_'BoxeR' — our legend, the Emperor of Terran — and downloaded VODs of his games and other Korean players. Seeing what esports had become in Korea was like glimpsing into another galaxy. They were ahead of us, and we were in awe.
When did your parents' attitude toward esports change? What influenced their opinion?
It happened in 2003 when I won WCG Ukraine. I went on to win that tournament four more times, but that first victory was the most significant. Standing on stage, hearing the applause, realizing that all those hours of training had paid off — it’s hard to describe that feeling. That was the moment I understood that nothing is impossible in life. If you put in the effort, use your brain, and stay motivated, you can achieve anything.
That victory came with a laptop as a prize. I sold it — GreenJak helped with that for $1.430. At the time, you could buy a decent car with that money. I gave part of the money to my parents and saved the rest for a trip to South Korea for a tournament.
However, a few weeks before my trip, I made a mistake. I borrowed my mother’s car and got into an accident. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but the car was damaged. The repairs cost around $600-700, so I had to use part of my prize money for that. As a teenager, I was a bit reckless. Looking back, I see things more rationally, but back then, I made decisions emotionally.
When I handed money to my parents and earned the opportunity to represent Ukraine in an international tournament in South Korea, they felt proud. Even my relatives acknowledged that this was something serious, not just childish games.
Where did the funding for tournament travel come from, especially for international championships, which required more money? Did you have personal sponsors?
At that time, the only major tournament was the World Cyber Games, which was the world championship, funded by Samsung, and held once a year. There were smaller tournaments organized by local sponsors in different regions, but professional esports, as we know it today, didn’t exist yet. For many years, WCG was the flagship event that drove esports forward.
My first team was 3D, but from them, I only received gaming gear — mousepads, mice, keyboards. Later, I joined Excello, which started paying me a salary — 200 euros per month. Real money started coming in when I joined Meet Your Makers (MYM). That’s when I got an official jersey, gaming equipment, a salary, and fully covered travel expenses for tournaments. I joined MYM around 2006, and from that point, it became a full-time job. Everything was organized professionally — interviews, sponsorship deals, and travel arrangements.
Before that, I had various individual sponsors. A company from Odesa, Skyline, helped with travel expenses. I also wrote strategy guides for the magazine Best Video Games, and they provided some financial support, though not consistently. Everything changed when I joined MYM, and later, mousesports.
After the release of StarCraft II, I received many offers from different teams. However, after talking to several people, I found an individual sponsor — Duckload. The company’s CEO advised me to develop my own brand. He told me, “Being part of a team is great, but what will you do when the team no longer needs you?” I listened to his advice and started working independently, managing my own sponsorships and gaining the ability to create and control my own projects.
If we compare with modern esports, today teams have professional psychologists and performance coaches who help players handle pressure. How did you deal with stress?
We didn’t have anything like that back then. We were pioneers — we learned everything through experience. Of course, at the beginning, I felt nervous, but the more you play, practice, and treat it as a normal process, the easier it gets to handle pressure.
For me, it was simpler because I grew up on the streets — I saw real life and everything that came with it. I also saw the virtual world, which was much better than reality. Even when I lost, I was happy that I put up a fight because it meant I had a chance to prove to myself that with a little more training, I could improve.
I believe that losses shouldn’t be treated as something catastrophic. That’s where my phrase "More GG, More Skill" comes from — the more games you play, the more experience you gain. If you have a functioning brain, you won’t make the same mistake twice. The key is to analyze what happened in the past so you don’t repeat those mistakes in the future.
Also, my friends and community supported me a lot. When you feel that support, you gain confidence.
Nowadays, esports players don’t have as much real-life experience. Many of them haven’t seen much beyond their computers and teammates. We grew up differently—fights on the streets were a regular thing. You’d be sitting with your friends, 15-16 years old, and hear stories about someone getting killed or having their car shot up. We had to survive that, and compared to that, losing a match was nothing. You just had to analyze your mistakes and not repeat them.
Psychologists didn’t exist back then, and nowadays, I think people are just more fragile. It seems like the streets didn’t teach them well.
I wanted to ask about your legendary special tactics. How did you come up with them?
We played a lot of standard strategies, but if you wanted to beat a skilled Korean player, you needed something unconventional. No matter how much you trained, a Korean player would outperform you mechanically — their esports system was on another level.
Even back then, they already had gaming houses where 15-20 players trained together. They didn’t have psychologists yet, but they had coaches, massage therapists, and staff who handled household tasks and meal planning. Their daily schedule was strict — wake up, do morning exercises, eat breakfast, train, then review replays. Their mechanics were insane.
So, if you wanted to beat a Korean, you had to surprise them — and that’s exactly what I did. That’s how I invented these non-standard tactics, which I called special tactics. If you could catch them off guard, you could win.
And that’s how it started — you throw something unexpected at your opponent, and they don’t know how to react because they’ve never trained for it. You take advantage of that because they’ve never encountered these strategies before. At first glance, my moves might have seemed weird or even bad, but they worked.
That’s how special tactics were born — to beat stronger players. That was my signature move and trick to defeat Koreans — by the way, it also helped me in real life.
Which tournament or match in your career stands out the most in your memory?
Emotionally, my most significant victory was WCG Ukraine 2003. I had lost the year before, battled through personal struggles, and even had surgery after a near-fatal fight. A doctor told me that one more hit could have been fatal, but I managed to recover and make a comeback.
One of the most iconic moments in my career was beating SlayerS_'BoxeR' in South Korea in 2009. We were in the same group at the International e-Sports Festival, and the winner of our match would advance to the playoffs. It was also a televised match in Korea. I used my special tactics — constant movement, drops, and micro-control — to take him down.
The non-Korean pro players were really rooting for me. The match itself was dynamic and intense. I gave it my all and managed to defeat my idol. Like many others, SlayerS_'BoxeR' was my inspiration to start playing StarCraft. He demonstrated what professional gaming could look like.
After that victory, my friends and I went out to eat in the city. As we walked through the streets, Koreans recognized me and invited me into bars, offering unlimited beer. Our group had about 15 people, and they insisted on treating all of us. This happened not just once, but 10-15 times. It was a huge sign of respect.
I didn’t win any money in that tournament, but it was a deeply important moral victory. We showed the Koreans that Ukrainians could be strong in StarCraft.
In your opinion, how has esports changed over time? Where has it evolved to now?
It was clear from the beginning that esports would grow because competition is part of human nature. How old are the Olympic Games? Thousands of years.
I always knew something new would emerge and that esports would develop because internet access was expanding, hardware was improving, and new games were being released. There’s a huge difference between old and modern esports. We were pioneers—we played for honor and reputation. It started in local clubs, then city tournaments, then national championships. The prize money was secondary—we wanted respect. Of course, bigger prizes would have been nice, but that wasn’t the main goal.
Nowadays, prize pools are inflated. What is a 19- or 20-year-old going to do with two million dollars? They haven’t experienced life yet. What can they teach the next generation when they themselves are still children? Back then, the first-place prize in Warcraft, StarCraft, or Counter-Strike was $20,000-$40,000 per team, and that was already a lot.
If you had a sponsor and were doing what you loved, you were already lucky. Show me 10% of people in the world who get to make a living doing what they love. Not many. We played, and sometimes we won prizes — it was great.
Now, money dominates esports. Players get into it purely for financial reasons. This kind of development isn’t good for any sport. The primary motivation should be the competitive spirit, while salaries and bonuses should come second. Young players should be taught discipline, good behavior, and a balanced lifestyle — not just gaming. They should read books, exercise, and develop other skills because esports won’t last forever. That’s my perspective.
Nowadays, esports is plagued with numerous scandals related to match-fixing. Was something like that even possible in your time? Could anyone have even thought about it?
It did happen. I know there were major scandals in South Korea, with criminal cases that led to many Korean players being jailed for such things. It's extremely unpleasant and leaves a very negative mark on the development of esports. But we have to understand that where there are bets, there will be abuse.
The bigger the audience for an event — say, a match being watched by 2 or 3 million people — the more attention it gets from bookmakers. Of course, they take bets on these events, and while that can be both good and bad, it’s something that needs to be fought against. And those who engage in match-fixing — they are not our friends.
StarCraft was at the top when esports was emerging, but now, unfortunately, it doesn't have the same audience. Why do you think that is?
It's a very difficult game. The entry barrier is high — you need to practice for a year before you can start showing results. It requires an immense time investment and is complex both mechanically and strategically. In general, younger players don’t play strategy games as much.
When StarCraft II was released in 2010, esports was in decline, and this game became the driving force behind its revival. In previous years, esports had seen tough times — there weren’t many tournaments, and those that did exist often failed to pay out prize money. The scene was struggling.
Then StarCraft II came out, hit its peak, and brought everyone back together. After that, Dota 2 was released, and the esports industry really took off. Thanks to StarCraft II, platforms like Justin.tv (which later became Twitch) grew significantly.
I think StarCraft is simply too hard for beginners. And in team games, it's easier to blame your teammate for your failures — "You messed up, I played well. I’m a god, it’s all on you, not me." Team-based games are much simpler in that regard.
If we draw parallels with real sports, we can see that the most popular sports are team-based: soccer, hockey, basketball, rugby, baseball. Even the biggest individual contracts are signed by footballers. Team games are just more accessible and engaging for audiences.
Did the developers of StarCraft, Blizzard, communicate with professional players at tournaments? Did they ask for advice on how the game should evolve or take feedback for StarCraft II?
Yes, they communicated with us. They didn’t ask for advice on creating StarCraft II, but we knew it was in development long before its release. When it launched, professional players got access to the alpha version. We weren’t allowed to stream or talk about it, but we could play and test it. We provided feedback directly to the developers.
David Kim was responsible for balancing StarCraft II. He was from South Korea but worked at Blizzard’s headquarters in Irvine, California. We gave him feedback on balance issues. We didn’t influence game dynamics, but there were many meetings where we discussed balance changes.
Blizzard invited top players to their office, where we met the developers. Mike Morhaime, the founder of Blizzard, welcomed us warmly. I remember playing poker with the developers and going out with them to bars — it felt more like a big family than just a company.
Of course, players complained about certain things being overpowered, but in my opinion, if a game is well-designed, you should be able to adapt and figure out the strengths and weaknesses of every race. We talked about these things on tournament forums and during competitions. Our relationship with Blizzard wasn’t just professional—it was deeper, like we were all neighbors in the same house, working to make it better together.
How do you think Blizzard is doing now? Are they still interested in supporting StarCraft esports, or are they more focused on new projects?
Nowadays, corporations have taken over many companies, including Blizzard. Their main priority is profit. Of course, maintaining their reputation is important to them, but wherever they can cut costs, they will — because they need to show results to their investors.
I believe that’s why Mike and Amy Morhaime left Blizzard Activision. They couldn’t fight against the new corporate culture. The focus has shifted towards maximizing revenue rather than nurturing the gaming community. It’s disappointing to see something you and your friends built being used purely for profit by large corporations. But that’s life — so we just have to move forward and create new things.
How has esports impacted your personal life? What has it given you, and what have you had to sacrifice for it?
I think esports is a dream for every free-spirited person. First and foremost, it gave me freedom — freedom of action, freedom of choice. I am not dependent on anyone, never was, and never will be when it comes to my decisions and actions.
Esports helped me develop strategic thinking significantly. I also had to learn some English on my own. It introduced me to countless friends all over the world. There isn’t a single country I could visit where I wouldn’t be welcomed as part of the community.
I’ve had some incredible experiences — ones you wouldn’t even read about in books — where entire families welcomed me and thanked me for what I do. Those moments are truly priceless.
Were there any negative aspects of esports?
Of course. Sitting at a computer for long hours takes a toll. I have back problems now, so I need to take care of my health and stay active. Prolonged sitting affects your eyesight too.
As for people’s attitudes — early on, friends would say, “What are you wasting your time on? Go make money.” I’d tell them, “Be patient, the money will come.”
Now, many of those same people have businesses, while some don’t. But I feel happy because I managed to turn my passion into reality. I never worked just for money. For me, the most important thing has always been doing what I love—and doing something that benefits not only myself but others as well.
How did you realize it was time to retire and start thinking about the future?
That was around 2013. I was already working at Twitch, didn’t have much time for training, and started coaching other streamers like myself. I realized I was already 33 years old — my speed and reaction time weren’t what they used to be. Sure, I could still win prize money, but I wasn’t going to be a champion anymore. Maybe I’d win a tournament here and there, but consistency at the highest level was slipping.
Gradually, I started stepping away from esports because staying in shape required at least 6-7 hours of daily practice, plus watching streams, analyzing games — and on top of that, I wanted to spend more time with family and friends. I also had a full-time job and was still streaming. I continued playing in show matches and invitation-only tournaments, but after 33, it wasn’t easy anymore.
Show me a single player who won his 5th WCG in Ukraine at the age of 30 — that was me in 2010. At the global WCG, I lost 2-1 in the quarterfinals to a Polish player, but even at 30, I was still winning international tournaments. It was incredibly tough because there were always new, hungry players trying to win, and defending a title is much harder than winning a new one.
Do you remember how the community reacted when they found out you were retiring?
People still write to me asking for streams. But honestly, I never officially announced my retirement — why would I? Deep down, I’ll always be an esports competitor. If someone invites me to play, I’ll play.
A few years ago, when the StarCraft: Remastered edition was released, all the veterans got together and played again. There was no need for a big announcement. I’ve seen so many cases where someone says they’re leaving, then they come back, then they leave again. No need for dramatic statements — we’re just simple guys who love the game.
