The NBA is in a constant state of tinkering. Adam Silver is always adjusting and experimenting in real time. He’s trying to solve one problem while occasionally creating another. You see it in the NBA Cup. You see it in the All-Star Game formats that require a flow chart and a deep breath to explain. There is always a new lever being pulled, a new idea being tested under Adam Silver’s watch.
It makes you wonder how this era will be remembered in ten or twenty years. Will it be viewed as innovative?
Progressive? Necessary? Or will it feel like a stretch of seasons where the league kept throwing concepts at the wall, searching for traction, with only a few actually sticking.
One of the most impactful tweaks has been the 65-game minimum for end-of-season awards, something the league instituted before the start of the 2023-24 season. We are now on year three of this arbitrary line, and the potential impact it might have on the history books is legit. Most Valuable Player. All-NBA. All-Defense. The rule is simple on its face. Play 65 games, and you qualify. Miss 18 or more, you are out. There is no gray area.
It was Silver’s response to load management, an attempt to discourage teams from strategically shelving stars in the name of preservation. The thinking was straightforward. Tie availability to legacy and tie it to contract incentives. Make it matter tangibly.
Whether it fully solved the issue is another conversation. It placed durability back into the spotlight, made it part of the awards discourse again, and forced organizations to weigh rest against recognition. Like many league-wide experiments, it addressed a real concern. The long-term ripple effects are still playing out.
Adam Silver is trying to solve a real issue, although in my opinion, he is circling around the cleanest answer without ever touching it. The solution has been sitting there the whole time. Fewer games. Reduce the total. Ease the cumulative strain. If the tax on a player’s body is lighter, the incentive to strategically rest him decreases.
This version of the NBA is not the league from twenty years ago. The pace is faster, the space is wider, and the defensive ground to cover is massive. Bigs are chasing guards on the perimeter. Guards are crashing into seven-footers at the rim. Every possession asks more of the body than it once did. Add in stretches of scheduling that still feature as many as 16 back-to-backs for certain teams, and you are almost inviting fatigue to take over.
Instead of trimming the schedule, which would impact revenue, the league landed on 65 games as the line in the sand. An arbitrary number that attempts to legislate availability rather than address the wear and tear that limits it in the first place.
And now we are staring at a strange possibility. Some of the best players in the world may not qualify for the very awards that define their seasons. Nikola Jokic. Shai Gilgeous Alexander. Luka Doncic. Kawhi Leonard. Giannis Antetokounmpo. Stephen Curry. Players who shape the league narrative could find themselves on the outside of MVP or All-NBA conversations because they land on the wrong side of a games played ledger.
That creates tension. Voters are evaluating greatness while glancing at a participation threshold. Seasons remembered with an asterisk of availability. The intent was to discourage load management, but the byproduct might be award races that feel incomplete. The league wanted stars on the floor. Everyone does. The question is whether tying legacy to 65 games addresses the root of the issue, or whether it simply reshuffles the consequences.
In a season where so many primary stars have missed chunks of time, the 65-game rule is about to open doors that in other years would have stayed closed. All-NBA spots are usually a gauntlet. This year, the math is reshaping the field. Players who might have been on the fringe in a traditional season suddenly find themselves with a clearer lane because others cannot clear the availability bar.
One of those players, had he remained fully healthy, is Devin Booker.
Booker has missed 16 games already. The margin is razor-thin. Miss two more, and the All-NBA conversation ends. Not because of production, not because of impact, but because of a ledger. Two more absences in the final 22 games, and he is mathematically disqualified. That is not to say he would be sneaking in undeservedly. His play speaks for itself. In a year where several superstars are hovering around the cutoff, his consistency when available has strengthened his case. The shifting landscape has quietly improved his odds.
Although that is the tension of this rule. It turns the stretch run into a health countdown. Every questionable tag matters. Every maintenance night carries weight. The focus drifts from performance to participation.
So now it becomes simple arithmetic. 22 games left. Two games of cushion. The difference between an All-NBA nod and watching from the outside might come down to something as routine as a sore ankle or a scheduled rest day. In a season already defined by attrition, the rule adds another layer of drama, one that has nothing to do with shot making and everything to do with availability.
