Being a great fighter does not guarantee that UFC fans will love you.

That may sound obvious, but MMA makes the point better than almost any other sport. A fighter can become champion, dominate elite competition, barely lose rounds and still hear boos when his name is announced. Another fighter can lose five times, never touch undisputed gold, and have an arena emotionally invested in every punch he throws.

Because fans are not really choosing fighters based on records.

They are choosing people.

And since roughly 2014, when social media, press conferences and fighter personalities became an even bigger part of the UFC experience, there have been three particularly interesting types of stars.

There are fighters people seem almost incapable of hating.

There are fighters who split the audience in half.

And then there are the unfortunate few who seem to enter an arena already one round down with the crowd.

The reasons are rarely the same.

Some earn love because of their fighting style. Some because they will accept any opponent, any weight class, any date. Some have a personality people connect with. A few are simply so outrageously good at MMA that eventually admiration becomes unavoidable.

And hatred works the same way.

Sometimes fans dislike arrogance. Sometimes they think a fighter is boring. Sometimes a personality feels forced. Sometimes a fighter beats somebody the audience loves and inherits thousands of enemies overnight.

Most importantly, being hated is not necessarily bad for business.

A crowd booing you is still a crowd reacting to you.

The dangerous thing is when nobody cares.

THE ONES ALMOST EVERYBODY LOVES

There is a particular kind of fighter who makes fans forget tribalism for a moment.

You can have a favorite opponent. You can want the other guy to win. But when this fighter walks out, there is still a part of you that doesn't really want to see him lose.

Max Holloway

If you were trying to manufacture the perfect modern UFC fan favorite, you would probably end up somewhere close to Max Holloway.

Elite ability is only the beginning.

Holloway has spent years giving people moments.

Against Ricardo Lamas, he had already done enough to win. With seconds remaining, instead of protecting the decision, he pointed to the floor and invited Lamas to throw.

Against Brian Ortega, Holloway was so comfortable that he famously appeared to demonstrate defensive technique to his opponent during the fight.

Then came UFC 300.

Holloway was beating Justin Gaethje and could have comfortably coasted through the final seconds.

Instead, he pointed to the center of the Octagon.

Five seconds remained.

Gaethje agreed.

Holloway knocked him unconscious with one second left.

It was strategically ridiculous.

It was also one of the most Max Holloway things imaginable.

That's why people love him.

Skill gets Holloway respect. His willingness to turn a victory into a risk gets him affection.

Even in 2026, Holloway remains one of the UFC's central attractions; after his UFC 329 victory, his celebration was notable enough to become part of a Nevada commission disciplinary story.

He has reached the stage where fans are no longer simply supporting a fighter.

They're emotionally invested in Max Holloway.

Charles Oliveira

Charles Oliveira gives fans something completely different.

Hope.

For years, Oliveira was the ridiculously talented Brazilian submission specialist who seemed destined to remain somewhere below the very top.

There were spectacular wins.

There were painful losses.

There were questions about whether he could survive adversity against the absolute best.

Then Oliveira became the adversity.

Michael Chandler hurt him badly.

Oliveira survived and knocked him out.

Dustin Poirier had success.

Oliveira submitted him.

Justin Gaethje dropped him.

Oliveira got up and submitted him too.

His fights started feeling like somebody had removed the safety mechanism from MMA.

At any moment Oliveira can be knocked down, take your back, hurt you with a punch, jump on your neck or somehow turn a disaster into a finish.

Then the fight ends and the chaotic killer becomes a soft-spoken, emotional man thanking his team and talking about where he came from.

That contrast matters.

Fans don't just love Oliveira because he finishes people.

They watched him struggle long enough that success felt earned rather than inevitable.

That creates something stronger than admiration.

It creates attachment.

Justin Gaethje

Justin Gaethje has probably made the clearest agreement with UFC fans of anyone in this era:

You watch my fight, and I will try very hard not to waste your time.

His early UFC run was insanity.

Gaethje attacked legs, absorbed combinations, threw enormous hooks and seemed completely comfortable finding out which man would physically break first.

Eventually he became smarter.

That should have made him less entertaining.

Somehow it didn't.

The improved version of Gaethje learned patience, distance and counterstriking without removing the violence that made people love him in the first place.

That's important.

Many fighters reach the top and become more conservative because the stakes become greater.

Gaethje reached the top and still accepted Max Holloway for the BMF belt.

He still took dangerous fights.

He still gave opponents opportunities to hurt him because hurting them back remained part of his identity.

Some fighters become fan favorites through charisma.

Gaethje largely did it through trust.

Fans trust Justin Gaethje to fight.

Alex Pereira

Alex Pereira is proof that charisma doesn't necessarily require talking.

For a significant portion of his rise, Pereira couldn't communicate with the English-speaking UFC audience nearly as easily as most major stars.

It barely mattered.

He walked to the cage looking like an executioner.

He fired an imaginary arrow.

He stared through opponents.

Then somebody usually got hit very hard.

Chama.

That was basically enough.

But Pereira's popularity became much bigger once audiences discovered the person underneath the terrifying presentation.

He is unexpectedly funny.

Often unintentionally funny.

His expression barely changes whether he's preparing for a championship fight or participating in some bizarre internet video.

More importantly, he fights.

Frequently.

Against dangerous people.

Across weight classes.

That combination of activity, knockout power, authenticity and mystique turned him into one of the defining stars of the current UFC era. UFC's own 2025 merchandise review listed Pereira among its major fan favorites.

Pereira's lesson is simple:

Aura is a personality.

Dustin Poirier

Fans grew up with Dustin Poirier.

Not literally.

But that's what his UFC career felt like.

They saw the young featherweight.

They saw the losses.

They saw the move to lightweight.

They saw him become tougher, smarter and more complete.

Then came the sequence of fights that turned Poirier into one of the most respected fighters of his generation.

Pettis.

Gaethje.

Alvarez.

Holloway.

McGregor.

Oliveira.

Makhachev.

Poirier spent years fighting people nobody particularly wanted to fight.

And because his career contained failure, his victories felt more human.

He wasn't an untouchable champion descending from the mountains.

He was a fighter everybody had watched get hurt and come back.

That distinction matters.

Even after retirement, his long-established likability remained part of how MMA media discussed him publicly.

Fans respected Poirier's ability.

They loved the mileage it took to get there.

Alexander Volkanovski

Volkanovski might have one of the most interesting journeys on this entire list because fans had to learn to love him.

For a while, his biggest problem was simple:

He beat Max Holloway.

Twice.

And when you repeatedly beat one of the most beloved fighters in the sport, some of that audience is going to blame you for it.

The close second fight made things even worse.

Volkanovski became incredibly accomplished while portions of the fanbase remained resistant to giving him affection.

Then something changed.

People saw more of him.

They saw the humor.

They saw the confidence without endless theatrics.

They saw him accept the Islam Makhachev challenge.

They watched a smaller featherweight move up and give one of the most dominant fighters in MMA an extraordinarily difficult fight.

And eventually respect turned into affection.

Volkanovski is a perfect example of something fans sometimes forget:

You don't have to chase popularity. Sometimes being consistently excellent, brave and yourself eventually brings the audience to you.

THE ONES PEOPLE LOVE TO HATE

Now we get to the fun part.

There are fighters who receive boos because they're playing the villain.

And there are fighters who receive boos because fans genuinely do not like them.

Those are not always the same thing.

A successful heel makes people angry and entertainingly angry.

Real dislike is messier.

And during the post-2014 UFC era, several fighters have discovered just how quickly an audience can turn.

Colby Covington

For years, nobody leaned into being hated harder than Colby Covington.

The strange part is that Covington reportedly developed his political-provocateur character partly because his career needed attention.

And it worked.

Before the character became dominant, Covington was an extremely good pressure wrestler who wasn't generating superstar interest.

Afterward?

People wanted to see him fight because they wanted someone to shut him up.

That's promotion.

Covington insulted opponents.

He insulted countries.

He insulted teammates.

He turned press conferences into performances.

Some fans genuinely enjoyed it.

Far more seemed to enjoy hating it.

Eventually, however, heel heat can expire.

If the character stays the same while the biggest victories become further removed, hatred can turn into exhaustion.

By 2026 Covington had moved outside the UFC and into Real American Freestyle competition, where he continued using the same rivalry-driven promotional style.

At his UFC peak, though, Covington understood something very valuable:

A fan paying to see you lose has still paid to see you.

Ian Machado Garry

Ian Machado Garry is one of the clearest modern examples of a fighter whose personality became more controversial than his actual fighting ability.

Because Garry is very good.

That's almost what makes the reaction more interesting.

Technically, he has shown excellent distance management, intelligent kicking, increasingly complete grappling and the ability to make adjustments against high-level opposition.

But a substantial portion of the audience decided early that they didn't like him.

Some thought the confidence felt borrowed from Conor McGregor.

Some found his interviews irritating or overly calculated.

Some of the online hostility became intensely personal and went well beyond anything connected to MMA.

And once an internet fanbase decides somebody is annoying, nearly everything that person does becomes further evidence.

Garry knows it.

Before his 2026 title challenge, he openly discussed the backlash surrounding his personality and said he didn't care, even recalling being booed before a fight and then hearing supporters chant for him once the action started.

That last part is fascinating.

Because Garry demonstrates how quickly MMA audiences can separate:

“I don't like you”

from

“I want to see you fight.”

Those two emotions can coexist perfectly.

Belal Muhammad

Belal Muhammad may have suffered from the cruelest crime a fighter can commit against modern MMA fans:

For a long time, people thought he was boring.

That's extraordinarily difficult to escape.

Muhammad could win.

Muhammad could wrestle.

Muhammad could pressure.

Muhammad could neutralize somebody else's strengths.

But many fans weren't excited by the process.

Then there was the personality problem.

“Remember the Name” became an easy joke precisely because a portion of the audience didn't particularly want to remember it.

Yet this is where fan perception becomes unfair.

Muhammad kept winning.

He accepted difficult fights.

He developed enormously from the fighter who first entered the UFC.

Eventually he became welterweight champion.

And once he reached the top, something funny happened:

He actually became more entertaining.

His 2025 title loss to Jack Della Maddalena was competitive and action-heavy, and UFC itself described the bout that way when reviewing Muhammad's subsequent career.

Belal's problem was never lack of MMA ability.

It was that respect arrived much earlier than emotional investment.

Many fans knew he was good.

They simply didn't care.

And in combat sports, that can somehow generate more hostility than being a loudmouth.

Jamahal Hill

Jamahal Hill's situation is different again.

Hill can fight.

He has legitimate knockout power.

He became UFC light heavyweight champion.

His style should theoretically make him easy to like.

Yet his relationship with fans deteriorated badly.

Part of it came from his reactions after the Alex Pereira loss.

Part of it came from social media.

Part of it came from repeatedly arguing with criticism rather than allowing it to disappear.

And once that relationship became adversarial, every interaction seemed capable of making it worse.

The clearest evidence came at the UFC 319 fan Q&A in Chicago in 2025.

Hill was heavily booed — in the city where he was born — and ended up arguing directly with members of the crowd.

That's a remarkable place for a former champion to find himself.

Hill demonstrates one of the dangers of modern MMA fame:

You can win fights against professional fighters.

Winning an argument against the internet is much harder.

Aljamain Sterling

Sterling's inclusion requires more nuance because the hatred has cooled significantly.

But at its peak?

It was real.

Sterling became champion when Petr Yan landed an illegal knee and was disqualified.

Sterling had every right to accept the championship.

The foul was Yan's mistake.

Yet huge portions of the fanbase somehow treated Sterling as though he had committed the foul himself.

Then came the photographs with the belt.

Then the trash talk.

Then the delayed rematch.

A villain was created.

What made the story brilliant was that Sterling eventually beat Yan in the rematch.

The thing fans claimed he hadn't truly earned?

He went out and earned it.

Over time, the relationship softened. Sterling himself later said he noticed people beginning to support him again after he lost the bantamweight title and moved to featherweight.

Sterling may be the best example of how irrational MMA hatred can be.

Sometimes a fighter doesn't become disliked because of who he is.

Sometimes he simply stands on the wrong side of a moment fans hated.

AND THEN THERE'S THE MIDDLE

This might actually be the most valuable category.

These are the fighters who can enter one arena to deafening cheers and another to deafening boos.

Their fans think they're authentic.

Their critics think they're unbearable.

Everybody has an opinion.

Promoters love people like this.

Conor McGregor

No fighter better represents polarization.

At his peak, McGregor was adored.

He was also despised.

The people who loved him saw confidence, humor, ambition, spectacular striking and the willingness to say exactly what he believed would happen.

Then he would frequently make it happen.

The people who hated him saw arrogance, disrespect and a circus forming around the sport.

Both groups watched.

That is the important part.

McGregor figured out that the difference between:

“I hope Conor wins”

and

“God, I hope somebody knocks Conor out”

is surprisingly small financially.

Both viewers are emotionally invested.

Israel Adesanya

Adesanya might be the best example of a fighter whose ability is almost universally respected while his personality absolutely is not.

At his best, the technical striking is beautiful.

Feints.

Distance traps.

Counters.

Reads.

Adjustments.

There are fights where Adesanya looks like he's processing information half a second faster than the person standing across from him.

Then he speaks.

And half the audience loves him while the other half begins complaining.

Some appreciate the anime references, theatrical entrances and complete willingness to be unusual.

Others find it painfully cringe.

That's the beauty of Adesanya as a personality.

He doesn't produce neutrality.

Sean Strickland

Strickland has nearly reversed the normal formula.

His personality is often more entertaining than his fights.

He presents himself like someone who wants a phone booth war every Saturday.

In reality, his striking can be surprisingly disciplined.

Jab.

Teep.

Parry.

Pressure.

Repeat.

Outside the cage?

Complete unpredictability.

Some fans love the unfiltered nature of it.

Others think much of what he says is obnoxious, offensive or exhausting.

He's another fighter where two viewers can watch exactly the same interview and reach completely opposite conclusions.

One says:

“Finally somebody says what he thinks.”

The other says:

“Please take the microphone away.”

That's polarization.

Ilia Topuria

Topuria possesses one quality that virtually guarantees strong reactions:

Absolute certainty about himself.

He doesn't sound like someone who believes he can become great.

He talks like greatness is already established and everybody else simply needs to catch up.

Before the biggest victories, that sounded arrogant.

Then he started producing the results.

Alexander Volkanovski.

Max Holloway.

Elite fighters.

Elite finishes.

That's when hatred becomes complicated.

It's easy to dismiss arrogance when somebody can't back it up.

It's much harder when he keeps doing exactly what he said he would do.

Topuria's fanbase sees superstar confidence.

His detractors see unbearable ego.

Both are waiting for the next fight.

Perfect.

Sean O'Malley

O'Malley was polarizing before he was anywhere near a championship.

Pink hair.

Tattoos.

Streaming.

Cannabis culture.

Flashy knockouts.

“Suga State Athletic Commission.”

A carefully cultivated brand.

For some fans, it was fun.

For others, it screamed UFC marketing project.

The most interesting part came later.

O'Malley became good enough that the argument could no longer remain about popularity.

He beat Petr Yan.

He knocked out Aljamain Sterling.

He became champion.

Even after losing the belt and going through setbacks, he remained a major name and by August 2026 was openly discussing another championship run.

O'Malley's career shows how useful polarization can be when there is real ability underneath it.

Marketing can get people to look.

Eventually you still have to fight.

Khamzat Chimaev

Khamzat initially seemed destined to become universally loved.

He arrived during the pandemic era and fought like the UFC had accidentally booked somebody several levels above his opponents.

Fight.

Win.

Turn around.

Fight again.

“Smash everybody.”

Fans loved it.

Then came missed weight, long layoffs, cancelled bouts, endless title discussions and the complications that naturally accompany becoming a major star.

The relationship changed.

Some fans still see one of the most terrifying talents in MMA.

Others became tired of the chaos surrounding actually getting him into the cage.

But that's exactly why Khamzat belongs here instead of the loved or hated column.

When he's fighting, people remember immediately why they cared.

WHY THESE FIGHTERS GET SUCH DIFFERENT REACTIONS

Now the lists actually tell us something.

Most universally loved

Max Holloway
Charles Oliveira
Justin Gaethje
Alex Pereira
Dustin Poirier
Alexander Volkanovski

They aren't identical personalities.

Not even close.

What connects them is a feeling that they have given something to the audience.

Holloway gives moments.

Oliveira gives chaos.

Gaethje gives violence.

Pereira gives aura and activity.

Poirier gave years of difficult fights.

Volkanovski gives excellence without behaving as though the audience owes him admiration.

Most disliked / strongest anti-fandom

Colby Covington
Ian Machado Garry
Belal Muhammad
Jamahal Hill
Aljamain Sterling

And even here, the reasons couldn't be more different.

Covington deliberately created hatred.

Garry irritates a certain part of the audience through personality and confidence.

Belal spent years fighting against the “boring” label.

Hill's confrontational relationship with criticism made his situation worse.

Sterling became the villain of a championship controversy he didn't actually create.

Calling any of them “hated by everyone” would obviously be an exaggeration. Every major fighter has supporters. But these are fighters who, during significant portions of the post-2014 era, generated far more active anti-fandom than the average UFC contender or champion.

Right down the middle

Conor McGregor
Israel Adesanya
Sean Strickland
Ilia Topuria
Sean O'Malley
Khamzat Chimaev

And this may be the UFC's favorite group of all.

Because love is useful.

Hatred is useful.

But polarization gives you both audiences simultaneously.

The real secret: MMA fans want authenticity

The easiest explanation would be that fans love exciting fighters and hate boring fighters.

But that doesn't quite work.

Georges St-Pierre wrestled extensively and was beloved.

Belal Muhammad wrestled extensively and was booed.

Alex Pereira barely needed to speak English and became enormously charismatic.

Ian Machado Garry speaks constantly and portions of the audience can't stand him.

Sean Strickland can say outrageous things and fans praise him for being authentic.

Another fighter can say something far less controversial and immediately be accused of trying too hard.

So fighting style isn't enough.

Personality isn't enough.

Winning isn't enough.

What fans appear to respond to most strongly is whether they believe you.

They believe Gaethje really would fight almost anybody.

They believe Holloway genuinely loves this.

They believe Oliveira remembers where he came from.

They believe Pereira really is that calm.

They believe Strickland really is that strange.

And, strangely enough, they believe Colby is trying to make them angry.

Even hatred requires a relationship.

That's why the most forgettable fighter isn't the villain.

It isn't the boring champion.

It isn't even the fighter on a losing streak.

It's the fighter who produces no emotion at all.

Because if 20,000 people scream your name, you're a star.

If 20,000 people boo you, you might still be a star.

The real problem begins when 20,000 people stay quiet.