In the electric haze of a packed Ally Pally, where the thud of darts into the board punctuates the roar of a fervent crowd, James Wade stands as a sentinel of the sport’s storied past. The Englishman, known as “Machine” for his unflinching precision and cool demeanor, has etched his name into darts lore with 11 PDC major titles—a haul that includes three World Matchplays, two UK Opens, and a European Championship crown. At 42, with a career spanning two decades of high-wire rivalries, Wade has seen the game evolve from gritty pub showdowns to a global spectacle broadcast to millions. But as the 2025 season hurtles toward its climax, Wade’s voice cuts through the cheers like a perfectly aimed treble 20: the modern era, he argues, has traded charisma for calculation, leaving darts “poorer” in the process.
The spark for Wade’s candid critique ignited during a reflective chat ahead of the World Grand Prix, where the winter game’s chill seeps into bones and nerves alike. With Luke Littler, the prodigious 18-year-old sensation, dominating headlines and prize pots, Wade couldn’t ignore the seismic shift. Littler, who exploded onto the scene at the tail end of 2023 as a 16-year-old phenom, has redefined what’s possible in darts. His blistering checkouts and unflappable poise have drawn a fresh wave of fans, propelling him to victories over giants like Michael van Gerwen and Luke Humphries. Pundits whisper of him shattering Phil Taylor’s record 16 world titles, a feat that once seemed untouchable. Yet, for Wade, this influx of talent comes at a cost—not to the scoreboard, but to the sport’s vibrant heartbeat.
“I don’t think there’s many characters in the game,” Wade mused, his tone laced with a veteran’s wistful edge. “They feel much of a muchness and they’re very robotic.” He painted a vivid contrast to his own formative years, when the oche was a stage for larger-than-life personas. “When I started or mid-career for me, you had Phil Taylor, Adrian Lewis, Wayne Mardle. There was loads of them. They were individual characters. For me, it doesn’t feel like it’s like that anymore.” Taylor, the “Power” himself, was a force of nature—brash, brilliant, and unapologetically theatrical, his walk-ons alone enough to electrify arenas. Lewis, with his flamboyant mohawk and explosive celebrations, embodied the rock-star swagger of mid-2000s darts. Mardle, the “Hawaii 501,” brought wit and warmth, turning interviews into must-watch entertainment. These were players who didn’t just throw darts; they lived them, infusing the game with stories that lingered long after the final leg.
In today’s polished circuit, Wade sees a uniformity that mirrors the sleek, algorithm-driven world beyond the board. “They’re very good with their interviews. They’re very new. It’s changed a lot. I think the game is poorer in some ways because of that. But it’s also the way the world is. The world’s very sleek and uniformed.” The youngsters, he implies, arrive scripted and sanitized—masters of the media game but lacking the raw edges that once made darts feel like a barroom brawl with billion-watt stakes. Littler, for all his wizardry, embodies this shift: a quiet prodigy whose post-match soundbites are as measured as his 180s. Humphries, the reigning world champion, exudes professionalism but little of the old-school fire. Even van Gerwen, the Dutch destroyer with three world titles, has mellowed into a more reserved elder statesman.
Wade’s words aren’t born of bitterness; they’re tempered by his own resurgent form. This year has been a revelation for the Machine, who’s pocketed more prize money than anyone save Littler himself. He’s climbed the rankings with a tenacity that belies his admission of uneven play. “I’ve had a brilliant 12 months,” he reflected. “I think money-wise, ranking-wise, I’ve been the second-best performing player in this year so far. I’m doing well. I’ve not played particularly well, but I’m doing well. I’m getting the right results. I’m grinding out results.” Those grinds have included two gut-wrenching finals against Littler—the UK Open in March, where Wade endured a marathon day of mediocrity only to fall short, and the World Matchplay in July, undone by a cruel miss on double 10 at 14-14. “One of the finals against Luke, I was rubbish. It was a long, long day for me. And the second one, costly double ten at 14-14 massive, massive, massive double. But it’s like relearning again. I’m having another go at it.” In defeat, Wade finds fuel, viewing these clashes as chapters in his endless reinvention.
He’s not alone in his nostalgia. The echoes of discontent ripple through the darts fraternity, with Scottish legend Gary Anderson voicing a kindred frustration. A two-time world champion whose wiry frame and wicked humor have long been his trademarks, Anderson has lamented the erosion of camaraderie. “The good old days, that’s when darts players were darts players,” he once growled. “Me, Lewis, Taylor, Kevin Painter—we used to sit and have a crack and a laugh. Aidy Lewis was brilliant, and I wish he comes back. I do miss him.” Now, he sees isolation where there was once banter: “Nowadays nobody talks to anybody. You don’t have a good laugh; you don’t have a bit of banter. The youngsters are boring, absolutely boring. You talk to them, they’re too busy looking at their phone.” For Anderson, the kids arrive as mercenaries, eyes on the money rather than the moment. “These youngsters, they’re here to do a job. They’ve got to the stage now that they’ve realised, they’ve got a great chance in life to make a lot of bloody money and boost themselves. But they need to calm down and think this is my job and that’s it. They’re good but they aren’t that good. That’s what you’ve got to remember.”
As the World Grand Prix looms in Leicester, with its unforgiving pairs format demanding doubles wizardry and mental steel, Wade’s swipe feels like a rallying cry. Darts teeters on the brink of unprecedented heights—television deals swelling, arenas bursting, Littler’s generation poised to eclipse the old guard. Yet in this boom, the Machine warns of a subtle erosion: a game that’s faster, richer, but perhaps a touch less alive. The robotic precision of tomorrow’s stars ensures checkouts that defy belief, but can they summon the chaos, the color, the sheer unfiltered joy that turned darts from a niche pursuit into a cultural juggernaut? Wade, ever the grinder, steps back to the oche not as a critic, but as a custodian—hoping his words stir a spark in the next throw. In a sport where every dart tells a story, his lament is a reminder: the best tales aren’t scripted; they’re thrown from the heart.
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