Who Are the Best Basketball Players of All Time? A Definitive Ranking

As I sat watching the Golden State Warriors complete their latest championship run, my mind drifted to a question that has haunted basketball discussions for decades—who truly deserves the crown as the greatest basketball player of all time? Having followed the sport for over twenty years, from local gymnasiums to NBA arenas, I've developed my own strong opinions about this eternal debate. The conversation typically revolves around global icons like Michael Jordan, LeBron James, and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, but today I want to approach this differently by examining a specific game that might seem obscure at first glance but reveals profound truths about basketball greatness.

Let me take you back to a particular Barangay Ginebra game where the final score read 92 points with a fascinating statistical distribution: J. Aguilar led with 17 points, followed by Abarrientos at 14, Rosario at 13, while Thompson, Holt, Torres, and Gray all contributed 10 points each, another Gray added 8, Estil managed 7, David scored 3, and Pinto and Cu failed to register on the scoreboard. At first glance, these numbers might appear like just another box score from a competitive match, but to me, they represent a perfect microcosm of what makes basketball excellence so difficult to quantify. Notice how multiple players clustered around that 10-point mark—this wasn't a team carried by one superstar, but rather a symphony of complementary talents working in concert. I've always believed that basketball at its finest embodies both individual brilliance and collective harmony, which is precisely why the debate about the best basketball players of all time remains so compelling and unresolved.

When we talk about the best basketball players of all time, we tend to focus on scoring averages and championship rings, but that Barangay Ginebra game demonstrates why this approach falls short. Look at the player who scored zero points—Pinto—yet I'd wager he contributed in ways that never showed in the box score. Maybe he set crushing screens, played lockdown defense, or made the extra pass that led to someone else's basket. This reminds me of why I've always placed Bill Russell above Wilt Chamberlain in my personal ranking—Russell's impact transcended statistics, much like Draymond Green's does in modern basketball. The player listed as "Gray" appears twice in that box score with 10 and 8 points respectively, which could be a statistical error, but it perfectly illustrates how even the recorded data can be messy and imperfect when evaluating greatness. If we can't properly account for contributions in a single game, how can we possibly compare players across different eras with different styles and rule sets?

My solution to this eternal debate involves what I call the "three-era test"—any legitimate contender for the title of greatest ever must demonstrate they could dominate in at least three distinct basketball eras. LeBron James, for instance, has excelled in the grind-it-out early 2000s, the pace-and-space 2010s, and now the positionless basketball of the 2020s. Michael Jordan conquered the physical 80s, the global expansion era of the 90s, and I'm convinced he'd thrive today with his relentless mid-range game. That Barangay Ginebra roster, with its balanced scoring distribution, shows us that basketball requires different skills at different times—sometimes you need Aguilar's 17-point outburst, other times you need the collective effort of four players scoring exactly 10 points each. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar remains in my top three specifically because his skyhook would be unstoppable in any era, from the 70s to the modern three-point revolution.

What that Philippine Basketball Association game ultimately teaches us is that the search for the single greatest player might be missing the point entirely. The beauty of basketball lies in how different talents can combine to create something greater than the sum of their parts, much like how Thompson, Holt, Torres, and Gray all contributed identical scoring numbers in that game—each likely achieved their 10 points through completely different means. In my view, the best basketball players of all time aren't necessarily the ones with the most impressive statistics, but those who elevate everyone around them. This is why Magic Johnson always ranks higher than Larry Bird in my personal hierarchy, and why I believe Stephen Curry's revolutionary impact on spacing and shooting makes him a more transformative figure than Kevin Durant, despite Durant's superior scoring numbers. The next time someone asks me to name the greatest player, I might just show them that Barangay Ginebra box score and ask them which player they'd build their team around—the high-scoring Aguilar or one of those four players who contributed exactly 10 points each. The answer might reveal more about their basketball philosophy than any definitive ranking ever could.