Golf in China didn’t evolve—it erupted. In the span of a few wild decades, nearly 600 courses were built, each the product of one shared obsession: to be the best. Not the best in the region, not the best for the members—just the best, full stop.

It wasn’t 600 different dreams. It was one dream, repeated 600 times.

Armed with ambition and often a marquee professional slapped on the scorecard, developers commissioned cookie cutter courses chasing international acclaim. The results? Predictable. Opulent. Polished. And largely indistinguishable. The architecture often played second fiddle to the ranking—less about strategy or identity, more about prestige by association.

Not “good” or “fun” or “authentically Chinese”—just “the best.”

Few courses, though, managed to shake off the conformity. The Links Course at the PGA An Ying (renovated by OCM in 2018) may borrow heavily from a familiar "links" palette, but scattered across the routing are moments of real originality—holes that feel like they belong there, not anywhere. And then there’s Shanqin Bay on the southeastern tip of Hainan, a stunning layout that might be China’s first and only true masterpiece.

But even Shanqin Bay isn’t immune to the smothering embrace of the rankings game. Because in China, the number next to your name on a Top 100 list is your currency. And many courses, desperate for recognition, are more than happy to buy their way up. Panelists are flown in, pampered, flattered, and given the full emperor treatment. They post the right photos, say the right things, and fly home with their bags a little heavier. The course? Still the same. The ranking? Suddenly better.

Of course, this isn’t a uniquely Chinese problem. But in China, where golf lives under political and social scrutiny, the consequences are more pronounced. After a government crackdown in the mid-2010s shuttered hundreds of courses, the survivors now sit on valuable land, with aging infrastructure and uncertain futures. Many of these clubs are approaching the end of their land leases, and with that comes the opportunity—and necessity—for renovation.

What will those renovations look like? If the past is prologue, expect an agricultural inland Jack Nicklaus course trying to imitate Tara Iti, or ocean side facelifts chasing the ghost of The Lido course.

But what if, instead, China zigged when everyone else zagged?

What if it leaned into its own outlaw image? Golf in China already has a slight air of rebellion—a sport that exists in defiance of the state’s approval. So why not double down? Imagine a course renovation campaign branded “You’ll Hate What We’ve Done With the Place.” Something proudly unrankable. Something punk. Something real.

Sure, it might never crack the Top 100—but it might be the first truly Chinese golf course. And isn’t that more interesting than being number 97 on a list no one remembers?