There was Roger Federer, who ruled the land with a style and grace that bewitched all into humbly accepting his all-surface empire. Then came Rafa Nadal, astride a black stallion with glowing red eyes, bursting forth as the brutish young Vandal hurling stones through the gates of his enemy.

Novak Djokovic, meanwhile, has taken an altogether different route, one of consistent cunning and impenetrable persistence. He is tennis’ version of Varys from Game of Thrones, who — in a world borne of brutality and magic — earned the moniker ‘The Spider’ by being the one man who always seemed to know everything. Whether through sheer luck of timing or well-orchestrated opportunism, it’s Novak who now reigns supreme — and likely will for some time. His would-be usurpers forced to charge up a far too high and tiring a hill.

Many young athletes, particularly in tennis, are singled out by experts who insist that this kid is destined to be the next big thing. Once he develops his serve, the thinking goes, watch out! Ditto developing a more consistent backhand, or honing his fitness. In the case of Nick Kyrgios, the hypothetical has become, if only he can spite the devil on his shoulder and pull the duct tape from the mouth of his angel counterpart. But these things take time, and time in a tennis career is always fleeting. Tournaments come at a furious pace, surfaces change and, save the winner, egos take ruthlessly consistent beatings.

The wealth of youthful talent from which Novak sprang seemed all but destined to fall to Nadal at the French Open and either he or Federer in every other tournament. Players like Jo-Wilfried Tsonga, Gael Monfils, Philipp Kohlschreiber and Andreas Seppi all remain in futile pursuit of that one, lingering weakness that’s dogged them since they were first tabbed as up-and-comers.

It was Djokovic who saw, and exploited, the weak spots on the flanks.

Everyone assumed the game’s next great star, upon overthrowing its dual monarchy, would become the next Federer or Nadal—full stop, and absent any gray area. But while his generational peers fought, floundered, or failed, Djokovic forged himself into a maximally obstinate force. As such, he’s become the player he is not by making himself great at one thing or another, but by being brilliant at most everything. In so doing, Novak has taken something supposedly nonexistent — nuance — and made it his game’s signature. What’s more, he’s done so with plenty of mileage left to spare.

Only half of those in the current ATP top ten are under 30-years-old: Andy Murray (28), Kei Nishikori (25), Rafael Nadal (29), Milos Raonic (24). At 28, Djokovic has already dispatched all on that list, repeatedly; boasting a lopsided record over everyone except Nadal, against whom the Serbian star is 21–23. However, Djokovic is 4–1 against Rafa since November 2014, and as the Spaniard’s body continues to falter and fray, one can assume this mathematical edge over Djokovic will too.

Of the aforementioned upstarts, Nishikori may be the most intriguing: young enough to where another leap isn’t out of the question, and talented enough to make that leap more than possible. In fact, of the five, Nishikori was the last to beat Djokovic in a Major (semifinals of the 2014 US Open).

That said, it’s hard not to like Novak’s chances; not just against Nishikori, but against the whole would-be lot. Particularly as each passing day pushes Federer further from his prime, Nadal closer to Evel Knievel’s number of surgeries, and — with no one close enough to call a rival — Djokovic himself into tennis’ ultimate pantheon.

After making the final of every Grand Slam in 2015 (and capturing all but the French — the only major he has yet to collect), Djokovic’s major-title count has suddenly hit double figures. One more and he’ll join Rod Laver and Björn Borg. Three more, he’ll be an unquestioned top-five player of all time.

What’s so strange is how reluctant we’ve been to view Djokovic, and his game, in all-time terms. Perhaps it’s the natural withdrawal from the fading twilight of two polarizing, but equally powerful forces in Federer and Nadal, spoiling us into disinterest. Or maybe it’s the grayed, stubbornly nuanced and petulantly airtight sphere into which Djokovic’s game seems to fall.

He has the speed, power and footwork to bully Nadal, and the heightened, patient reading of play required to outlast Federer. Beholding Novak Djokovic in lengthy rallies is like watching Alex Trebek rapidly fire Jeopardy! questions at fifth graders, lulling them into a kind of neural-tonal stupor, then raising his arms in elated victory. Yet it’s exactly that kind of faux suspense, that annoyance of the boringly predictable, that we find ourselves rooting against. In large part because anything — literally any effort more sincere is more amusing than the straight-sets pummeling Djokovic issues. It’s not that Novak is too good, it’s that he is so without the relatable or the spectacular.

Djokovic is destined to be well remembered in the annals of tennis history, perhaps even one day lovingly so. But that’s different than being remembered for something (beyond the simple tally of wins). Federer has long been the quintessential tennis artist; Rafa, the template for controlled intensity. Djokovic, meanwhile, exists (and wins) in the spaces within the spaces — triumphal when considered as a whole, but far too small and not worth the squinting required for the casual fan to care.

Barring catastrophe, Djokovic is headed towards a three-to-five-year rival-less run in which he’ll attempt to surpass Federer’s record 17 major titles. And while The Louvre won’t be complete without a Federer backhand looping in slow motion, and while I’ll miss the pains of elbow-tendinitis-by-association from watching Nadal torque his arm to spin the ball into a blinding yellow buzzsaw—we’ll still be forced to utter his name, and, without a touch of gray or nuance, say, “Novak Djokovic was really damn good.” And that should be good enough.