The Long and Short of It: Why Riviera’s 273-Yard Par-3 is a Misguided “Innovation”
As the Equipment Editor for The Daily Duffer, my job is to cut through the marketing fluff and tell you what actually works. I spend countless hours on launch monitors, dissecting club performance, and, more importantly, fitting hundreds of golfers to understand what translates from the spec sheet to real-world performance. So when I hear about course modifications designed to “challenge” elite players, my ears perk up. But the recent lengthening of the 4th hole at Riviera for the Genesis Invitational? That’s not innovation; it’s just plain lazy, and frankly, a swing and a miss when it comes to thoughtful course design.
This isn’t about the latest driver technology or whether a new iron set offers better MOI. This is about the very canvas on which we play the game, and how a seemingly minor change can fundamentally alter the challenge in a way that’s less about skill and more about brute force. Let’s face it, we’ve seen this trend of “lengthening courses to make them harder” for years, and it’s almost always a disservice to the game, and by extension, to the recreational players who eventually have to contend with these monstrosities.
The 4th at Riviera, a classic George Thomas Redan, has always been a beast. Even at 236 yards, as the source article points out:
“Players were hitting the green just 15 percent of the time when the tee was at 236 yards, an insanely low rate for Tour pros coming into the green with long irons.”
Think about that for a second. Tour pros, equipped with exquisitely fitted clubs, peak physical conditioning, and years of honed skill, were finding the green only 15% of the time with long irons. For context, when I’m fitting a golfer for a 4-iron or even a 3-iron – clubs typically used for shots around 200-220 yards – we’re aiming for a much higher green-in-regulation percentage, even with conservative estimates. We’re talking about optimizing launch angle, spin rate, and ball speed to maximize carry and control. A perfect 3-iron off the deck for a Tour pro might carry 240-250 yards with a reasonable landing angle and enough spin to hold a receptive green. Push that out to 273 yards, and you’re no longer talking about a long iron. You’re firmly in the “fairway wood or mini driver” territory for the vast majority of the field.
From a purely equipment perspective, the jump from a well-struck 3-iron to a 3-wood or even a 5-wood introduces a whole new set of variables. While modern fairway woods are incredibly forgiving, designed with low and deep CG for easier launch and high MOI for stability, the dispersion pattern inherently widens with longer clubs. Even for a Tour pro aiming at a precise target, the difference in accuracy between a 3-iron and a 3-wood for a 270+ yard shot is significant. We see this all the time on the launch monitor: as club length and speed increase, maintaining a tight dispersion cone becomes exponentially harder. A player might gain 15-20 yards in carry with a fairway wood over a long iron, but they’ll often sacrifice 5-10 yards in lateral accuracy.
As Rory McIlroy bluntly put it:
“I actually think it’s a horrible change. Well, like 15 percent of the field hit the green last time when it was played at its original yardage at 230. Like, if you want it to be a 275-yard par-3, you have to change the apron leading up onto the green. It can’t be kikuyu.”
And Rory hits it as far as anyone. His point about the kikuyu is critical. The “run it up” theory only works if the ground game is a viable option. Kikuyu, with its sticky, grabby nature, essentially eliminates that strategy. Players are forced to fly the ball all the way to the green, which at 273 yards, demands a towering shot with a low-lofted club to hold a firm green. That’s a unicorn shot, not a consistent strategy. What we’ll likely see is what Collin Morikawa predicts:
“I think it’s just a very long par-3. There’s not a lot of thought to it other than just kind of hitting the green and moving on, unfortunately.”
Bingo, Collin. My experience fitting hundreds of amateur golfers has shown me that adding length for the sake of difficulty almost always leads to frustration, not strategic brilliance. For the average golfer, a 273-yard par-3 means pulling out a driver, hitting a low, running shot that may or may not reach the green, and then facing a challenging up-and-down. It removes any genuine thought about shot shape, trajectory, or landing zone and replaces it with a simple “hit it as hard as you can and hope.”
Great golf holes, especially par-3s, derive their challenge from clever design, strategic hazards, and demanding shot requirements that test a player’s precision and nerve, not just their brawn. Think of the 12th at Augusta, or the 7th at Pebble – shorter holes that demand absolute control and penalize even slight errors. These holes force players to make strategic decisions about club selection, shot shape, and risk vs. reward, where a perfectly executed 7-iron can be just as rewarding as a flawless drive on a par-5.
When course designers rely solely on length, they negate much of the nuance that makes golf so compelling. It’s like building a faster car, but only allowing it to drive in a straight line – impressive speed, but utterly boring. For the recreational golfer, who already struggles with distance, these super-long par-3s become demoralizing. A 270-yard par-3 might force a Tour pro to hit a 3-wood, but for a 15-handicapper, it’s two full swings with a driver and then a chip. That’s fundamentally not what a par-3 was designed to be.
In the world of equipment, we celebrate genuine advancements – lighter materials in drivers that increase ball speed and MOI, iron designs that push the limits of COR for more distance while maintaining feel, or wedges with precise milling for increased spin. These are tangible, data-backed improvements that help golfers play better. Lengthening a par-3 to 273 yards with no corresponding changes to the green complex or surrounds to make a running shot viable is not a thoughtful design choice; it’s a brute-force approach that drains the strategic element out of the hole. It’s a prime example of designers mistaking “harder” for “better,” to the detriment of both elite athletes and everyday enthusiasts alike.
