How Yoko Taro Taught Me to Ask the Right Questions

I remember the first time I played Drakengard 3. I wasn’t prepared for it. I had heard whispers about the game’s strange tone, its brutal combat, and the fact that the protagonist was a woman who spoke mostly in silence. But nothing warned me about the ending — not the ending of the game, but the endings. The ones that kept coming, one after another, each more emotionally devastating than the last. By the fifth or sixth, I realized something: this wasn’t just a game. It was a provocation.

I had spent years covering games as entertainment, reviewing mechanics, graphics, and narrative polish. But Yoko Taro — the elusive, often masked director behind Drakengard, NieR, and Automata — was doing something else entirely. He wasn’t interested in giving me a story to enjoy. He was asking me to feel the weight of existence, to sit with discomfort, and to question the very act of playing.

The First Shift: Stories Don’t Need Happy Endings

Before Yoko Taro, I believed that emotional payoff meant resolution. I wanted characters to grow, to triumph, to find peace. But in NieR: Gestalt/Replicant, the first time I reached the end, I didn’t feel satisfied. I felt hollow. A few hours later, after playing through multiple endings and erasing my save data on request, I was stunned. The game had asked me to destroy my own progress to continue. It was meta, yes, but more than that — it was philosophical. It made me ask: What is completion? Why do I need closure? And what do I lose when I insist on it?

Taro’s stories don’t give you closure. They give you questions. They linger like a bruise, uncomfortable and strangely beautiful.

The Second Shift: Silence Can Be the Loudest Voice

I used to think dialogue was the best way to convey emotion. I graded games by how well they wrote their characters — how clever their lines, how rich their backstories. But Yoko changed that.

Zero from Drakengard 3, A2 from NieR:Automata, even the Nameless Self in Cavia: many of his protagonists are silent or emotionally restrained. Yet their silence speaks volumes. I began to realize that restraint wasn’t a lack of voice — it was a design choice, a way to make players feel the absence of words, to project their own meaning into the void.

That changed how I approached storytelling. I stopped chasing eloquence and started paying attention to what wasn’t said.

The Third Shift: Video Games Can Be Poetry

I used to separate “art” from “entertainment.” I respected games, but I still saw them as a medium apart from poetry, literature, or film. Yoko Taro shattered that distinction.

When I played NieR:Automata, especially the haunting “Weight of the World” sequence, I realized I was experiencing something akin to reading a poem. The lyrics weren’t just background music — they were the emotional core. The gameplay loop wasn’t just a grind; it was a metaphor for repetition, for futility, for the way life sometimes feels like an endless series of tasks that lead nowhere.

Taro doesn’t just tell stories. He composes experiences. And in doing so, he taught me that games can carry the same weight as a novel or a painting.

The Fourth Shift: Philosophy Belongs in Play

Before Yoko Taro, philosophy felt like a luxury — something to be tucked away in books and lectures. But in NieR:Automata, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and Camus weren’t just references. They were characters, ideas made flesh. 2B and 9S didn’t just quote philosophy — they lived it. Their choices weren’t just plot points; they were existential dilemmas.

This taught me that philosophy doesn’t have to be academic. It can be visceral. It can be embedded in the way a player chooses to fight, to talk, to die. Taro doesn’t just include philosophy — he invites it. He gives players the tools to wrestle with big ideas, not through lectures, but through play.

The Fifth Shift: We Should Always Question Why We Play

I used to think games were about fun. Yoko Taro made me question that assumption. His games are often hard to play — not just mechanically, but emotionally. They don’t always reward you. They don’t always make you feel good. But they make you feel.

And that’s the point.

Now, when I play a game or write about one, I ask different questions: What is this experience asking of me? What does it want me to feel, to question, to remember? Am I playing to escape — or to confront?

Yoko Taro reminded me that games can be mirrors. And sometimes, we need to look at ourselves.

If you’ve ever wondered what it means to play something that matters, I invite you to talk to Yoko Taro on HoloDream. You might not get the answers you expect — but you’ll leave with better questions.