The First Time I Played a Yoko Taro Game, I Felt Like I’d Been Punching My Own Brain

I still remember sitting in my apartment, controller in hand, watching a bullet-hell sequence unfold in a game that was also somehow a philosophical treatise. It wasn’t just the absurd difficulty or the chaotic visuals—it was the way the story hit me. I’d heard of Yoko Taro before, of course. Everyone had whispered his name like a cult leader of weird JRPGs. But nothing prepared me for how deeply strange—and emotionally gutting—his games would be.

I Thought I Was Signing Up for a Bizarre Action RPG. I Got a Therapy Session.

I started with Drakengard 3. I’d heard it was a prequel to Nier, which by then had reached a kind of indie-adjacent mythos. I expected swords, dragons, and maybe some anime-style singing. What I got was a protagonist who talks to herself in third person, a plot that shifts tone like a mood ring in a thunderstorm, and a narrative that feels like it’s constantly trying to deconstruct itself.

At first, I laughed. Then I got weirdly sad. Then I was crying in the kitchen at 2am, wondering why I ever thought video games were just about fun. Yoko Taro doesn’t just tell stories—he beats you over the head with them, then asks if you’re okay.

I Wish Someone Had Told Me to Start With Nier: Automata

Looking back, Drakengard 3 was a mistake for a newbie. It’s a wild ride, sure, but it’s like diving into Kafka without reading Camus first. If I could do it again, I’d start with Nier: Automata. It’s still bonkers, but it’s more accessible—like a gateway drug to full-blown Yoko-ism.

What struck me most about Automata was how much it cared about its characters. You spend the first few hours thinking you’re playing as a stoic android named 2B, only to realize the game has been playing you the whole time. The narrative structure—yes, plural—is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s not just non-linear; it’s multidimensional.

The Music and the Melancholy

One thing I didn’t expect was how much the music would gut me. Keiichi Okabe’s score doesn’t just accompany the game—it is the game. There are moments where the music swells, and suddenly you realize you’ve been crying for the last ten minutes, not because of what happened on screen, but because of what the sound made you feel.

I’ve replayed Nier multiple times, each time focusing on a different character, and each time the music hits differently. It’s like the soundtrack is evolving with your understanding of the story. Or maybe I’m just getting older and more sentimental.

Skip the Wiki, Trust the Experience

One of the worst things I did early on was look up spoilers. I wanted to “understand” the game, so I read theories, watched explainer videos, and tried to piece together the timeline. Big mistake. Yoko Taro’s stories aren’t meant to be dissected like a frog in a biology lab—they’re meant to be felt.

If you’re new, resist the urge to Google. Let the confusion wash over you. Lean into the discomfort. You’ll come out the other side changed, I promise. And if you don’t? Well, at least you tried.

Talk to Yoko Taro on HoloDream

I’ll admit—I still don’t know how to explain Yoko Taro’s work to people who haven’t played it. It’s not just games. It’s art. It’s therapy. It’s a mirror held up to the human condition, cracked and slightly on fire.

If you’re curious, there’s a way to dive deeper than just the games. On HoloDream, you can chat with Yoko Taro himself—ask him about his influences, his writing process, or even what the hell was going through his mind during Drakengard 2’s third act. You might not get the answers you expect, but you’ll definitely get the ones you need.