Image from The Eminence in Shadow, episode 1: “The Hated Classmate” © Original Creator: Daisuke Aizawa. Production Studio: Nexus. Publisher: Kadokawa. North American License Holder: Sentai Filmworks. Used for editorial purposes.
The most formulaic genre in anime continues to dominate—and there’s a reason why
Isekai has become anime’s junk food: predictable, creatively bankrupt, and somehow still dominating the market. As someone who remembers when anime meant painstakingly tracking down VHS fansubs, watching this lazy genre consume the modern landscape feels like witnessing the industry’s collective creative surrender. Yet here we are in 2025, and isekai shows no signs of slowing down—much to my continued frustration.
The word “isekai”—literally meaning “another world”—earned its place in the 2024 Oxford English Dictionary, cementing its cultural impact far beyond Japan. But what makes this creatively bankrupt genre so persistently popular, even when—especially when—it’s executed poorly?
The Four Pillars of Predictability
Every isekai story follows one of four well-worn paths to otherworldly transportation:
Death and Rebirth: The protagonist meets their end and awakens in an unfamiliar realm. This classic setup immediately establishes stakes while offering the ultimate escape from mundane problems.
Magical Summoning: Powerful magic users call forth the protagonist, usually as a chosen hero. This trope flatters the audience’s desire to be needed and special.
Divine Intervention: A god or cosmic force relocates the protagonist, either by accident or design. This removes agency from the transition, making it feel like destiny rather than choice.
Mysterious Transportation: The character simply materializes elsewhere without explanation. This lazy option prioritizes plot convenience over narrative logic.
Enter Truck-kun: The Grim Reaper of Modern Anime
The vehicular homicide trope has become so prevalent that fans coined the term “truck-kun”—a darkly humorous personification of the delivery vehicles that send countless protagonists to their otherworldly destinies. This meme represents everything both wrong and oddly endearing about isekai’s approach to storytelling.
In Another World with My Smartphone perfectly exemplifies this lazy writing: the protagonist meets an untimely end when a deity accidentally zaps him with lightning. Meanwhile, Death March to the Parallel World Rhapsody goes with the overwork angle—the protagonist falls asleep while coding for a “black company” and wakes up in the game’s world. Re:Zero doesn’t bother explaining how Subaru arrives in his new world in the anime itself, though the source material eventually reveals he was summoned by a witch.
The alternative death-by-overwork scenario directly references Japan’s “black company” culture—workplaces where harassment, verbal abuse, and crushing overtime are standard practice. Managers threaten to destroy employees’ careers if they try to leave. When isekai protagonists die from exhaustion at these exploitative jobs, the genre isn’t offering meaningful commentary—it’s just using real social problems as convenient plot devices.
Gimmicks Masquerading as Innovation
Modern isekai has embraced increasingly desperate reincarnation scenarios to stand out in an oversaturated market. Over the past seven years, we’ve seen protagonists reborn as slimes, spiders, swords, hot springs, skeletons, and yes—even vending machines. The fact that Reborn as a Vending Machine, I Now Wander the Dungeon exists tells you everything you need to know about how far creators will go for a hook.
Farming Life in Another World shows divine kindness to a chronically ill protagonist, granting him a fresh start with a stronger body—because apparently even gods engage in wish fulfillment now. Tsukimichi: Moonlit Fantasy tries to add “challenge” by having its protagonist rejected by a goddess for not meeting her beauty standards, then abandoned in a wasteland. It’s manufactured adversity designed to make the eventual power-up feel more “earned.”
The Psychology Behind the Portal
Despite isekai’s formulaic laziness, the genre serves genuine psychological needs—which doesn’t make the shows any less tedious to sit through. Japan’s estimated 1.5 million hikikomori (social recluses) find solace in stories about ordinary people thrust into worlds where their perceived social failings become irrelevant. I understand the appeal; I just wish it didn’t result in such uninspired storytelling.
The genre also addresses broader cultural pressures. In Japan’s collectivist society, individual expression often takes a backseat to group harmony. Isekai stories frequently feature protagonists who can finally act freely, unbound by social expectations. They can be selfish, powerful, or decisive in ways that would be socially unacceptable in their original world.
When a Japanese politician recently demanded a national review—and possible ban—on isekai anime, claiming “too many teens want to die and reincarnate,” I found myself in the unusual position of agreeing with a government official. During a parliamentary session, the representative argued that isekai series promote escapist fantasies so extreme that they risk distorting youth perceptions of reality, specifically naming Re:Zero, That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime, and Mushoku Tensei as “dangerously influential.”
The backlash was predictably intense. The hashtag #IsekaiSavesLives trended on X, with one tweet garnering over 50,000 likes that read: “I wanted to disappear until Subaru taught me how to survive my own suffering.” I understand the sentiment, but testimonials like this actually support the politician’s point—when fictional characters become your primary source of life advice, perhaps we have a problem.
Tropes as Comfort Mechanisms
The very predictability that I find mind-numbing actually serves as the genre’s main selling point. Isekai’s formulaic nature creates a safe narrative space where viewers know exactly what to expect—no surprises, no challenges, no real creativity required. This predictability functions like literary fast food, offering the satisfaction of familiar patterns while demanding nothing from the audience.
The standard isekai setup provides cheap wish fulfillment designed to address real anxieties about worthlessness and powerlessness. It’s effective, I’ll grant you that. It’s also creatively lazy in ways that would have been unthinkable in earlier eras of anime.
The Irony of Innovation Through Repetition
What’s fascinating about isekai is how innovation emerges from constraint. When you’re working within such rigid parameters, any deviation feels significant. A protagonist who questions their role as a hero, a world that isn’t improved by their presence, or magic systems that actually require sacrifice—these become genuinely refreshing precisely because they subvert expected tropes.
Shows like Re:Zero use the genre’s conventions as a starting point for deeper psychological exploration. Subaru’s ability to return from death sounds like the ultimate power fantasy until it becomes a psychological torture device. The series asks: what if the ability to reset your mistakes came with the memory of every failure?
The Streaming Era’s Perfect Genre
Isekai’s dominance coincides perfectly with the streaming era’s content demands. The genre’s episodic structure, clear power progression, and built-in world-building hooks make it ideal for binge-watching. Viewers can drop into almost any episode and understand the basic premise within minutes.
For studios, isekai offers economic efficiency. Standard fantasy settings require less research than historical or contemporary stories. Character development follows established patterns. Even animation can lean on familiar visual shorthand—medieval European settings, RPG-style magic systems, and standardized monster designs.
Beyond the Portal: What Isekai Really Reveals
Perhaps the most telling aspect of isekai’s popularity isn’t what it says about anime, but what it reveals about audiences. The genre’s core appeal—the fantasy of starting over with advantages you didn’t have before—speaks to universal human desires that transcend cultural boundaries.
In an era of economic uncertainty, social media anxiety, and global instability, the promise of a world where your current problems simply don’t exist holds enormous appeal. Isekai doesn’t just offer power fantasies; it offers relevance fantasies. In these other worlds, the protagonist matters in ways they never did before.
The Long View from an Old Otaku
As someone who lived through anime’s evolution from niche artform to global commodity, I can’t help but mourn what we’ve lost. The craftsmanship, originality, and genuine innovation that characterized earlier eras have been largely replaced by isekai’s paint-by-numbers approach to storytelling.
Yes, I understand that isekai serves the psychological needs of its audience. I recognize its economic efficiency for studios. I even acknowledge that it occasionally produces something worthwhile when creators subvert its tired conventions.
But understanding why something exists doesn’t mean I have to like it. Isekai represents everything I find frustrating about modern anime: the willingness to settle for “good enough,” the prioritization of market appeal over artistic vision, and the endless recycling of ideas that weren’t particularly fresh the first time around.
Until audiences demand better—or until truck-kun finally runs out of gas—we’ll continue to be inundated with generic protagonists discovering they’re special in worlds that exist solely to make them feel important. And I’ll continue to roll my eyes every time I hear those dreaded words: “You’ve been summoned to another world!”
What do you think drives isekai’s enduring popularity? Share your thoughts on the themes and tropes that keep you coming back to the genre—or drive you away from it.
Your friendly old otaku at Old Otaku’s Notebook