20 Years Ago, Sega Created One of the Greatest Video Game Protagonists of All Time
Like a dragon.
Anyone can create a lengthy laundry list of their favorite video game heroes, from RPG powerhouses like Geralt of Rivia and Cloud Strife, to the goofy mascots of Crash Bandicoot and Astro Bot. But there are almost no examples in games where we get to truly see a character age — see someone truly live their life in a way that’s representative of reality. Twenty years after the release of the first game on PS2, that’s exactly what makes the Yakuza series so special. While you can talk about Yakuza’s quirky blend of crime drama and humor, or its bone-crunching combat — the simple truth is that Sega’s franchise simply wouldn’t be what it is without Kazuma Kiryu.
One of the most incredibly realized characters gaming has ever seen, Kiryu instills Yakuza with its fighting spirit, but is simultaneously a fascinating deconstruction of toxic masculinity. He’s absolutely essential to the way Yakuza deconstructs so many societal issues, from persecution of LGBTQ people to prejudice against felons reintegrating society. The Yakuza series has never shied away from tough and increasingly relevant topics, but all of that is filtered through the worldview of Kiryu.
Kiryu is an instantly unforgettable character — and a ton of credit for that needs to be given to his voice actor, Takaya Kuroda. One of those rare instances where an actor feels born for a role.
What’s especially interesting is the way we’re introduced to Kiryu, from the very first 2005 Yakuza. Known as the legendary Dragon of Dojima, Kiryu is essentially a god in the criminal underworld — the most fearsome gangster walking the streets of Kamurocho. Just speaking his name strikes fear into the low-level thugs that strut around like peacocks.
Yakuza does a fantastic job of building out the mythos of Kiryu, and you quickly see why he has this reputation — built like a brick house and able to take down a tiger with a few punches. But far more interesting is Kiryu’s emotional side, where we see a truly kind-hearted man who’s been forced to live in a world of crime his entire life. One of the core struggles of the entire series, not just the first game, is Kiryu’s fight to retain his kindness and humanity in an increasingly hostile world — one that quickly leaves him behind.
In the first Yakuza, we see this illustrated through him taking the fall for his friend Akirya Nishikiyama, who, in a fit of rage, murders the Dojima family patriarch. This lands Kiryu in prison for ten years, and he emerges into a completely different world that’s left him behind. A running theme across the series is the time that Kiryu has lost, and how he continually struggles to adapt to a world that he doesn’t fit in — an honorable gangster in a city that’s forgotten its morals.
Even from the beginning, Yakuza smartly used juxtaposition to highlight its themes, posing fierce and bloody battles against emotional side stories.
Despite that facade, Kiryu isn’t afraid to show genuine emotion, proclaim his love for his friends, and use his fists to fight for the disenfranchised or downtrodden. In a series that, at first glance, is about tough guys beating everyone up, the subtlety of Kiryu’s character work feels remarkable — and especially in 2005, a far cry from what we were seeing in nearly anything else. Although the series has certainly had problems to work through, even that first PS2 game had some remarkably progressive themes. This is especially seen in the game’s “sub-stories,” which would become one of the key staples of the Yakuza formula.
In the sub-story “The Man Who Wanted to Die,” Kiryu stumbles upon a man attempting suicide while he’s with the young girl Haruka. From there, he needs to try to convince the man not to jump, and then explain the whole thing to Haruka. In another, Kiryu helps a hungry boy with food, who then collapses, and has to be taken to a neighborhood clinic. There, Kiryu learns about how the doctor is endeavoring to help the poor, and has to deal with a situation when another patient claims discrimination, when he’s passed over to save the boy’s life. Past that, yet another side mission sees Kiryu help a dying man check off his bucket list, reflecting on the fleeting nature of life and regret — something that hits especially hard, looking at where Kiryu ends up.
While the first Yakuza might feel basic in many regards, it’s a game brimming with heart, taking painstaking time and effort to flesh out the world and characters — Kiryu most of all. And what makes all this work especially well is how grounded and realistic that world itself feels, before layering in all the absurd drama and over-the-top antics.
Yakuza’s world feels vitally realistic and lived-in, which ultimately helps the humanistic storytelling.
The fictional district of Kamurocho feels like you’re walking the city streets of Tokyo, popping into the convenience store for a snack, playing a few rounds at the pachinko parlor, and seeing salarymen rush through alleyways between appointments. Kiryu isn’t just a hero in this story, he feels like a man living in this world — and that’s essential.
Sega’s success with Yakuza has been about iteration and building piece by piece, but none of that would have been possible without the remarkable foundation set by the 2005 game. And the way we see everything through Kiryu’s eyes is vitally important. In an era of video games that was dominated by dudebro heroes and an annoying penchant for edginess, Yakuza, and Kiryu, did things differently. Through Kiryu, the series takes a hard look at what it means to be a man, and how both acceptance and kindness are vital to that very idea. While it took a while for the series to catch on, in 2005 was that felt downright revolutionary.
That’s partially what makes some of the series’ more recent decisions so disappointing, because of how vital well-defined characters have been to Yakuza’s identity — and the actors behind them. Whether it’s the baffling story changes to Yakuza 0 Director’s Cut, or controversy over casting an actor in Yakuza Kiwami 3 — someone who was accused of assault by two women, and then later admitted to the charges. These kinds of choices feel opposed to the breadth of character the series has been defined by, and a part of me worries the series may be losing its way. But even as it struggles with modern issues, the impact and legacy of how it got here remains — and that can’t be taken away.
What’s remarkable is how Kiryu, more than any other game character, almost feels like a personal friend of mine. I’ve been with this character for literally two decades, longer than some of my real-life friendships. I’ve seen him as a fresh-faced teenager, change careers, raise a family, become a secret agent, and get diagnosed with cancer. There’s not a single character, in any other piece of media, that I can say that about. And remarkably, after two decades, it feels like Kiryu has become an encapsulation of what Yakuza is all about — the importance of a life well-lived.
