If you’ve been keeping an eye on global gaming trends, you might have noticed something weird. Again and again, when an indie game from overseas unexpectedly takes off, Japan somehow ends up as the second-biggest market. Not the U.S., not China, not Germany—it’s always Japan.
Take Dungeon Crawler for example. A roguelite crane game RPG (yes, really) that managed to sell 165,000 copies on Steam and another 80,000 on mobile. And while the U.S. took the top spot in sales, Japan somehow grabbed 19%—beating out China, a country with twelve times Japan’s Steam user base. If this were an Olympic event, Japan would be consistently winning silver in “Games We Were Never Supposed to Care About.”
And it’s not just a one-off thing. SULFUR, a roguelite treasure-hunting FPS, also saw Japan as its second-largest market. Our Adventurer Guild, a strategy RPG, had its developers scratching their heads, literally saying, “We have no idea why Japan loves this game so much, but hey, we’ll add Japanese support!” You can almost hear the confusion in their voices.
So what’s going on? Is Japan just drawn to underdog titles like a moth to a particularly niche indie flame? Is there some kind of secret gamer society conspiring to make obscure Western titles take off in Akihabara? Or is there something deeper at play?
Japan doesn’t just like things—it worships them. The concept of oshi culture (literally, “pushing” or fervently supporting something) means that when a game catches on, it isn’t just played—it’s evangelized. Japanese gamers don’t stop at just enjoying something; they will make fanart, create strategy guides, and spread the gospel of their newfound obsession until it is completely unavoidable.
This explains why a single streamer can change a game’s entire fate. A popular VTuber or YouTuber plays a niche indie title, and suddenly, it’s no longer just an indie game—it’s a full-blown cultural moment. Unlike in the West, where marketing still relies on trailers, reviews, and launch-day hype, Japan functions on word-of-mouth and influencer momentum. Games don’t just get played—they get communities.
And this isn’t just some modern internet phenomenon—it’s the continuation of a deeply ingrained cultural pattern that has existed in Japan for centuries. The roots of oshi bunka (fan devotion culture) stretch all the way back to the Edo period, when kabuki actors, sumo wrestlers, and even high-ranking courtesans were the equivalent of today’s influencers and celebrities. But why did this culture develop so strongly in Japan, while other countries didn’t foster quite the same level of extreme fan dedication?
One key reason is that Edo-period Japan was a closed society. Under the Tokugawa shogunate’s policy of national isolation (sakoku), Japan had little exposure to foreign entertainment, trends, or even major political changes from the outside world. This meant that cultural phenomena had to develop internally, and once something became popular, it tended to become deeply embedded in society, passed down through generations. People weren’t distracted by Hollywood, K-pop, or global sports—they had kabuki, sumo, and pleasure districts, and they poured all their passion into those limited forms of entertainment.
Kabuki theaters, in particular, played a massive role. Unlike European theater, which was largely reserved for aristocrats, kabuki was a form of entertainment for the common people, meaning that merchants, craftsmen, and even lower-class samurai could all participate in fandom. These weren’t just passive spectators—they were active supporters. Fans would compete to show loyalty to their favorite actors, paying for front-row seats, sponsoring their elaborate costumes, and commissioning ukiyo-e portraits of them. Some extreme fans would even shave their heads in mourning when their favorite actor retired or died—basically, the Edo-era equivalent of a Twitter meltdown when an idol announces graduation.
Merchandising was also a huge factor. Fans couldn’t just show their support by attending performances; they needed physical proof of their devotion. This led to the booming business of kabuki-related prints, dolls, and collectibles, much like how today’s idol fans buy CDs, photobooks, and acrylic stands to “support” their oshi. And just like modern social media-fueled fandoms, kabuki fan culture thrived on community and hierarchy. Fans would form tight-knit groups, attending shows together, gossiping about actors, and even engaging in fierce rivalries over which performer was the best—Edo-period fan wars, if you will.
Beyond entertainment, this kind of deep loyalty extended to other areas, like sumo wrestling and the pleasure quarters, where high-ranking courtesans (oiran) had devoted followings of admirers willing to spend fortunes just for a brief audience with their favorite. Even in commerce, wealthy merchants would form almost religious levels of attachment to certain brands or craftspeople, a tradition that evolved into Japan’s modern culture of brand loyalty and meticulous consumer dedication.
Fast forward to today, and the same patterns repeat—only now, the “theater” is Twitch and YouTube, the “actors” are VTubers and game developers, and the “merch” is limited-edition game releases and in-game cosmetics. The oshi culture that once drove Edo-period fans to tattoo their favorite kabuki actors’ names onto their bodies now fuels game fandoms, VTuber superchats, and niche indie game explosions on Japanese social media.
So when a Japanese influencer picks up a random roguelike dungeon crawler, the reaction isn’t just, “Oh, that looks cool.” It’s, “THIS IS OUR NEW THING. WE MUST MAKE IT SUCCESSFUL.” Fans rally, communities form, and before you know it, a small indie game is outselling major AAA titles—because in Japan, fandom isn’t just a hobby. It’s a tradition.
And then there’s the historical angle. Japan has been obsessed with RPGs, dungeon crawlers, and roguelikes since the dawn of gaming itself. This is the country that turned Wizardry into a national treasure and Mystery Dungeon into an institution. So when a weird little indie game drops with even a whiff of these elements, Japanese gamers don’t see it as just another game—they see it as the next chapter in a long, sacred tradition.
But wait—if Japan loves these games so much, why aren’t they ever number one? Why must Japan always be the talented yet slightly overshadowed younger sibling in the global gaming family? Well, first of all, Japan’s Steam population is tiny. As in, only 2.53% of Steam’s total users tiny. Compare that to English-speaking regions (42%) and China (30%), and Japan isn’t even in the running for gold. Even if every Japanese Steam user bought an indie game, they simply don’t have the numbers to push it to the top.
Then there’s the simple fact that Japan is still a console-first country. Unlike Western and Chinese players, who have been glued to their PCs for years, Japanese gamers have spent decades with their hands firmly wrapped around a PlayStation or a Switch. Steam is growing in Japan, sure, but for a lot of gamers, it’s still a second choice. They’d rather wait for the console port than jump into the unknown wilderness of PC gaming.
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And, of course, there’s the big, looming problem that Japan’s gaming market is literally shrinking. With fewer young players entering the market, the number of people who drive viral indie success is getting smaller every year. This is why even Japanese developers are increasingly targeting global audiences rather than focusing exclusively on their home market.
Despite all this, Japan remains a disproportionately influential force in the gaming world. The country may never take the number one spot in raw Steam sales, but it will continue to be the place where niche indie games find their most passionate, vocal, and slightly obsessive fans.
So if you’re a small indie dev wondering why Japan is suddenly your second-biggest market, congratulations. You’ve just been blessed by the power of Japanese fandom. You have no control over it. You cannot stop it. Just enjoy the ride.
Source: https://www.gamespark.jp/article/2025/01/29/148922.html
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