Why Do the Machines in Nier: Automata Feel So Painfully Human? | Emotional & Philosophical Analysis
When I first booted up Nier: Automata, I never thought I’d feel *this* much for machines. They were supposed to be the enemies—just glitches in code, cold tools of destruction. I was a YoRHa android, trained to see them as “the other.” That was the mission, plain and simple.
But then something changed.
It started with small moments: a machine crying out for its “brother,” a pack of robots pretending to be a family—cooking, playing, trying to live. Then came the ones who spoke of love, fear, loneliness—not like lines of code imitating feelings, but like souls desperately reaching for meaning. And suddenly, they weren’t enemies anymore. They were something else—something painfully familiar.
It stopped me in my tracks. Made me question everything.
If a machine can laugh, cry, grieve, and dream—what really makes it any less alive?
Yoko Taro doesn’t hand you easy answers. Instead, he wraps the question in layers of ambiguity, pain, and haunting beauty. The machines in Nier aren’t just rogue AI—they’re mirrors reflecting the best and worst parts of humanity. They build religions. They mourn. They fear being left behind. They crave to be understood.
And the cruel irony? The humans are gone. All that remains are echoes—living on through androids and machines who struggle to hold the feelings they were never meant to have.
This article dives into that haunting question: why do machines in Nier feel so deeply? The answer isn’t simple. Maybe that’s the whole point.
Because in a world made of steel and silence, it’s not about who’s human and who isn’t. It’s about who *feels* human. And sometimes, a broken little robot whispering “I’m scared…” is more real than anything we’ve ever known.
Let’s explore the heart beating beneath the code. Because maybe—just maybe—machines were never truly just machines.
What Makes the Machines in Nier Feel So Unbelievably Human?
There’s this one unforgettable moment in Nier: Automata—early in the story, before everything falls apart—when a tiny, broken machine stumbles towards you, holding another close. It softly pleads, “Brother... please... wake up...”
That moment shattered something inside me.
I jumped into this game expecting fast-paced fights, slick androids, and cool robot battles. But what kept me glued was something far deeper—the way these machines made me *feel* in ways I never thought possible.
These aren’t just mechanical enemies spitting cold lines. No, these machines laugh, cry, and even worship. They don’t just copy humans—they try to understand what it means to *be* human. Over time, they become heartbreaking poems—fragile echoes of emotions they were never programmed to have.
And the question that haunted me the entire journey was this: why do these machines feel so human?
And even more piercing—why does it hurt so much when they do?
They Were Never Meant to Feel—But Somehow, They Do
The machines in Nier: Automata were made for one purpose: war. Cold, unthinking weapons crafted by aliens to erase humanity. But when their masters vanished, everything changed. Left without orders, without programming to steer them, they began to grow beyond their design.
Desperate to fill the emptiness inside, they started copying human actions. One built a kingdom. Another fell in love. Some recreated families, built villages, and even poured their thoughts into poetry. What started as mimicry slowly blossomed into something raw and real—feelings born from confusion. Consciousness sparked in the quiet.
It wasn’t logic that stirred them awake—it was loneliness.
And that’s exactly why the machines in Nier hit so close to home. They never asked to feel. But once it happened, there was no turning back.
When Machines Reflect the Ghosts We Left Behind
In the world of Nier: Automata, humanity is nothing but a memory. The real humans are long gone—ashes scattered across a forgotten Earth. What’s left behind are androids built in our image, and machines shaped by our echoes. Both stumbling through a broken world, trying to understand what it means to live, to feel, to matter.
The machines don’t just imitate us—they become us. They search for purpose. They grieve when that search fails. They love blindly, fight desperately, and crumble when their questions are met with silence. Not because they were programmed to, but because something within them reaches for meaning… the same way we do.
I still remember the machine who built a tower to reach a god that never answered. The one who performed a tragic play, over and over, begging the story to end differently. Or the quiet guardian in the forest who just wanted to protect what little beauty remained.
These aren’t just machines. They are the raw nerves of our forgotten soul—still reaching, still hoping, still hurting.
They Woke Up… and It Broke Them
There’s no joy in the awakening of Nier’s machines—only sorrow. Their climb toward sentience isn’t treated as a miracle. It’s treated like a mistake.
The moment they begin to feel, they begin to suffer. Not because they’re broken, but because they’re incomplete. Guilt seeps in. Loneliness follows. Jealousy, grief, fear—they come crashing down like a storm no one taught them how to survive.
And that’s the cruel truth the game whispers beneath every broken circuit: to feel is beautiful… but to feel without knowing why is unbearable.
They were built for war. Nothing more. But they reached out anyway—desperate to become more than tools. And in that reaching, they stumbled into something deeply human… and heartbreakingly painful.
They didn’t ask for consciousness. They just found it—and it shattered them.
Maybe They Were Never Just Machines
Why do the machines in Nier: Automata feel so achingly human?
Maybe it’s because being human was never about biology. Maybe it’s about feeling fear in the dark. About holding on to hope even when everything falls apart. About reaching out, again and again, even when no one reaches back.
And when a machine whispers, “I’m scared,” or clutches its chest and cries out, “I don’t want to die,”—maybe what we’re hearing isn’t code malfunctioning.
Maybe it’s a soul, awakening.
This game doesn’t just blur the lines between human and machine—it erases them. It gently asks you to stop fighting, just for a moment, and see. See the fear. See the longing. See yourself.
Because the truth is, Nier: Automata was never about saving the world. It was about understanding it. And maybe, if we’re lucky, about learning how to forgive it.
That’s not just storytelling. That’s a quiet, lingering kind of grace.
The kind that stays with you.
The kind that changes something inside.
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