Nasubi’s Choice: Why He Stayed, and Why He Did It Again

Nasubi’s initial decision to participate in the experiment could be chalked up to naivety and ambition. As a young comedian with no name recognition, the promise of appearing on television, no matter the terms, might have seemed like an opportunity worth taking. But what kept him there after the reality of the situation set in?

Once Nasubi entered that empty apartment, it would have been clear within hours that this was not a typical game show. He was completely isolated, with no clothes, no food, and no communication with the outside world. And yet, when given the option to quit (as he later revealed he could have), he chose to stay.

One possible explanation lies in the lure of hope. Nasubi had been given a clear goal: win enough prizes to equal the value of one million yen, and the ordeal would end. This sense of purpose likely gave him something to hold onto in an otherwise hopeless environment. Every small win—a bag of rice, a cup of noodles—reinforced the idea that the finish line was within reach.

Psychologists often refer to this as the “goal gradient effect.” The closer we feel to achieving a goal, the harder we’re willing to work for it—even if the effort is disproportionate to the reward. For Nasubi, the goal of completing the contest became a beacon of purpose, something to justify the sacrifices he was making.

Nasubi’s decision to persevere also reflects deeper cultural values. In Japan, perseverance and endurance—qualities often summed up by the concept of gaman—are highly respected. Enduring hardship for the sake of a larger purpose is seen as a sign of strength and integrity. Nasubi’s upbringing, combined with his ambitions as a comedian, likely reinforced the idea that suffering was a necessary step toward success.

In his mind, leaving the contest might have felt like failure—not just for himself but in the eyes of others. Staying, on the other hand, gave him a sense of control, a belief that his suffering would eventually pay off.

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After 15 grueling months, Nasubi finally won enough prizes to meet the goal. But instead of the celebration he might have imagined, he was blindfolded, transported to South Korea, and told to start over—this time, in a foreign country. Shockingly, he agreed.

By this point, Nasubi’s mind had likely adjusted so completely to the rules of the contest that stepping back into the outside world might have felt more alien than staying in isolation. When people spend long periods in extreme or controlled environments, their brains adapt to make that environment feel normal. It’s why prisoners sometimes struggle to adjust after being released or why soldiers feel out of place when they return home.

For Nasubi, the sweepstakes weren’t just a contest anymore—they were his entire world. The routines, the small victories, even the deprivation had become familiar. To leave that world might have felt destabilizing.

Another factor at play could have been learned helplessness. When someone is repeatedly exposed to situations they can’t control, they begin to lose the ability to recognize when they do have control. Over time, they stop trying to escape, even when opportunities to do so are presented.

Nasubi had spent over a year in an environment where every aspect of his life was dictated by the producers—what he ate, what he wore (or didn’t wear), and how he spent his time. By the time he was asked to repeat the contest, he might have felt like he had no real choice. Saying no may not have even occurred to him as an option.

One of the most striking aspects of Nasubi’s story is how much his environment shaped his sense of self. Over the months, his identity as a comedian, a young man with ambitions, and even a member of society faded away. In the apartment, none of that mattered. His entire existence revolved around survival and winning prizes.

When Nasubi was finally taken out of isolation and brought to a live studio audience, the depth of this transformation became clear. Given clothes for the first time in 15 months, he instinctively took them off when he stepped onto the stage, believing that disrobing was part of yet another challenge. His world had been so thoroughly reduced to the logic of the contest that even basic social norms no longer made sense.

His comment, “My house fell down,” is perhaps the most revealing moment of all. For Nasubi, the apartment—despite its cruelty and deprivation—had become home. It was the only reality his mind had come to understand. Leaving it wasn’t just the end of a contest—it was the collapse of the world his brain had built to survive.

Nasubi’s decision to stay—and to repeat the ordeal—offers a glimpse into how the human mind works under extreme conditions.

Nasubi’s choice to stay—and to go through the experiment twice—is both a testament to human resilience and a reflection of how fragile our sense of agency can be. On the surface, it seems like an act of strength: enduring hardship for the sake of a goal. But underneath, it reveals the complex ways the mind adapts to survive, even when survival means giving up parts of yourself.

For Nasubi, the contest wasn’t just a challenge—it became his entire reality. And once his mind adjusted to that reality, leaving it might have felt harder than staying. His story isn’t just about endurance. It’s about how the brain clings to purpose, adapts to suffering, and sometimes forgets how to let go.