Dear Crunchyroll,

Every story has two versions: the one its creators intended to tell, and the one the audience ultimately experiences. For millions of viewers outside Japan, Crunchyroll exists between those two.

I’ve been a paying subscriber since 2016.

For nearly a decade, anime has been part of my weekend routine. Whenever possible, Saturdays are now “Anime Saturdays”; they are a chance to slow down after long work week, settle in with a cup of coffee, and become immersed in stories I might never have encountered otherwise. I get to spend some time in my own escape before returning to my quasi-workaholic self during the week.

Now, as much as I have come to enjoy it, I want to be clear that I don’t believe anime is above criticism. Like every storytelling medium, it contains extraordinary works alongside stories that rely on misogyny, objectification, unhealthy relationships, or themes that I personally find difficult to watch. I don’t believe anime is inherently better than books, film, television, or any other medium. What keeps me coming back is that, at its best, it tells stories that are imaginative, emotionally resonant, and deeply human. Among thousands of titles, there are stories worth experiencing. But, this letter isn’t about the anime industry. It’s about the experience of watching anime on Crunchyroll.

By profession, I’m a staff software engineer, and I specialize in digital accessibility for applications at scale. I spend my days helping teams build software that more people can use. I work on the kind of software that companies on the Fortune 50 use. I’m very good at what I do, and I have been doing it for a long time. The thing is, after enough years doing this work, accessibility becomes part of how you experience technology. I tend to more naturally notice details that many people don’t, but I don’t consider that a burden. If anything, I think it’s one of the reasons I’ve been fortunate enough to become a leader in my field.

When I sit down to watch anime, though, I’m not looking for accessibility problems. I’m looking for an immersive story. I want to giggle because it’s silly, or cry because it’s sad! What disappoints me isn’t that I notice quality issues; it’s that they’re so distracting they interrupt my ability to become immersed in the world the creators worked so hard to build.

The most obvious example is subtitle quality.

I have tremendous respect for translators and localization teams. Translating dialogue across languages and cultures is incredibly difficult work, and this letter isn’t a criticism of the people doing that work. It is, however, a criticism of the experience that ultimately reaches your paying customers.

Too often, subtitles are inconsistent, awkward, or simply incorrect. Sometimes dialogue doesn’t make sense. Sometimes terminology changes without explanation. Sometimes emotional scenes lose their impact because the subtitles don’t faithfully communicate what the characters are trying to say.

As a viewer who doesn’t speak Japanese as a first language, the integrity of subtitles is not only essential, it requires trust. I’m trusting that what I’m reading faithfully represents the story the creators intended me to experience. When that trust begins to erode, I stop thinking about the characters and start thinking about the subtitles instead.

I expect subtitles to at least be consistent within the same series. If a character’s name is Myne, then I expect it to remain “Myne”—not become “mine” or “mind” from one subtitle to the next. Every inconsistency chips away at the viewer’s trust, pulling them out of the story and forcing them to wonder whether the confusion is intentional or simply a quality issue.

The second issue is one I find even more frustrating: untranslated on-screen text.

Anime often tells stories visually as well as verbally. Characters exchange text messages. They read letters. They receive emails. Important information appears on signs, whiteboards, newspapers, computer screens, calendars, handwritten notes, and countless other places where the written word carries the story forward.

Too often, none of that text is translated. Sometimes those details are incidental; sometimes they’re essential. As viewers, we shouldn’t have to guess which is which.

If a text message changes a character’s motivation, I should be able to read it. If a handwritten note explains why someone made a difficult decision, I should know what it says. If a newspaper headline provides context for events unfolding in the background, that information should be available to everyone watching. Those aren’t decorative details. They’re part of the story.

One of the questions I ask frequently in my own work is simple: “You can do that—but should you?”

Could an episode be released without translating story-critical text? Of course.

Should it? I don’t think it should.

Over the years, I’ve come to believe that quality and accessibility reinforce one another. Teams that genuinely care about the experience they’re creating, very nearly always build products that are more accessible. It’s a byproduct of their expertise. Now, compliance matters! I’ve spent a lot of my career helping teams achieve it, but compliance has absolutely never, not-even-once been my definition of excellence. The teams that consistently produce accessible products are rarely the ones chasing checklists. They’re the ones that care deeply about quality.

I can confidently say that the same principle applies here.

When localization is done well, it disappears. The audience isn’t thinking about subtitles, translated signs, or text messages. We aren’t thinking about the streaming platform at all. We’re simply experiencing the story.

Crunchyroll occupies a unique place in making that possible. For many people outside Japan, you are the primary gateway to these stories. That’s an incredible privilege, but it’s also an incredible responsibility. You’re not simply distributing entertainment; you’re preserving and communicating someone else’s creative work to an entirely different audience.

I don’t expect perfection. Localization is difficult (from both a language perspective AND a technical implementation perspective), production schedules are demanding, and mistakes will happen.

I do expect a commitment to quality. I expect subtitles that earn the audience’s trust. I expect story-critical on-screen text to be translated. I expect quality assurance that catches obvious errors before episodes are released. I would even find the ability for your users to submit subtitle corrections to be an acceptable stop-gap until you’re staffing this essential area appropriately.

I’m writing this because I want Crunchyroll to succeed. I’ve invested so many years in your platform because I enjoy what it makes possible. You’ve introduced me and countless audiences around the world to remarkable creators and remarkable stories. That’s an achievement worth celebrating. It’s also why this is so disappointing!

As a paying customer, I shouldn’t have to wonder whether an emotional moment lost its meaning because of a poor subtitle. I shouldn’t need to pause an episode and search online to discover what a text message or handwritten note said. I shouldn’t have to question whether my confusion is intentional, cultural, or simply the result of inconsistent localization.

These are technical problems with technical solutions.

The best localization doesn’t call attention to itself. It quietly carries the audience across languages, cultures, and continents until all that’s left is the story. That’s the experience I’ve been hoping for since I subscribed in 2016, and I still believe it’s one worth striving for.

I love you, do better.

Until next time. -M