To Be the Best: A Philosophical Analysis on Strength & Ego in Blue Lock & Jujutsu Kaisen
Introduction:
“Being the strongest”—a phrase that echoes across mythologies, martial traditions, and modern media—invites not only physical connotation but metaphysical and existential significance. Strength, in this context, becomes less a measure of muscle or might and more a symbol of self-mastery, freedom, and recognition. Yet interwoven into this pursuit of supremacy lies the concept of ego, the self as both subject and object of desire, judgment, and transformation. This essay explores how the drive to be “the strongest” is inseparable from the formation and confrontation of ego—using insights from ancient philosophy, modern existentialism, psychoanalysis, and political thought to interrogate whether this aspiration is liberation or delusion.
In the ancient world, strength was closely tied to aretē, the Greek concept of excellence. For Homeric heroes, such as Achilles, to be the strongest was not a narcissistic ambition but a fulfillment of their telos, their end. As he declares in the Iliad, “If I stay here and fight, I shall not return alive but my name will live forever: whereas if I go home my name will die, but it will be long ere death shall take me.” Strength was identity. There was no gap between ego and excellence; to realize one’s power was to become fully human.
Yet, Greek philosopher Socrates complicates this ideal. While acknowledging the value of excellence, Socrates redirects it inward: “The unexamined life is not worth living” (Apology 38a). Here, strength is redefined—not as dominance over others, but as the capacity to confront oneself. The ego, in Socratic terms, must be deconstructed through dialectic. In other words, the strongest man may be the one who knows he is weak. This tension between outward power and inward awareness persists. Aristotle, in his Nicomachean Ethics, maintains a vision of the megalopsychos, the "great-souled man," who is worthy of great things and knows it. This figure is proud but not vainglorious—a key distinction Aristotle makes. The ego, if rightly ordered, becomes a vessel for virtue; if distorted, it becomes hubris.
Fast-forwarding to modernity, Friedrich Nietzsche represents a pivotal shift. For Nietzsche, traditional morality—rooted in Christianity and Platonic ideals—neuters the will. In Thus Spoke Zarathustra, he writes: “You say it is the good cause that hallows even war? I say unto you: it is the good war that hallows any cause. War and courage have accomplished more great things than love of the neighbor. Not your pity but your courage has so far saved the unfortunate.” Strength is no longer a response to external expectations but an expression of the will to power—the fundamental drive of life to overcome itself. Nietzsche’s Übermensch is not a tyrant but a creator. Ego, far from being an enemy, is the crucible of new values. “Become who you are!” he urges. The ego must be cultivated, not repressed. Yet Nietzsche warns against ressentiment—the ego that fails to realize power and turns bitter, blaming others. The strongest individual is not merely one who dominates, but one who affirms life despite suffering, absurdity, and death.
This has radical implications: strength is redefined not as comparison but as creation. The true battle is not against others, but against one’s own cowardice and conformity.
French psychologist, Jacques Lacan, drawing from Freud, introduces a more skeptical account of the ego. For Lacan, the ego is an illusion formed during the mirror stage, when the infant first recognizes its reflection and misidentifies that coherent image as the self. This misrecognition becomes the basis for ego development—a lifelong tension between who we are and who we think we are. To want to be “the strongest,” then, is often a symptom of alienation. We pursue power because we believe it will validate our ideal ego. But this is a trap. As Lacan writes, “Man’s desire is the desire of the Other.” Our strength-seeking is mediated through what others desire or affirm.
Contemporary philosopher Byung-Chul Han critiques this in his work The Burnout Society, where the ego in neoliberal culture becomes entrepreneurial, competitive, and self-optimizing. The individual internalizes pressure to be “the best version of themselves,” resulting not in freedom but exhaustion. Strength becomes a capitalist imperative, and ego is commodified.
In a theologically charged context, Søren Kierkegaard also offers a profound insight: “The self is a relation that relates itself to itself.” In The Sickness Unto Death, Kierkegaard defines despair as the misrelation of the self to itself—either by losing oneself in the crowd or constructing a self without God. Here, the strongest individual is not the autonomous achiever but the one who rests transparently in the power that established them. Ego without grounding becomes either despair or defiance. True strength lies in dependence—not passivity, but a courageous entrusting of the self to the Infinite. Kierkegaard challenges us to ask: Is the ego a fortress or a wound? Is strength found in standing alone, or in standing rightly?
While strength, ego, and individualism seem to be somewhat rather “selfish” philosophical and psychological notions, perhaps no recent media exemplifies these traits more than the manga-turned-animes, Blue Lock and Jujutsu Kaisen. The characters’ quests for strength reveal deeper tensions between individuality and collectivism, ego and sacrifice, authenticity and performance. These stories, far from being mere entertainment, offer mythic spaces where philosophical dramas unfold.
Blue Lock & Jujutsu Kaisen:
In both Blue Lock and Jujutsu Kaisen, the motif of “being the strongest” animates the narrative trajectories of characters caught between societal demands, personal trauma, and existential ambition. These two anime series—one a sports thriller, the other a supernatural battle saga—share a surprisingly profound philosophical core. They explore strength not merely as a measure of ability, but as a confrontation with ego and the boundaries of the self.
Building upon the philosophical framework outlined earlier—drawing from Nietzsche’s will to power, Kierkegaard’s concept of the self, Lacan’s theory of ego-formation, and Aristotelian aretē—this essay compares how these themes manifest through central figures in Blue Lock (Isagi Yoichi, Barou Shoei, Nagi Seishiro, Jinpachi Ego) and Jujutsu Kaisen (Satoru Gojo, Sukuna, Yuji Itadori, Suguru Geto). Through their internal conflicts, aspirations, and failures, these characters illuminate the complex interplay between individualism, strength, and ego in the modern cultural psyche.
In Blue Lock, Jinpachi Ego declares that Japan’s failure in soccer stems from a lack of “egotistical strikers.” From the outset, the anime posits ego not as a flaw, but as a virtue—the foundation of greatness. Here, Nietzsche’s Übermensch looms large. Ego is the site of creation, the force that allows players to transcend mediocrity and create their own identity through will.
Jinpachi Ego.
Jinpachi Ego’s philosophy reimagines sports as an existential battleground. As he puts it, "If you're not the world's top egoist, you can never become the world's best striker." His character functions as a provocateur, dismantling collectivist ideals in favor of radical individualism. He orchestrates the soccer training establishment, Blue Lock, to force players into confrontation with their limits and to choose whether they will be consumed by others’ talent or evolve by sheer force of self-definition.
In Jujutsu Kaisen, the figures of Sukuna and Gojo play analogous roles—but with key differences. Sukuna, the King of Curses, represents a destructive, transcendent ego. His strength is absolute, and his individualism is entirely unmoored from ethics or society. He is Nietzsche’s will to power with no restraint. Gojo Satoru, by contrast, is the strongest sorcerer—but also a man burdened by isolation. His strength alienates him from others, turning his ego into a kind of prison.
Satoru Gojo.
Gojo’s strength is both liberating and tragic. His invincibility separates him from meaningful relationships. Like Aristotle’s megalopsychos, he is aware of his greatness, but this self-knowledge breeds not fulfillment, but loneliness. The show forces us to ask: Is being the strongest worth the existential cost?
Both Blue Lock and Jujutsu Kaisen interrogate the very Nietzschean drive they seem to glorify. Ego is necessary, but when unmoored from love, community, or self-reflection, it can lead to madness. Where figures like Blue Lock’s Barou and Jujutsu Kaisen’s Sukuna represent pure expressions of individualistic will, Isagi Yoichi (Blue Lock) and Yuji Itadori (Jujutsu Kaisen) serve as dialectical characters who must construct their egos in response to crisis.
Isagi begins Blue Lock as a relatively average player, but with a key difference: he is deeply introspective. His internal monologue reveals a constantly shifting self-image. He envies others, admires them, fears them—but ultimately begins to integrate these experiences into his evolving identity. Isagi does not possess raw talent like other characters, such as Nagi or Barou. What makes him dangerous is his ego-awareness. He reflects, recalibrates, and redefines himself.
Isagi’s turning point comes when he begins to enjoy “devouring” others’ skills—not as mimicry, but as appropriation. Like Lacan’s ego forged through the mirror stage, Isagi’s self grows through the reflected image of others. But unlike Lacan’s tragic misrecognition, Isagi eventually learns to synthesize what he sees into a coherent self. His ego is not fixed but dynamic.
Yoichi Isagi.
Similarly, Yuji Itadori is thrust into a world where he must bear the ego of another—Sukuna—within his body. Yuji’s arc is a profound meditation on selfhood and strength. His desire to “save people” is initially noble, but as he accumulates loss, guilt, and trauma, his identity begins to fracture. The question becomes: is Yuji strong because of his convictions, or is he merely a vessel? Yet his strength lies in his refusal to let others define him—even the godlike Sukuna inside him. But unlike Isagi, Yuji’s ego remains under constant threat. He oscillates between selflessness and despair, often unsure if he is a hero or a monster. His individualism is fragile, contingent.
These characters dramatize Kierkegaard’s insight: “The self is a relation that relates itself to itself.” Strength is not a fixed quality, but a continual becoming. Isagi and Yuji are strongest when they choose to be selves—when they refuse to collapse into the images or wills of others.
Barou Shoei and Suguru Geto represent the darker edge of ego and individualism. Both start from positions of great strength and devolve into destructive pride. Barou is introduced as a "one-man kingdom," a striker obsessed with scoring goals himself. His refusal to pass, his disdain for teamwork, and his almost messianic self-image reflect Nietzschean ego taken to its extreme. When he is defeated, Barou experiences ego-death—not just loss, but existential collapse.
What makes Barou compelling is his rebirth. Instead of abandoning his ego, he integrates loss into it. He returns with a “villain” mindset, embracing his role as an antagonist not to others, but to their expectations. He is no longer afraid of adaptation. Like Nietzsche’s ideal, Barou becomes strong not because he dominates, but because he transforms.
Geto, on the other hand, is Gojo’s former best friend—once an idealist, later a nihilistic cult leader. His fall from grace is rooted in the trauma of witnessing humanity’s weakness and cruelty. Geto’s ego fractures not through hubris, but through despair. Like Lacan’s subject who no longer believes in the mirror, Geto gives up on the social order and constructs a new identity as “protector” of sorcerers. Yet Geto’s new identity is parasitic—it requires the dehumanization of the non-sorcerer, regular human people. His individualism becomes tribalism, his ego rooted in exclusion. While Barou integrates loss into transformation, Geto calcifies around it. His ego is frozen, righteous, and doomed.
Suguru Geto (top and bottom panel), speaking with Saturo Gojo (middle panel).
Both characters expose the fragility of ego. One rebounds, the other shatters. The lesson is Kierkegaardian: ego without despair is superficial; despair without ego is annihilation.
Moivng on to two similar characters across both franchises, Nagi Seishiro and Gojo Satoru reflect another unique parallel—both are naturally gifted, almost transcendent in their abilities. Yet their arcs expose the emptiness of strength without self-conscious purpose. Nagi is a prodigy who enters Blue Lock with little ambition. He plays for fun, manipulated by his friend Reo. But as he faces stronger opponents, Nagi begins to awaken—not just in skill, but in desire. His ego emerges through friction. After losing to Isagi, Nagi shifts his mindset. He realizes “if you never accept the frustration of losing, you’ll never grow.” In Nagi, we see the emergence of arete: the actualization of innate potential. Yet the danger for Nagi is complacency. Without challenges that force him to confront limitations, his ego risks becoming ornamental—a palace with no king. His character arc is the slow realization that strength without struggle is meaningless.
Seishiro Nagi (top panel) speaking to Isagi (bottom left) and Kuzon (bottom right), another player on Isagi’s team.
Gojo is a genius, but his burden is not potential—it's actualization. He is the strongest, and that supremacy has become its own kind of curse. Unlike others who strive to rise, Gojo has already ascended, and in doing so, he’s become untouchable—both in power and in intimacy. His strength isolates him. As protector, teacher, and symbol, he no longer gets to be just a man. The world demands he be invincible, infallible, always in control. His ego, his inner self, is smothered beneath the roles he’s forced to play.
In Lacanian terms, Gojo is trapped within the image others have of him—a subject alienated by the gaze. He is no longer known, only seen. His power becomes a mirror he cannot escape, reflecting what he must be, not who he is. And in that reflection, he loses his self. Gojo’s tragedy is not his power, but his loneliness: no rival to challenge him, no equal to understand him, no space to simply be. He is a god in a human world—but gods, too, can suffer.
Both characters dramatize the existential paradox: it is not enough to be strong; one must also know why one is strong, and for whom. The strongest are often the loneliest—not because they lack ego, but because their ego has no equal.
Both Blue Lock and Jujutsu Kaisen critique as much as they celebrate ego and individualism. Blue Lock operates in a system that artificially creates existential pressure—isolating players, forcing competition, and ultimately commodifying identity. It is a microcosm of Byung-Chul Han’s neoliberal critique: the self is optimized for performance, and failure is not an event, but a verdict on worth. Jujutsu Kaisen shows a world where strength comes with moral ambiguity. To be powerful is to invite death, manipulation, and estrangement. Gojo is sealed. Yuji is betrayed. Sukuna hijacks bodies. Geto is resurrected as a puppet. In this world, ego is a battleground—and the strongest may be the most broken.
Yet both series resist despair. Isagi finds joy in transformation. Yuji reaffirms his will to save people. Barou reclaims his “villainy” as freedom. Even Geto’s legacy is contested—not in the triumph of ideology, but in the pain of friendship lost.
To be “the strongest” is a profoundly ambiguous desire. It is never simple. It is not just a measure of power, but a metaphysical burden—a question rather than a conclusion. In both Blue Lock and Jujutsu Kaisen, strength must be reconciled with ego, and ego with identity. The individual must choose—not just to win, but to become. Drawing from Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Lacan, and Aristotle, we see these characters not as static heroes or villains, but as case studies in becoming. They remind us that the self is not found, but forged; that ego is not evil, but essential; and that the strongest person may not be the one who never breaks—but the one who rebuilds.
Yuji Itadori.
Strength, then, is not univocal. It can mean the pursuit of truth, self-mastery, and virtue—or the inflation of ego, domination, and alienation. Philosophers ancient and modern alike have wrestled with whether ego is to be overcome, cultivated, or surrendered. In the end, strength is not domination. It is differentiation. It is the courage to be a self—against the crowd, the system, the curse—and sometimes, against oneself.
In a world obsessed with being “the best,” the real question may be: Who are you, when no one is watching? And who do you become, when everything is at stake?
