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It always sounds so pretentious to say that a work is only made more perfect by its imperfections. At best it seems like a meaningless, sophomoric word game; at worst it seems like you're trying to make whatever you're talking about immune from criticism. But I can't say why I love Kyousougiga so much without doing that, so there you go.

I'll at least be specific: when I say "imperfections" I'm talking about the obscurity of how the story is laid out; the slight visual inconsistency (the final scenes of episode 4, for example, are animated by a different person than episode 7's climax, and Koto's ... design is quite noticeably different in each); the first 5 episodes' insularity and consequent lack of sense that the narrative is progressing; and the way all the pertinent facts are finally revealed in one massive, unwieldy monologue that suddenly telescopes the scale and is also almost too much to take in all at once.

The reason I appreciate all these things so much is mainly because of the show's setting. The Mirror Capital is full of anachronisms and looks like it's made of paper cutouts. We know from the outset that it's a drawing come to life, and it looks like it. This comes across as self-reflexive to an extent, but really what I get out of it is just that the Mirror Capital was deliberately constructed by someone. It's a world made by parents for their children.

That's plainly obvious in episode 3, when Inari takes Kurama around the capital and tries to give him the means to pursue his interests. It's not an original or uncommon idea that parents will try to build a world for their children both to protect them and to foster their interests. Nor is it surprising that eventually, children want to leave that world.

It probably wouldn't surprise anyone to observe that Kyousougiga is about kids trying to escape a world constructed by their father's egoism and fear. (I happen to really dig that kind of thing.) But Koto (the little one) really makes the difference for me. Her conception was itself an act of rebellion on Inari's part, but she ends up being the one to resolve the consequences of his rebellion. She doesn't go totally over to the other side, of course; she doesn't submit to the Shrine's high priest.

Even though Inari's rebellious bent is behind the show's entire conflict, it's the reason why Koto, Yakushimaru, Kurama, and Yase exist. And he does love them, even if his love is imperfect. When they try to escape from the Mirror Capital, they're not rising to some kind of greater reality; the Mirror Capital is as real as the other 12 spheres, in the end. They're reacting to Inari's imperfections, and they'll bring that with them wherever they go. Even if kids leave their parents' world, their perspectives can still be influenced by the contrast between their parents' world and the countless other worlds out there.

Inari gave all his kids specific purposes, and they don't betray those purposes. But they do own them and direct them all toward their own ends. It's what lets Kurama be a great governor and inventor, what lets Yase provide a home for all the bizarre monsters that live in the Mirror Capital, and what lets Koto fight back against the Shrine. It's also something Yakushimaru struggles to do, but he gets help from his siblings (and NOT from Inari).

The constant interplay of imperfections lets everyone in Kyousougiga constantly develop and embrace their lives. Even if Koto's design is more angular and exaggerated in episode 4 than episode 7, it serves the scene well; even though the first episodes are insular and without momentum, the way they contrast with the latter episodes speaks to how the characters' lives change after the Mirror Capital is opened; and even if Inari's big reveal at the end is awkward and mind-boggling, it's easy to see it for what it is: a "dropping of the scales," when kids first have to really see their parents as fallible.

That's why one of my favorite scenes in the show is when a young Koto, crying in the middle of the night, finds out her dad can also cry. Her strength, and the way her strength ultimately comes to be what Inari really needs, comes not just from how he nurtured and taught her; it comes from how they were able to share something in their imperfections.

Easily one of my favorite things ever, but flawed and difficult to recommend. The villain's unacceptable behavior is pretty unsettling, though I think his character is handled pretty well. The point of the series is dealing with traumatic realities, and he's one of them.

I also appreciate just how long it goes on after the final battle against the antagonists; almost half the manga takes place after that point. There's enough time for the characters to properly bounce back from that and to get to back to the real point: the parallel stories of adults and children dealing with stress.

The adults face hectic work and ... tough decisions, while the kids face the veil coming down from their eyes and the world showing its ugliness for the first time. Both of them seek comfort by returning home, but they've spent so much time fragmented that it's hard for them to work out a balanced family dynamic.

To vainly use some social psychology jargon: there are two kinds of support that can help alleviate the autonomic response that comes with stress: tangible and emotional support. The characters begin to surround themselves with people who can offer them both, while working out issues of interpersonal trust.

The fantasy allows for direct, creative metaphorical imagery which keeps it fresh while continuing to acknowledge the various problems faced by the characters; the probable best example of this occurs fairly late in the manga, and asks us to recall everything that Ran's been through up to that point while she struggles to cope with a brand new experience.

It's a pretty unabashedly sentimental thing that unquestioningly accepts its own ridiculous reality. But it doesn't cut corners to reach that sentiment, and for that it's very uplifting.