Hideaki Anno Shipped Evangelion Unfinished. Then He Rebuilt It. Twice.
In 1996, Hideaki Anno shipped an anime finale that was literally unfinished. Fans sent death threats. Graffiti appeared on his studio’s walls. The national press ran opinion pieces condemning it.
He didn’t apologize. He didn’t hide. He rebuilt the ending — and then rebuilt the entire series. Twice. Over 26 years.
The story of Neon Genesis Evangelion isn’t about giant robots or stakeholder management metaphors. It’s about what happens when a creator has to ship under impossible conditions and then lives with the consequences long enough to get it right.
The Crisis
To understand Evangelion’s ending, you have to understand what Anno was working with — and against.
GAINAX, his studio, was nearly bankrupt. They’d been teetering since the commercial failure of Royal Space Force: The Wings of Honnêamise and the grueling production of Nadia: The Secret of Blue Water. The studio was too small to produce a TV series. In 1993, King Records approached them with an offer: they’d guarantee a television time slot for “something, anything.” That desperation became Evangelion.
Anno himself was in the middle of a four-year depression. After Nadia, he described himself as “a broken man who could do nothing for four years; a man who ran away for four years, one who was simply not dead.” He poured that experience directly into the show. Episode by episode, the series got darker, more introspective, more psychologically raw — because Anno was writing his own mental state into the characters.
Then the production got hit by something nobody could have predicted. On March 20, 1995, the Aum Shinrikyo cult carried out a sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway, killing 14 people and injuring thousands. Anno’s planned storyline — which involved themes of apocalyptic destruction and secretive organizations — suddenly mirrored real-world terrorism. He was forced to rewrite significant portions of the latter half.
Budget problems compounded everything. GAINAX’s funding was inconsistent. Sponsors backed out as the show’s content grew darker. The animation quality swung wildly between episodes — some lavishly produced, others relying on recycled footage and extended still frames. The production was barely keeping ahead of the broadcast schedule.
The Ending That Broke Everything
By the time Anno reached episodes 25 and 26 — the finale — he was out of time, out of money, and still rewriting scripts. He couldn’t decide on the format until the last minute. Multiple rewrites. Multiple scrapped concepts.
What aired on March 27, 1996, was unlike anything television audiences had seen. Instead of resolving the story’s apocalyptic plot, Anno abandoned conventional narrative entirely. The final two episodes took place inside the characters’ minds — abstract, minimalist, collaging still images, pencil sketches, and philosophical dialogue about identity and human connection.
It was brilliant. It was also, by Anno’s own later admission, not what he’d originally planned. The intended ending — a dramatic, action-driven conclusion — simply couldn’t be produced with the time and budget remaining. What replaced it was Anno channeling his constraints into something experimental, turning limitation into artistic statement.
Japan lost its mind.
The Backlash
The fan reaction was immediate and violent. Anthropologist Eiji Otsuka published a letter in the Yomiuri Shimbun — one of Japan’s largest newspapers — condemning the finale. GAINAX’s offices were vandalized. Anno received death threats, one of which simply repeated “Anno, I’ll kill you” over and over.
Anno stood his ground.
“Most anime fans are furious. I understand their anger,” he said. “I can’t help laughing when hard-core anime fans say that we did a very lousy job, with intentional negligence. No, we didn’t. In fact, every member at GAINAX gave more energy than anybody can imagine. I feel sad that those fans couldn’t see our efforts. Personally I think the original TV ending we showed ended up beautifully.”
That’s a creator defending shipped work under fire. Not dismissing the feedback. Not pretending the constraints didn’t exist. Standing in the gap between what he’d intended and what he’d delivered, and saying: this is what we could build, and we built it with everything we had.
The Rebuild(s)
Anno didn’t stop there. He rebuilt.
In 1997, GAINAX released The End of Evangelion — a feature film presenting Anno’s original intended ending for the series. It was everything the TV finale couldn’t be: explosive, devastating, cinematically ambitious. It was also confrontational. Anno wove the fan backlash into the film itself — literally inserting death threats he’d received into one of the most disturbing sequences in anime history. He didn’t just respond to the criticism. He made art from it.
Then silence. Anno stepped away from Evangelion for nearly a decade.
In 2007, he returned with Evangelion: 1.0 You Are (Not) Alone — the first of four Rebuild films that retold the entire story from scratch. Same characters. Same world. Different choices. The Rebuilds weren’t a cash grab. They were Anno’s attempt to answer a question: what if he told this story now, with everything he’d learned in the intervening years?
Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time — the final Rebuild film — released in 2021. Twenty-six years after the original aired. Anno described it as his farewell to the franchise. The man who shipped an unfinished product in 1996 spent over two decades iterating until he got it right.
What PMs Should Take From This
Anno’s story isn’t a cautionary tale. It’s a masterclass in what happens after you ship.
Ship what you can, not what you planned. Anno’s original ending couldn’t be produced. Instead of delaying indefinitely or shipping something half-hearted, he pivoted to what WAS possible with the constraints he had — and committed to it fully. The TV ending is experimental, challenging, and genuinely original. It’s not what he intended, but it’s not nothing. The worst product outcome isn’t shipping something imperfect. It’s shipping nothing because you couldn’t ship perfection.
Stand behind shipped work — without pretending it’s flawless. Anno acknowledged the constraints. He understood the fan anger. He also refused to apologize for the effort. “Every member at GAINAX gave more energy than anybody can imagine.” You can hold both truths: this isn’t what we planned, AND this is what we built with full commitment. Users respect that honesty more than they respect spin.
Use the backlash. Anno didn’t just absorb the criticism — he turned it into fuel for the next version. End of Evangelion is literally built from the wreckage of the fan reaction. The death threats became part of the art. In product, your harshest user feedback isn’t a crisis. It’s research for v2. The users who care enough to be angry are the users who care enough to come back if you get it right.
Iterate across decades if that’s what it takes. The Rebuild films aren’t a quick fix. They’re a 14-year project where Anno re-examined every decision in the original and asked: what would I do differently now? Most PMs think in quarters. The best products think in arcs. Your v1 isn’t your legacy. Your willingness to keep rebuilding is.
Hideaki Anno was depressed, broke, under external pressure, forced to rewrite half his story, and still shipped one of the most influential anime of all time. Then he rebuilt it. Then he rebuilt it again.
The robot is the product. The pilot is you. The entry plug is the backlog full of compromises and constraints and impossible deadlines.
Get in.