

Andy Plump spent eleven years turning Takeda into big pharma's most prolific biotech matchmaker, racking up 200+ partnerships and a rebuilt pipeline. Now he's retiring, and the industry he helped reshape is watching to see if the model survives without its architect.
When Andy Plump joined Takeda in 2015, the company was a sprawling, Japan-centered pharmaceutical giant with a bloated R&D operation and no clear identity. Eleven years later, he's built something that half of big pharma is now trying to copy. And he's walking away.
Takeda announced on September 10 that Plump, its President of Research & Development and a board member, will retire in June 2027. He'll stick around until a successor is named, help with the transition, and then ride off into the sunset. CEO Julie Kim credited him with creating a "lasting foundation to serve patients for years to come."
That's polite corporate-speak for: this guy rewired how we do business.
Plump's big insight wasn't some revolutionary drug target or a magic molecule. It was an organizational philosophy: stop trying to do everything yourself.
When he arrived, Takeda was researching more than ten different types of drug technologies across a wide range of diseases. Think of it like a restaurant with a 40-page menu. Sure, you can order sushi, tacos, and beef bourguignon, but none of it's going to be great.
Plump ripped out the pages. He narrowed Takeda's therapeutic focus to a handful of core areas: oncology, gastrointestinal diseases, neuroscience, and rare diseases. He cut the company's drug-making approaches from over ten modalities down to four. And then he did something that, at the time, felt radical for a company Takeda's size.
He went shopping at the biotech farmers' market.
Instead of building everything in-house, Plump turned Takeda into one of the most prolific biotech dating apps in the industry. The company has racked up more than 200 partnerships with smaller biotech companies under his watch, and these weren't just "write a check, hope for the best" licensing deals.
Takeda got creative. With Maverick Therapeutics, the company helped fund the startup, took an equity stake, and secured an option to buy it later at a pre-set price (they eventually did, for up to $525 million). With , Takeda actually helped the company, then licensed eight R&D programs into it. They partnered with on AI-driven drug discovery, cut deals with in oncology, and built cell therapy collaborations with everyone from Memorial Sloan Kettering to Japan's Center for iPS Cell Research.

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The common thread: Plump didn't just want to buy late-stage drugs at a premium. He wanted to shape the startup ecosystem early, sometimes before these companies even had a lead product. It's the difference between buying a house and buying the land, then helping design the blueprints.
Of course, a fancy strategy means nothing if the drugs don't work. And for a while, skeptics had a point; Plump's transformation took years to bear fruit, and some bets (including certain cell therapy efforts) got cut along the way.
But 2025 turned into a vindication lap. Takeda posted positive Phase 3 results for oveporexton, which made a particularly loud splash: in a head-to-head psoriasis trial for zasocitinib, more than 35% of patients hit a complete skin clearance score at week 16, outperforming the comparator drug deucravacitinib.
Takeda now says it has three "transformative medicines" poised for launch in the coming months, along with a robust late-stage pipeline that includes 6 to 8 clinical programs. For a company that needed a full R&D overhaul just a decade ago, that's a remarkable turnaround.
Plump's playbook landed at exactly the right moment. The entire pharmaceutical industry was grappling with the same uncomfortable truth: internal R&D productivity was declining, and the best science was increasingly coming from scrappy biotech startups running on venture capital and caffeine.
The industry response has been a massive shift toward what analysts call "external innovation." Eli Lilly built its ExploR&D/Catalyze360 platform with more than 90 collaborations. Deal structures evolved from simple royalty arrangements into 50/50 co-development partnerships with shared risk and reward. Big pharma, in other words, stopped trying to be the sole inventor and started building repeatable engines for finding and nurturing outside talent.
Plump didn't invent this trend single-handedly. But Takeda became one of its clearest success stories, and the model he built (narrow your focus, diversify your partners, engage early) is now essentially the playbook every large pharma R&D chief has pinned to their wall.
Takeda hasn't named a replacement yet, and that's worth watching. Plump's strategy isn't just a set of deals on a spreadsheet; it's a culture. He transformed a company that was used to doing things internally and convinced it to trust external partners with its future. Maintaining that cultural shift requires a successor who genuinely believes in the model, not someone who pays it lip service while quietly rebuilding the fortress.
Plump himself came from stints at Merck (where he led worldwide cardiovascular research) and Sanofi (as Senior Vice President of Research & Translational Medicine). He joined Takeda as Chief Medical and Scientific Officer before becoming R&D President in 2018. That progression from scientific leader to strategic architect is exactly the kind of experience Takeda will need to find in its next hire.
Retirements in pharma usually generate a polite press release and a quick LinkedIn scroll. This one matters more than most. Plump's legacy isn't just the drugs in Takeda's pipeline or the partnerships on its books. It's the proof of concept that a pharmaceutical company founded in 1781 can completely reinvent how it discovers medicines.
The question now is whether Takeda can keep it going without the architect in the room. History suggests that transformations driven by a single visionary leader are fragile things. The next R&D president won't just inherit a pipeline. They'll inherit a philosophy, and the pressure to prove it wasn't a one-man show.
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