I’ve wanted to go back for Persona 4 Golden’s platinum trophy since I first beat it, and, thanks to some recent trips, I had an excuse to break out my Vita and return to Inaba and the Velvet Room. As I close in on finishing this playthrough, what has stuck with me aren’t reaffirmations of what I loved during my first experience of P4G; rather, I find myself surprised by parts of the game I didn’t recognize before — both negative and positive.
The first time I played Persona 4 Golden was about 5 years ago (2017); yet replaying it feels like rewatching a 90s or 00s anime from my years in high school. I mean that as both a compliment and a critique.
There’s a nostalgic warmth to living with P4G’s characters over the course of the game’s adventure, mystery, and slice-of-life coziness. Replaying my favorite parts of the game evoked the same rush of joyful anticipation I get rewatching my favorite episodes of Trigun and Yu Yu Hakusho.
On the flip side, I also find myself frequently surprised at how misogynistic, homophobic, and body shaming the game gets — just like how I feel when rewatching episodes of basically every anime from my youth. I remember being uncomfortable with the game’s campout and beach “episodes” the first time I played but BOY HOWDY are those scenes rough.
I’m not treading new ground by calling out the Persona series for handling these topics poorly (look up “Persona 5 Angel and Julian”). At this point, it seems like critics and fans alike have chosen to begrudgingly accept these shortcomings as blemishes on an otherwise great series rather than detriments that ruin the games.
In contrast, I haven’t seen many people contending with how critical P4G’s mechanics are in carrying the narrative. For a game in a series and genre known for its storytelling and character dynamics, you’d think the story and characters would be, well, better.
Not that the narrative elements aren’t good! And from what I can recall of the gaming landscape when Persona 4 first released (2008), I think its praise is well earned. It’s just that, on this second playthrough, the clutter and cliches filling out the main plot, and many of the side stories, have been hard to ignore. Adding to my disappointment, characters I remembered as endearing are a lot less so this time around. (Not you Kanji and Nanako, you two are perfect.)
I think what makes folks so enamored with P4G’s story and characters is the way the mechanics communicate and reinforce the idea of each relationship. You don’t just have an earnest conversation with a friend where they open up to you — you level up your relationship with them. A number goes up, and, if you work hard at it, you can “Max” out your relationship. You literally couldn’t be a better friend! And, if you’re really thorough, you can make everyone in your life feel that way about you. It makes the grind feel less like a Skinner box and more like gratifying wish fulfillment.
At least primarily — you are rewarded for developing your relationships with items, skills, and stat bonuses. And there is animated fanfare celebrating every time a number goes up. But if that’s all the experience meant to players, I don’t think P4G’s story and characters would be so fondly talked about. Rather, those rewards serve to illustrate the close relationships you develop with the cast. Not by playing on strong emotional queues, like the dialog scenes, but more subtly through the intersection of game mechanic and narrative.
Every time you fuse a persona, you think about the relationship you have with the character associated with its arcana. Every time a party member helps someone back up during combat, they have that skill because you’ve helped them feel more connected to others. Yes, you’re given rewards for leveling up your relationships, but, more importantly, those rewards contextualize the meaning of those relationships and prove their trueness.
Persona 4 Golden is still one of my favorite games after this second playthrough, but my relationship with it as a text is much different now. I love (most of) P4G’s story and characters, but now my joy comes from its style, silliness, and schlock; and I look to its mechanics for substance.
What I love about Persona 4 Golden
• The characters and setting of Inaba feel real thanks to detailed narrative arcs that are believable thanks to their depth and how time passes in game.
• Kanji-kun and Nanako-chan are precious and must be protected always.
• Yukiko’s terrible sense of humor.
• The omelet cookoff scene.
• That opening title song is a bop and a half. Opening with a harmonica? Come on!
• The densely interconnected mechanics that make player choice feel impactful in ways I haven’t encountered in many other JRPGs.
Why you might want to skip Persona 4 Golden
• As stated above, there’s a lot of problematic shit in this game. There are unavoidable scenes containing sexual harassment, homo- and queerphobia, and body shaming.
• Semi-related to the previous bullet: This is a very horny game about high schoolers in unavoidable ways that will almost certainly make you cringe.
• Two of your party members are straight up sex pests. Yosuke needs counseling.
• The densely interconnected mechanics that encourage multiple playthroughs and limit how much you’ll see on any one playthrough — especially if you play without a guide.
The first time I played Persona 4 Golden was about 5 years ago (2017); yet replaying it feels like rewatching a 90s or 00s anime from my years in high school. I mean that as both a compliment and a critique.
There’s a nostalgic warmth to living with P4G’s characters over the course of the game’s adventure, mystery, and slice-of-life coziness. Replaying my favorite parts of the game evoked the same rush of joyful anticipation I get rewatching my favorite episodes of Trigun and Yu Yu Hakusho.
On the flip side, I also find myself frequently surprised at how misogynistic, homophobic, and body shaming the game gets — just like how I feel when rewatching episodes of basically every anime from my youth. I remember being uncomfortable with the game’s campout and beach “episodes” the first time I played but BOY HOWDY are those scenes rough.
I’m not treading new ground by calling out the Persona series for handling these topics poorly (look up “Persona 5 Angel and Julian”). At this point, it seems like critics and fans alike have chosen to begrudgingly accept these shortcomings as blemishes on an otherwise great series rather than detriments that ruin the games.
In contrast, I haven’t seen many people contending with how critical P4G’s mechanics are in carrying the narrative. For a game in a series and genre known for its storytelling and character dynamics, you’d think the story and characters would be, well, better.
Not that the narrative elements aren’t good! And from what I can recall of the gaming landscape when Persona 4 first released (2008), I think its praise is well earned. It’s just that, on this second playthrough, the clutter and cliches filling out the main plot, and many of the side stories, have been hard to ignore. Adding to my disappointment, characters I remembered as endearing are a lot less so this time around. (Not you Kanji and Nanako, you two are perfect.)
I think what makes folks so enamored with P4G’s story and characters is the way the mechanics communicate and reinforce the idea of each relationship. You don’t just have an earnest conversation with a friend where they open up to you — you level up your relationship with them. A number goes up, and, if you work hard at it, you can “Max” out your relationship. You literally couldn’t be a better friend! And, if you’re really thorough, you can make everyone in your life feel that way about you. It makes the grind feel less like a Skinner box and more like gratifying wish fulfillment.
At least primarily — you are rewarded for developing your relationships with items, skills, and stat bonuses. And there is animated fanfare celebrating every time a number goes up. But if that’s all the experience meant to players, I don’t think P4G’s story and characters would be so fondly talked about. Rather, those rewards serve to illustrate the close relationships you develop with the cast. Not by playing on strong emotional queues, like the dialog scenes, but more subtly through the intersection of game mechanic and narrative.
Every time you fuse a persona, you think about the relationship you have with the character associated with its arcana. Every time a party member helps someone back up during combat, they have that skill because you’ve helped them feel more connected to others. Yes, you’re given rewards for leveling up your relationships, but, more importantly, those rewards contextualize the meaning of those relationships and prove their trueness.
Persona 4 Golden is still one of my favorite games after this second playthrough, but my relationship with it as a text is much different now. I love (most of) P4G’s story and characters, but now my joy comes from its style, silliness, and schlock; and I look to its mechanics for substance.
What I love about Persona 4 Golden
• The characters and setting of Inaba feel real thanks to detailed narrative arcs that are believable thanks to their depth and how time passes in game.
• Kanji-kun and Nanako-chan are precious and must be protected always.
• Yukiko’s terrible sense of humor.
• The omelet cookoff scene.
• That opening title song is a bop and a half. Opening with a harmonica? Come on!
• The densely interconnected mechanics that make player choice feel impactful in ways I haven’t encountered in many other JRPGs.
Why you might want to skip Persona 4 Golden
• As stated above, there’s a lot of problematic shit in this game. There are unavoidable scenes containing sexual harassment, homo- and queerphobia, and body shaming.
• Semi-related to the previous bullet: This is a very horny game about high schoolers in unavoidable ways that will almost certainly make you cringe.
• Two of your party members are straight up sex pests. Yosuke needs counseling.
• The densely interconnected mechanics that encourage multiple playthroughs and limit how much you’ll see on any one playthrough — especially if you play without a guide.