How To Write A Sympathetic Character

Writting sympathetic characters is a difficult yet crucial technique in storytelling. If I don't care about the characters for the particular show Im watching– I won't care about the show at all if not ever. One way I see many shows trying to evoke sympathy from their characters is by enforcing tragic backstories layered with devastating experiences to induce either relatable or sympathetic emotional responses. This can be effective most times unless done to a drastic degree which is typically seen in the “anime that deconstructs a genre” phenomenon.

Over time, the term has been misconstrued into a catch-all label for any show that appears outwardly wholesome, warm, or lighthearted but secretly harbours dark, mature themes. While this is a common storytelling approach in anime—particularly in series aimed at teenagers and young adults—this is not what genre deconstruction actually means. Due to this misconception, countless anime have taken this method of critical analysis to exploit the motifs of trauma and win the nonexistent “edgiest show of all time” category. The method of how the show deconstructs established genres and expectations can be vastly different, and in many cases done incorrectly. A true deconstruction isn’t just about subverting expectations; it’s about breaking down a genre’s tropes and exposing the underlying truth of its narrative.

Take the magical girl genre, for example. Popularized by Sailor Moon in 1992, it became a massive cultural phenomenon, leading to numerous successors like Cardcaptor Sakura, Princess Tutu, and many others. These series generally follow a familiar structure—a young girl is granted magical powers, often by a mystical, animal-like companion, and embarks on a journey of self-discovery, friendship, and heroism. The stories are heartwarming and optimistic and usually remain within the bounds of child-friendly storytelling.

Then, in 2011, Puella Magi Madoka Magica changed everything. On the surface, Madoka appeared to follow the same tried-and-true formula, with its cutesy character designs and whimsical aesthetic. But then came episode three—the infamous gut punch that left audiences stunned, questioning everything they thought they knew about the series. The moment was no accident; Madoka was written by Gen Urobuchi, best known for crafting dark, psychological narratives like Psycho-Pass. What followed was a harrowing descent into despair—a story that examined what it really means to be a magical girl in a world governed by cold, indifferent logic. Every moment of suffering was calculated, every tragedy and the traumatic experience felt inevitable, and yet, crucially, it was deeply human at its core–, with characters I could sympathize with despite the fantastical events.

Naturally, once Madoka proved to be both a financial and critical triumph, the industry scrambled to replicate its success. Some attempts were competent, bringing fresh perspectives to the genre. Others, however, merely sought to capitalize on the shock factor by claiming itself as a 'deconstruction,' cranking up the suffering to obscene levels without a solid narrative foundation or nuance in its techniques to display trauma is a respectful manner. Among these was Magical Girl Site, released in 2018, which I had the unfortunate pleasure of watching this year after the MAL recommendations told me too.

Unlike Madoka, which slowly eased its audience into its tragic cycle of hope and despair, Magical Girl Site doesn’t bother with subtlety. It immediately plunges the viewer into the life of its protagonist, Asagiri, a high school girl with the worst luck imaginable. From the very first episode, she is subjected to a relentless barrage of torment, only to be granted magical powers that serve as a means of violent escape. But where Madoka carefully balanced its darkness with moments of levity and emotional depth, Magical Girl Site wallows in misery for the sake of it. It never gives the audience time to breathe, reflect, or care. Instead, it shoves trauma down their throats like the narrative equivalent of a rusty crowbar.

Despite being so dark that it can’t see its hand in front of its own knife, Magical Girl Site fails at one of the most fundamental aspects of storytelling: crafting a believable and sympathetic protagonist. The show desperately wants us to feel for Asagiri as she endures relentless torment. But instead of making us want to protect her, it merely presents her as a sobbing spectacle for the audience to gawk at while shovelling popcorn into their mouths.

And look, I love a good melodrama. But there’s a difference between compelling tragedy, and empty, manipulative suffering. So what is it about Asagiri that makes her so difficult to connect with, even though she seems to check all the right boxes? She’s cute, small, quiet, and kind. She wouldn’t hurt a fly, even if it had a heart-shaped gun pointed at her head. In short, it's because her suffering is overdone in ways that are both glaringly obvious and frustratingly insidious. Let’s start with the most egregious problem and work our way down.

The time-to-sexual-assault index in Magical Girl Site is 13 minutes and 21 seconds. And that’s just one of the myriad of life-destroying horrors that Asagiri endures in the first episode alone. The full list includes domestic abuse, relentless bullying, getting her head shoved in a toilet, attempted mutilation, successful mutilation, manslaughter, attempted suicide, a dead cat bleeding from the eyes, and the world’s edgiest pair of shoes. By all means, she should be the most pitiful character ever written. If she were a real person, you’d have to be a sociopath not to feel for her. But that’s precisely the problem—she’s not a real person, she’s the product of an author’s deliberate choice to inflict as much suffering as possible for dramatic effect. Her misfortunes don’t stem from an unjust world that mirrors our own; they exist because a writer sat down and decided, yeah, let’s throw in more trauma.

Contrast this with Madoka Magica, which subverts all expectations of what this genre claims to be while remaining a human story. Madoka is brutal, yes, but its suffering resonates in ways that Magical Girl Site never achieves. Why? Because while Madoka’s events may be fantastical, their emotions are painfully real. Let’s break down how they got it right.

Madoka is a seemingly normal, happy middle school girl who hangs out with her friends and comes home to her loving family. When the fantastical elements of the series are introduced, Madoka is skeptical and hesitant, constantly warned by others to never become a magical girl or else she will suffer the dreadful consequences of sacrificing her life for a single wish. Madoka transforms into a magical girl at the end of the series, but spends most of it watching her friends fall deeper into the illusion of power, exisiting in a constant state of agony with the desire to protect them. Her so-called mentor, the mature and experienced Mami, later reveals that she never wanted to be a magical girl at all—her confidence is a mere facade, a coping mechanism for the grim reality of her work. Madoka’s best friend, Sayaka, lives in utter despair as she sacrifices too much for unrequited love, leading to her downfall. Homura, who initially seems like the show's villain, is actuallly the only one who can resist despair and death, rewinding time endlessly to save her loved one—only to lose herself in the process. Homura can’t give up and admit failure like the rest of them, if she does then all her efforts are meaningless, and she will inevitably die like the others.

These tragedies don’t feel like an author gleefully throwing misery darts at a storyboard. They feel like the natural consequences of profoundly human decisions. Sayaka’s story stings because we understand her—she’s someone who gives too much and receives nothing in return. We are not Sayaka, but we could be. Magical Girl Site's Asagiri, on the other hand, doesn’t suffer because of her choices—she suffers because the author decrees it. And that makes her pain feel cheap and exploitative rather than compelling.

Then there's the portrayal of hope vs despair–one of the series central themes. Madoka Magica is famous for its darkness, but darkness means nothing without contrast. The small, joyful moments, Madoka’s family warmth, the quiet reflections with friends, and the silly classroom antics—make us want to root for the world Madoka has created for herself. She presents us with something worth fighting for, and when tragedy strikes, it hurts. Magical Girl Site offers no such hope. Its world is a bleak, nihilistic void where suffering is constant and meaningless.

If the characters die, so what? If they survive, for what? The show never explains why the violence and tragedy of these young girls happen in the first place. If you've gone through something like what Asagiri has in Mahou Shojo, you might relate to a certain extent—you might also need to call the authorities. But if you haven't (thank god) you're probably just sitting there wondering "Welp, glad that's not me!"

At the end of Madoka, the titular character literally becomes the embodiment of hope. We care about Madoka because the world of Madoka is worth saving. In Magical Girl Site, the closest thing to hope is the knowledge that the suffering will eventually stop—if only through death. And that’s why Magical Girl Site fails. Not because it’s dark. Not because it’s trying to subvert the genre. Not because it caters to an edgy teenage audience who think they can handle the series's grotesque and pandering violence. It fails because it never gives us a reason to care.