Why Reigen Arataka Is One of Anime's Best Written Adults
Rushabh Bhosale
Reigen Arataka from Mob Psycho 100 stands out as one of anime's best written adult characters because he subverts typical mentor tropes by being fundamentally flawed yet emotionally intelligent, admitting he's "faking it till he makes it" while teaching genuinely valuable life lessons. Unlike shounen mentors who encourage children to fight dangerous battles, Reigen explicitly tells Mob that running away is okay and that adults should handle adult problems. His character development occurs alongside Mob's rather than being static, he faces real consequences for his selfishness during the Separation Arc, and he represents honest adulthood—messy, imperfect, sometimes manipulative, but ultimately trying to do right by the kid who depends on him.
Most anime adults exist to move protagonist plots forward.
They're wise mentors with tragic backstories. Powerful guardians who conveniently die to motivate heroes. Authority figures whose incompetence creates problems only teenage protagonists can solve.
In that sense, Reigen feels closer to characters in Bakuman, where adulthood isn’t about mastery or success, but about continuing to show up for work you care about even when passion turns into obligation.
Reigen Arataka from Mob Psycho 100 is different.
He's a 28-year-old con artist with no psychic powers, running a fake exorcism business while paying his only employee—a middle schooler with actual abilities—300 yen per hour. He lies constantly. He manipulates situations for personal gain. He has no friends his own age.
And he's still one of the most responsible, emotionally mature adults in anime.
The Adult Who Admits He's Faking It
What makes Reigen remarkable isn't that he's secretly competent despite appearing incompetent. He genuinely doesn't know what he's doing most of the time.
His "spiritual techniques" are massage moves with dramatic names. His exorcisms are table salt and confident hand gestures. When real supernatural threats appear, he calls Mob to handle them while taking credit.
This sounds like typical comedic fraud. But Reigen's awareness of his own limitations creates something rare: an adult character who models honest uncertainty.
When he gives Mob advice about life, relationships, and using psychic powers responsibly, he's not drawing from mystical wisdom or special training. He's offering the same fumbling guidance any slightly-older person provides when trying to help someone younger navigate problems they barely understand themselves.
The series never pretends this makes him unqualified to mentor Mob. It suggests this might make him more qualified.
Why Imperfect Adults Make Better Mentors
Traditional shounen mentors are either enlightened masters or tragic figures whose failures warn protagonists what to avoid.
Reigen is neither. He's just a regular person who happened to meet a kid who needed guidance and decided—however selfishly motivated initially—to provide it.
This creates mentorship that feels achievable rather than aspirational. Mob doesn't need to become a perfect person to help others. He just needs to try, admit when he's wrong, and keep moving forward.
Reigen models this constantly. He messes up, faces consequences, apologizes when appropriate, and continues being himself—flawed but functional.
For viewers tired of either impossibly wise mentors or completely useless adults, Reigen offers middle ground: adults who are doing their best within human limitations.
The Mentor Who Refuses to Let Kids Fight His Battles
Here's what separates Reigen from 90% of shounen mentor characters: he explicitly tells children they don't have to fight.
During the Claw invasion arc, when Mob prepares to unleash his full power against dangerous adult espers, Reigen stops him. "It's okay to run away," he says. These adult problems aren't Mob's responsibility.
This seems obvious. Of course adults shouldn't send children into battles against terrorist organizations.
Yet most shounen anime do exactly that. Naruto fights Akatsuki. Deku battles the League of Villains. Gon hunts the Phantom Troupe. The pattern repeats: children face adult threats because the narrative needs them to, and adults either can't help or actively encourage this dynamic.
Reigen breaks it. Consistently. Even when outmatched, even when Mob could easily solve problems, Reigen insists this isn't what children should be doing.
When "Adults Should Handle This" Actually Matters
The Claw arc's climax demonstrates this philosophy in action.
Mob transfers his psychic powers to Reigen, who temporarily becomes genuinely powerful. With borrowed abilities, Reigen confronts the adult espers who've been terrorizing the city.
His victory speech isn't about justice or protecting the world. It's about how pathetic adults are for fighting middle schoolers. How embarrassing it is to need supernatural powers to feel superior. How grown people should be ashamed of themselves for this behavior.
This fourth-wall-breaking moment speaks directly to shounen genre conventions. Reigen isn't just criticizing Claw members—he's criticizing every anime where adults fail to protect children from dangers that shouldn't be their responsibility.
The series itself acknowledges through Reigen that its genre's core premise is fundamentally wrong. Children shouldn't be soldiers. Adults who allow this are failing.
The Separation Arc: When Consequences Actually Land
Most mentor characters don't experience genuine character development. They exist in static enlightenment, providing wisdom without needing to grow themselves.
Reigen's arc in Season 2 destroys this trope completely.
After making dismissive comments about Mob's friends and social life, Mob decides to take a break from Spirits and Such. For the first time, Reigen faces life without the kid whose powers built his reputation.
It goes badly.
His business struggles without Mob handling actual supernatural cases. He gets invited onto a television show as a psychic expert but gets exposed as a fraud during the live broadcast. His reputation crumbles publicly.
The series doesn't frame this sympathetically. Reigen brought this on himself through years of lies and exploitation. The consequences feel earned.
The Breakdown That Reveals What Matters
During his lowest point, Reigen reflects on meeting Mob. He admits—to himself, honestly—that encountering this lonely kid who believed in him gave his directionless life meaning.
Not because Mob was useful. Because having someone depend on him made Reigen feel like he needed to be better.
This realization doesn't fix everything. Reigen and Mob's reunion isn't dramatic reconciliation—it's Mob simply saying "You're a good person" because he's learned to see past flaws to what someone's trying to do.
The arc works because it treats Reigen as a full character, not just Mob's narrative accessory. He has his own fears, loneliness, and need for connection. Mentoring Mob helps Reigen as much as it helps Mob.
That mutual dependency creates relationships that feel real rather than purely functional.
What "Good Adult" Actually Looks Like
Reigen drinks occasionally. He has no romantic relationships. His apartment is messy. He runs a fraudulent business. He manipulates people regularly.
He's also emotionally available, genuinely kind when it matters, willing to admit mistakes, and consistently prioritizes the wellbeing of children over his own convenience.
This complexity is what makes him well-written. The series refuses to resolve the contradiction between his moral center and his questionable methods.
Reigen isn't a good person who sometimes does bad things or a bad person who occasionally does good. He's a person who exists in the messy middle where most humans actually live.
The Advice That Actually Helps
Throughout the series, Reigen's guidance to Mob focuses on practical emotional intelligence rather than power maximization.
"Your psychic powers don't make you special. They're just something you're good at, like running fast or drawing well."
"People with power should help people without it, not lord their abilities over others."
"It's okay to run away when things get too difficult."
"You're the protagonist of your own life. Nobody else gets to decide how your story goes."
These aren't mystical wisdom. They're basic human decency expressed by someone who genuinely cares about a kid's mental health more than his combat effectiveness.
For Mob—surrounded by people who only value him for his powers or fear him because of them—having one adult treat him as primarily human makes all the difference.
Why He Works Better Than Traditional Mentors
Compare Reigen to typical shounen mentors.
Jiraiya teaches Naruto powerful techniques but dies to motivate him. Gojo trains Yuji while being so overpowered that narrative has to remove him constantly. All Might passes his power to Deku while hiding his declining health.
Modern anime often prioritizes spectacle and rapid power escalation over long-term character grounding. Stories built entirely around dominance and constant progression can feel exciting at first but lose emotional weight over time. This is why some popular power-fantasy series start to feel hollow once the initial novelty fades, especially when character growth takes a backseat to escalation.
These mentors are defined by what they can do for protagonists. Their value comes from their strength, knowledge, or sacrifice.
Reigen has nothing to offer except himself. He can't make Mob stronger. He doesn't have secret techniques or hidden knowledge. His only asset is emotional availability and willingness to show up consistently.
That's what makes him radical. He proves mentorship doesn't require superiority—it requires care.
The Con Man With Conviction
Reigen's moral philosophy sounds like platitudes until you watch him live by it despite personal cost.
When psychic teenagers try to assert superiority over regular humans, Reigen calls them out even though they could destroy him. When clients need help he can't actually provide, he still tries to address their real problems through massage, conversation, or practical advice.
He believes strongly that all people deserve respect regardless of abilities. That adults have responsibility to children. That running from fights you can't win is wisdom, not cowardice.
These convictions shape every decision, even when lying and manipulating to achieve them creates cognitive dissonance viewers must accept rather than resolve.
The Fandom Response Says Everything
Reigen consistently ranks as Mob Psycho 100's most popular character, often exceeding the protagonist.
Fans create endless memes, art, and analysis dissecting what makes him compelling. The RedrawReigen hashtag trends after every season. Tumblr voted him into absurd categories like "Best Anime Dad" and "Hottest Anime Woman" as jokes that reveal genuine affection.
This popularity stems from recognition. Adults watching Mob Psycho 100 see themselves in Reigen more than in teenage protagonists with world-saving destinies.
They recognize the experience of feeling like you're faking adulthood while trying to guide people who trust you. Of having strong convictions about right and wrong while being messy and flawed personally. Of wanting to protect young people from the worst of the world while knowing you're barely holding it together yourself.
Reigen represents honest adulthood in medium that usually either idealizes or vilifies adults.
Why Younger Viewers Connect Too
Interestingly, Reigen resonates with younger audiences for different reasons.
For teenagers and young adults, he represents the kind of adult they wish existed in their lives. Someone who admits not having all the answers. Who says running away from overwhelming situations is okay. Who treats young people as humans whose feelings and wellbeing matter more than their usefulness.
In shounen anime where adults constantly fail children—through absence, incompetence, or actively sending them into danger—Reigen's repeated insistence that kids shouldn't have to solve adult problems feels revolutionary.
He's not a perfect parent figure. But he's someone genuinely trying, and that matters.
What Other Anime Miss About Adults
Most anime treat adulthood as either complete competence or total failure. Characters are wise mentors or useless authority figures with no middle ground.
Reigen exists in that middle ground. He's competent in some areas—reading people, defusing situations verbally, understanding emotional dynamics. He's incompetent in others—running a legitimate business, maintaining adult friendships, planning for the future.
This mixture creates recognizable humanity. Real adults aren't uniformly capable or uniformly useless. They're inconsistent, context-dependent, trying their best in some areas while struggling in others.
This is especially noticeable in quieter, lesser-known series where adult characters are allowed to exist without spectacle or power fantasies. Many underrated anime focus on emotional realism rather than dramatic escalation, which is why they often feel more honest despite being overlooked. If you’re interested in stories that prioritize subtle character writing over hype, some genuinely underrated anime handle these themes far better than mainstream titles.
The series validates this reality. Reigen's flaws don't disqualify him from being a positive influence. His competencies don't erase his need for growth. He just exists as a person who happens to be older than Mob and trying to help.
That's what anime usually misses: adults as people, not just narrative functions.
The Legacy of Doing Your Best
Mob Psycho 100 ended with Reigen continuing to run Spirits and Such, still faking his psychic abilities, still helping clients through massage and advice rather than actual exorcism.
Nothing fundamental changed. He didn't gain real powers or achieve conventional success or transform into a different person.
He just stayed Reigen—flawed, kind, trying, imperfect—and that was enough.
For a medium obsessed with transformation and power-ups and protagonists becoming the strongest, having a beloved character whose arc is "being yourself is fine" feels almost subversive.
Especially when that character is an adult showing younger people that you don't need to have everything figured out to positively impact others' lives.
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Frequently Asked Questions
Is Reigen Arataka actually a good mentor?
Yes. Despite being dishonest about his abilities, Reigen consistently prioritizes Mob’s emotional wellbeing over power, fame, or victory. His advice focuses on mental health, personal boundaries, and knowing when to walk away rather than fighting every battle.
Does Reigen really care about Mob or just use him?
Reigen initially exploits Mob’s powers, but the series makes it clear that his attachment becomes genuine. His behavior during the Separation Arc shows that Mob’s trust matters more to him than success or reputation.
Why do fans like Reigen more than traditional shounen mentors?
Because he feels real. Reigen doesn’t have special powers, secret knowledge, or a tragic destiny. He represents imperfect adulthood and emotional honesty in a genre that often reduces adults to plot devices.
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Bakugo's Rivalry with Deku Is About Identity, Not Competition
Bakugo and Deku's rivalry in My Hero Academia isn't about who's stronger—it's about who they are when strength stops defining them. Bakugo's entire identity was built on being superior to everyone, especially Quirkless Deku. When Deku gains One For All and starts surpassing him, Bakugo doesn't just face defeat in competition—he faces the collapse of his entire sense of self. The rivalry explores what happens when your worth is tied to being the best, when the person you looked down on becomes your equal, and when you're forced to rebuild who you are from scratch. Unlike typical shonen rivalries driven by power scaling, Bakugo and Deku's relationship asks: if you're not the strongest, who are you? Bakugo didn’t lose to Deku. He lost the story he told himself about who he was. Streaming on Crunchyroll and Funimation. The Rivalry That Doesn't Follow the Rules Most shonen rivalries follow a template: two powerful characters push each other to greater heights through competition. Goku and Vegeta. Naruto and Sasuke. The formula works because both rivals start roughly equal. Bakugo and Deku break this completely. Their rivalry begins when one has everything and the other has nothing—built on the assumption that gap will never close. The Childhood That Set Everything Bakugo gained an inflated ego from being praised excessively for his powerful Explosion Quirk, leading him to bully Quirkless Izuku Midoriya. But the bullying wasn't just cruelty. It was self-defense. When they were children, Deku tried to help Bakugo after he fell into a river. Bakugo was offended that a weakling like Deku tried to save him and assumed he was looking down on him. This moment reveals everything. Bakugo's entire identity rested on being superior. A Quirkless kid offering help shattered that hierarchy—so Bakugo rebuilt the wall with violence and contempt. The nickname "Deku" (meaning useless) wasn't just an insult. It was Bakugo's attempt to permanently define someone who threatened his sense of self. When Your Identity Is Built on Being Better Katsuki started out believing his worth was tied to how strong he was. In My Hero Academia's society, Quirks determine value. Heroes are celebrities. Power equals worth. Bakugo absorbed this completely—his Explosion Quirk made him special, and being special became his entire personality. The Problem With Conditional Self-Worth When your identity depends on external validation—being the strongest, smartest, most talented—you're building on sand. Any threat to that superiority threatens your entire existence. Deku represented the ultimate threat: proof that Bakugo's superiority wasn't inherent. If a Quirkless nobody could become his equal, then Bakugo was never special—he just got lucky with genetics. This connects to how comparing yourself to others destroys you in The Pet Girl of Sakurasou—when your worth depends on being better than someone else, you're always one comparison away from collapse. The Identity Crisis Disguised as Competition In Episode 8, Deku defeated Bakugo in a practice exercise. But Bakugo lost not because of his power but because of his arrogance and inability to work as a team. This wasn't just a loss in training. It was existential annihilation. Bakugo's entire worldview rested on a hierarchy where he stood at the top and Deku at the bottom. When Deku wins—not through luck but through qualities Bakugo dismissed as weakness (teamwork, strategy, empathy)—the entire structure collapses. What Bakugo Actually Lost He didn't lose a fight. He lost the story he'd been telling himself about who he was. After he loses to Deku, feels he can't measure up to Todoroki, gets kidnapped, and fails his Licensing Exam, he suffers a massive identity crisis that knocks down his fragile confidence. Each defeat chips away at the foundation. If strength doesn't guarantee victory, what does it guarantee? If being talented doesn't make you special, what does? Similar to how Haikyuu explores effort without a promise of greatness, Bakugo discovers that natural talent without growth is a dead end. Why Bakugo Can't Just "Get Stronger" In a typical shonen rivalry, the solution to falling behind is training harder. Get a new technique. Unlock a transformation. Close the gap through effort. Bakugo does train harder. He does get stronger. It doesn't fix anything. The Problem Isn't Power—It's Perspective If he isn't the strongest and he isn't meant to achieve immediate greatness, then what is his role? It's something that Quirkless Midoriya had to evaluate for many years as a child. What is his purpose in a world that seems destined to leave him behind? Bakugo is forced to ask the same question Deku asked his entire childhood: who am I if I'm not what I thought I was? For Deku, that question led to discovering identity beyond Quirks—heroism as action, not status. For Bakugo, it requires dismantling everything he built his personality on. What Deku Has That Bakugo Doesn't The series explicitly contrasts their approaches to All Might, their shared idol. While Deku admired All Might's ability to save lives with a smile, Bakugo admired his strength and ability to defeat anyone. This difference is everything. Two Different Definitions of Heroism Deku sees heroism as connection—reaching people, protecting them, making them feel safe. Bakugo sees heroism as dominance—being strong enough that threats don't matter, proving yourself through victory. Neither is wrong, but only one is complete. Endeavor has a powerful quirk and is skilled at rescuing civilians, but the reason why he's unable to surpass All Might is because he fundamentally does not care about the people he's saving. Bakugo mirrors Endeavor—technically excellent, strategically brilliant, but missing the emotional core that makes All Might irreplaceable. The rivalry with Deku forces Bakugo to develop what he lacks: empathy, collaboration, the ability to see strength in vulnerability. The Fight That Changes Everything Their second major fight—where Bakugo finally admits his feelings—is when the rivalry transforms completely. Bakugo breaks down. He admits he feels responsible for All Might's retirement. He admits he doesn't understand how Deku got his Quirk. He admits he feels left behind. Vulnerability as Strength For someone whose entire identity was built on never showing weakness, this moment is death and rebirth. Bakugo's ceaseless drive forces Midoriya to become more assertive, and he eventually welcomes the rivalry. Meanwhile, Midoriya's attitude forces Bakugo into a previously unforeseen habit of contemplation. They're not just making each other stronger. They're making each other more complete. Deku learns confidence and assertiveness from Bakugo's refusal to back down. Bakugo learns empathy and teamwork from Deku's instinctive heroism. This parallels how Kids on the Slope shows that relationships force us to grow in unexpected ways—growth doesn't require perfection, just willingness to change. The Ending: Choosing to Redefine Yourself By the series' conclusion, Bakugo's transformation is complete—not because he's the strongest, but because he's rebuilt his identity on different foundations. Bakugo has been a proponent in crafting technology that allows Midoriya to potentially take a physically active role in superheroism again, meaning that the boy who once insulted a character without "powers" has now evolved into a man who wishes to find a way to bring those abilities back. From Contempt to Support The Bakugo who bullied Quirkless Deku now dedicates himself to helping Quirkless Deku become a hero again. Not because he pities him. Because he respects him. His identity is no longer built on being superior to Deku. It's built on being Deku's equal—someone who pushes him forward not through competition but through collaboration. The rivalry doesn't end. It evolves into partnership. Similar to how Bakuman shows the hidden costs of creative ambition, Bakugo discovers that identity built on relationships is stronger than identity built on dominance. What the Rivalry Actually Teaches Bakugo and Deku's relationship isn't about friendship conquering all or rivals becoming brothers. It's about what happens when the person you built your entire identity around surpasses you—and you're forced to decide who you are without that hierarchy. The Uncomfortable Truth About Conditional Identity Most people build identity on external markers: job titles, achievements, being better than peers. When those markers shift—when you get fired, when someone younger surpasses you, when your talent stops being enough—you face the same crisis Bakugo does. Who are you when the thing that made you special becomes common? When your worth can't be measured by comparison? The series doesn't offer easy answers. Bakugo's growth takes the entire series. He relapses into old patterns. He struggles with anger management. But he rebuilds anyway—slowly, imperfectly, honestly. This connects to why Eren started the Rumbling beyond just protecting Paradis—real growth is messy, incomplete, and driven by complex motivations beyond simple heroism. The Rivalry That Saved Both of Them Both young heroes look at the world's number 1 hero for inspiration. While their end goals were the same, the two determined they needed different things to get to their goals. However, as the story progresses both begin to realize that they each lack what the other has. Deku needed Bakugo's confidence, his refusal to accept limits, his aggressive drive to win. Bakugo needed Deku's empathy, his collaborative spirit, his instinct to save rather than defeat. Neither could become a complete hero alone. The rivalry forced them both to develop what they lacked—not through competition, but through recognition. By the end, they're not trying to surpass each other. They're trying to become worthy of standing beside each other. That's not a rivalry about competition. That's a rivalry about identity—and it's exactly why it works.