This essay is not a neutral review of the series—it’s a psychological lens trained on toxic dynamics that too often go understated. “You” doesn’t simply present a perpetrator; it lays bare our willingness to want to understand him.
Joe Goldberg: The Perfect Facade
At first glance, Joe Goldberg seems like the quintessential modern gentleman—well-read, polite, considerate. He’s the kind of man who holds doors open and not only owns books, but genuinely appreciates them. Yet that initial impression is deceptive. Within minutes of the first episode of “You,” the romantic façade begins to crack: Joe isn’t an idealistic lover but a dangerously controlling stalker. The show systematically dismantles the familiar tropes of romantic storytelling and poses an unsettling question: Why do we find ourselves sympathizing with a perpetrator?
The answer lies in how Joe is aesthetically constructed. He’s not just attractive; he’s meticulously staged as a quiet hero with a sensitive soul. At first, his advances feel poetic, his devotion like genuine closeness. But this illusion of tenderness soon gives way to the reality of possessive control. The story reveals how fascination and threat can intersect—and how readily we accept this ambiguity as long as the perpetrator is charismatic enough.
Romancing the Dark: Why We Want to Empathize
Viewers rooting for Joe is no accident; it’s a psychological mechanism at work. “You” intentionally exploits our empathy bias, nudging us to be more understanding of a familiar perspective—even when it’s morally questionable. The show consistently draws us into Joe’s point of view: we hear his thoughts, feel his anxieties, and absorb his poetic rationalizations. It creates a deceptive sense of closeness: we think we know him, and we start to hope he might change.
This hope runs deep in our culture. Popular narratives have long conditioned us to the trope of the “tortured man”—the antihero supposedly redeemed by love. From outlaws in old Westerns to bad boys in teen romances, or serial killers with an introspective side like “Dexter,” we know the pattern. “You” reveals that this redemption arc is an illusion: Joe never truly reforms, no matter how convincingly he casts himself as the victim. He remains the perpetrator, even if he tries to rebrand himself as misunderstood.
The Strategy of the Unseen
Joe’s danger lies not only in his willingness to use violence, but in his psychological cunning, which sets in long before he resorts to physical force. He doesn’t rely on weapons; he relies on intimacy. His playbook reads like something out of a manual on emotional abuse:
Love Bombing: At the start, Joe overwhelms his target with attention and affection. It feels like love at first sight but is actually a calculated strategy of emotional takeover. He idealizes each partner, turning her into a projection of his obsessions—every season, the pattern repeats.
Gaslighting: Once cracks appear in his veneer, he scrambles reality. Joe sows doubt with a charming smile, dismisses concerns, and coaxes his victims into mistrusting their own perceptions—urging them to turn to him instead.
Isolation: Under the guise of care, Joe gradually cuts his partners off from their social circles. Friendships are portrayed as harmful, outside connections are subtly sabotaged. What seems like protective devotion is really controlling possessiveness.
DARVO strategy: When his behavior is exposed, Joe flips the script—he casts himself as the misunderstood victim and appeals for sympathy, all while subtly blaming his partner. This perpetrator-victim reversal allows him to dodge responsibility and regain control.
Psychological Depth: The Perpetrator as Mirror
Joe isn’t a hotheaded thug. He’s a calculating narcissist obsessed with total control—over people, narratives, even truths. To him, his victims are mere characters in the story unfolding in his mind. He studies their desires, their language, and their vulnerabilities not out of genuine empathy, but so he can use them for his own ends. His apparent sensitivity is a tool, not a feeling.
By giving us Joe’s perspective so consistently, the show makes him seem accessible; we find his actions understandable, his internal conflicts profound. But this is a mirage—and that’s the genius of “You.” It exposes our willingness to buy into the illusion. We want Joe to be redeemed, yet his actions tell a different story.
The Dangerous Allure of the Charming Perpetrator
“You” is more than a simple thriller. It’s a psychological experiment that shows how easily we shift our moral boundaries when a perpetrator appears sympathetic. Joe Goldberg exemplifies the modern “charming perp”—someone who doesn’t strike with fists but with smiles, words, and emotional maneuvering. The series peels back the layers of his manipulation to confront us with an uncomfortable truth: projecting a soft heart onto a dangerous person—merely because he’s a compelling storyteller—is risky. Behind the veneer of tenderness and intellect often lurks nothing more than structural violence.
Digital Closeness, Toxic Intimacy – What “You” Tells Us About Our Time
A Mirror of Our Culture
“You” also dissects the society that allows figures like Joe to arise—and persist. Beyond the nuanced psychological portrait of Joe Goldberg, the show offers a multilayered commentary on the contradictions of a digitized world. It uses its protagonist not just as a case study but as a projection screen for a culture that confuses simulated intimacy with the real thing, treats privacy as limitless, and mistakes harmful overreach for passion.
Digital Facades: Between Closeness and Illusion
Joe Goldberg knows everything about his target before he even speaks to her—address, hobbies, insecurities, relationship status. Just a few clicks conjure up what seems like an intimate portrait. “You” forces us to ask: Where do we draw the line between legitimate curiosity and intrusive behavior in a world where people share their most private moments online? When private details are broadcast for anyone to see, the boundary between observing and stalking grows hazy. Joe doesn’t break into Beck’s apartment so much as he invades her digital identity. Yet despite the wealth of information, his closeness is superficial; he knows her only through curated self-presentations, not through real connection. The show calls out the false sense of intimacy that social media can foster—and the dangerous illusion that truly knowing someone is as simple as following what they post.
Obsession Is Not Love
One of the core motifs in “You” is the stark dividing line between love and obsession—a line Joe repeatedly, systematically crosses. His compulsive behavior first appears as emotional closeness, but the show deftly illustrates that control is no proof of devotion. Joe doesn’t want to love; he wants to possess. His feelings revolve around fear—fear of rejection, fear of losing control, fear of the other person’s autonomy. That his partners, especially Love Quinn, sometimes interpret his intensity as romantic only underscores the show’s cultural critique: movies, books, and other series have often portrayed jealousy as a sign of genuine emotion. “You” inverts that notion. By showing love twisted to lethal extremes, the series dismantles the myth of fated romance and exposes it as a disguised power play.
The Hypocrisy of the Attention Economy
Though Joe despises the world of self-promotion, he leverages it for his own ends. Whether in New York’s literary scene or California’s influencer bubble, he slips into whatever role will win him attention. “You” shrewdly takes aim at a culture where likes, follows, and superficial performance have started to eclipse genuine substance. The media frenzy that unfolds around Joe’s crimes—mysterious murders, public speculation—also mirrors our collective fascination with extremes. In a society that rewards spectacle, even a serial killer can become the center of attention. A silent accusation hovers: perhaps we’re unwilling to let go of Joe because we’re addicted to the endless drama he provides. “You” shows that the audience, too, is part of the system—willing to sidestep moral qualms as long as the story keeps us hooked.
The show’s title, “You,” is hardly incidental. Joe speaks directly to his beloved—and to us, the viewers. This “you” creates a disconcerting sense of closeness, a kind of parasocial relationship in which we hear his thoughts and see the world through his eyes. By employing this narrative device, “You” puts the spotlight on the one-sided nature of such bonds: Joe exists in a self-generated illusion of loving someone he doesn’t truly know. But this imbalance isn’t purely fictional. In our digital reality, parasocial relationships are commonplace: we follow people, feel attached, yet that attachment is never truly mutual. “You” takes that dynamic to its extreme—and cautions us that quiet admiration can become dangerous obsession more quickly than we might think.
A lingering effect of “You” is the emotional numbness it highlights—both on the show and among its viewers. The characters around Joe ignore glaring red flags. They’re too wrapped up in themselves or dismiss his behavior as quirky rather than threatening. And we, the audience, are complicit: we keep watching despite knowing Joe is a murderer. We hear his voice, see his motives, and almost forget what he’s doing—so long as the story is compelling. “You” confronts us with this complicity. In the later seasons, it shatters the illusion of romanticized violence by exposing Joe’s self-image as a sham, challenging us to examine our own emotional collusion. Why do we still feel a sense of closeness despite everything we know?
Our digital world underpins Joe’s story. Without Instagram, smartphones, location sharing, and interconnected lives, his manipulations would be far harder to pull off. But the real issue isn’t the technology; it’s our readiness to overlook warning signs. “You” makes it clear: perpetrators like Joe don’t operate in a vacuum. Their actions succeed because they can rely on our blind spots—on ideals that go unchallenged, on narratives that confuse control with love, on our craving for closeness paired with a startling lack of caution.
Vigilance Over Romanticization
“You” isn’t just about delivering a final episode; it’s a call to action. It aims to do more than entertain—it aims to raise awareness. Joe Goldberg may be fictional, but the patterns he embodies are all too real. From love bombing to reversing victim and offender, his methods mirror genuine toxic relationship dynamics. That’s why the show’s core message is both plain and unsettling: we mustn’t be blinded by charm. Anyone who seems to know too much, too soon, or who overwhelms us with instant devotion—the more “perfect” it all seems, the more it calls for scrutiny, not starry-eyed admiration.
Ultimately, the lesson is this: we must learn to distinguish between performance and authenticity, between genuine connection and manipulative closeness, between harmless fascination and willful naïveté. “You” has shown us how easily red flags can be mistaken for bouquets of roses. Now it’s up to us to stop treating a red flag like an invitation to dance.
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