THE FOUR NINJA TURTLES OF KAMUROCHO
When I was a kid, the most important question to ask before trying a new game was simple: How do I play this? Games were short, the controls straightforward, and the mechanics rarely changed once introduced. Later, as linear design gave way to sprawling open worlds, a more relevant question emerged: What can I do in this game? The how could wait—first you needed to decide whether the possibilities were worth your time.
The Yakuza 4 series has traditionally thrived on a careful balance between those two questions: a single “What can I do?” followed by a thousand playful “How do I do this?” It’s a smorgasbord of simple mechanics—karaoke, gambling, batting cages, side stories—held together by a melodramatic gangster opera. And crucially, the series has always understood the need for relief. When the drama gets heavy, you’re given space to unwind.
Yakuza 4, however—the fifth game I played in the series, since Yakuza 0 was my entry point—leans so hard into its crime drama that it begins to smother itself. The cutscenes stretch on endlessly, padded with long pauses meant to add gravitas. When control is finally returned to you, you’re often locked into another urgent story beat, cut off from the open world. As I played, a new question kept creeping in: When will I finally get to… [insert favorite side activity here]?
In previous entries, I was a happy dabbler—a jack-of-all-trades who liked to take a breather after every major plot development. The substories were my go-to decompression tool. And yes, let’s admit it: the dating sim is great. I also love slipping in a game of blackjack, singing my heart out in karaoke, or knocking down a few pins in bowling, darts, or puzzle pool. A visit to the SEGA arcade is mandatory. These diversions reset my mood and keep the drama from becoming oppressive.
In Yakuza 4, those natural pauses come too rarely. When they do appear, I feel compelled to binge everything at once, which drains the joy from it. It’s like playing two separate games that constantly interrupt each other. Both are competent on their own, but together they make me wonder why I care—especially when the runtime stretches toward 40 hours. This friction never existed for me in earlier entries. Ryu Ga Gotoku Studio tried something new here, and in doing so, they lost the Yakuza beat.
Part of the issue lies in the shift to four playable protagonists. Kazuma Kiryu remains the best of them—cool, dignified, kind, and buoyed by years of character development. Akiyama, the charismatic loan shark, is also a standout, with a stylish fighting style and an air of mystery.
Saejima, the death-row inmate, is a more nuanced character than his intimidating appearance suggests, but his stiff combat and frustrating traversal mechanics make his chapters feel restrictive. Tanimura, the smug, morally flexible cop, never quite clicks for me. Whether it’s his personality or his presentation, he’s the weakest link of the quartet.
Their individual storylines intersect in increasingly implausible ways, until they form what feels like the Ninja Turtles of Kamurocho—popping out of sewers, sprinting across rooftops, and circling the same femme fatale. I do appreciate that each character has a distinct fighting style, keeping progression relevant throughout. Learning new moves through playful "revelation" slapstick scenes remains a highlight.
Visually, Kamurocho benefits from moving away from PS2-era constraints, but its expansion introduces new problems. Navigating the underground mall, parking garage, and sewer systems is a chore—especially since one character is forced to use them repeatedly to avoid the police. These areas add little beyond confusion and neverending loading screens.
That said, I do value the increased attention paid to Kamurocho’s social underbelly. The homeless population living in the sewers is portrayed as a direct consequence of the Tojo Clan’s expansion—something Kiryu himself helped enable. Experiencing the city through the eyes of the other protagonists casts earlier games in a more critical light.
For quite a while, the story holds together. There are strong character moments and effective staging. But the villains are underwhelming, and one particular plot twist is among the worst I’ve encountered in the series—something that might have worked in a more tongue-in-cheek context, but collapses under the weight of the game’s self-serious tone.
What frustrates me most is that three of the four protagonists are saddled with largely humorless, drawn-out substories. I understand the intent: these arcs exist to flesh out the newcomers. But in a series built on tonal contrast, stripping away levity feels like a fundamental mistake.
This is still Yakuza. Mechanically, you do all the same things. For many fans, that may be enough. But this time, my heart isn’t in it. The street fights are meant to be slapstick violence, yet without sufficient comic relief they become numbing. The side activities, once my sanctuary, now feel like obstacles that delay an already exhausting main plot. I enjoy moments here and there—but never the game as a whole.
With Yakuza 4, the developers seem to have aimed for a more mature tone—perhaps acknowledging an aging fanbase. But the cast could easily have been reduced to two protagonists (Kiryu and Akiyama), with the others supporting them. Kiryu’s late inclusion, in particular, feels like a last-minute correction. I’m glad he’s here—his chapters feel like classic Yakuza—but by then it’s too little, too late.
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