‘BoJack Horseman’s Creator Says This Is His Biggest Regret About the Show

BoJack Horseman is the rare show that can make you laugh at a pun about “Hollywoo” and, five minutes later,
stare into the middle distance like you’ve just been emotionally audited. It’s a cartoon about a talking horse,
surebut it’s also a surprisingly sharp mirror held up to fame, shame, addiction, ambition, and the messy business
of trying to be a decent person when your brain keeps filing complaints against you.

And that’s why it hits different when the show’s creator, Raphael Bob-Waksberg, points to his biggest regret about
the series. It isn’t about a plot twist, a finale decision, or whether the show should’ve had more celebrity animal
cameos (though, honestly, the world could always use more bizarre background giraffes). His regret is about something
far more foundational: how the show handled representationspecifically, the Vietnamese-American identity of Diane Nguyen.

In a show obsessed with consequences, this regret is fitting. It’s also instructivebecause it’s not just about one
character, one casting choice, or one writers’ room. It’s about how “good intentions” can still produce blind spots,
and how creative teams can do better when they actually listen, learn, and change their process instead of polishing
an apology like it’s a PR trophy.

The Biggest Regret: Diane Nguyen Needed More Vietnamese-American Voices

Diane Nguyen is one of BoJack Horseman’s emotional anchors: a writer, a thinker, a person who wants the world
to be betterand who also gets exhausted by how hard that can be. She’s funny, self-aware, anxious, principled, and
occasionally trapped in the mental hamster wheel of “If I can just explain myself correctly, I will finally feel okay.”
(Spoiler: brains do not accept email.)

Diane is also Vietnamese-American. And Bob-Waksberg has said his biggest regret is that the show didn’t bring enough
Vietnamese-American perspective into the creative process early and consistentlyespecially in the writers’ room. The
result, he’s acknowledged, was that Vietnamese-American viewers sometimes didn’t feel Diane’s cultural identity was
written with the specificity and authenticity it deserved.

This matters because representation isn’t just a checkbox you tick next to “Character is Vietnamese-American.”
Representation lives in details: family dynamics, cultural references, language, food, community expectations, and the
subtle tensions of being both connected to and distant from a heritage. When those details are missingor replaced with
broad strokesaudiences who share that identity notice. Not because they want perfection, but because they can tell when
a story is being told about them without being told with them.

Why the writers’ room matters more than a “research day”

Many shows attempt authenticity through consultants or one-off sensitivity reads. Those can help, but they’re not the
same as having lived experience present throughout the drafting processwhen big story decisions are made, jokes are
pitched, and character arcs get shaped.

In Diane’s case, the critique wasn’t simply “you didn’t do enough homework.” It was that the show needed more Vietnamese-American
creative voices with real power to steer the character’s cultural specificityso Diane wasn’t just a fully realized person
who happens to be Vietnamese-American, but also a person whose Vietnamese-American experience is written with depth
rather than caution.

The Casting Conversation: Alison Brie and the “Who Voices Whom” Reckoning

Diane was voiced by Alison Brie, a white actor. Years after the show began, a broader industry conversation intensified
around whether white actors should voice characters of color in animationespecially when that choice narrows opportunities
for actors from those communities.

Brie publicly expressed regret about voicing Diane, acknowledging the missed opportunity for representation and stating that
people of color should voice people of color. The point wasn’t to declare that Diane’s performance was “bad,” or to retroactively
erase Diane as a character. It was to recognize a structural pattern in entertainment: when representation is treated as flexible,
the same groups keep getting the best opportunitiesagain.

If this sounds familiar, it’s because it mirrors one of BoJack Horseman’s favorite subjects: the difference between
individual intent and systemic impact. You can be a good person making a choice for understandable reasonsand still contribute
to a system that consistently disadvantages others.

Authenticity isn’t a punishmentit’s an opportunity

Some people hear “cast more authentically” and translate it as “creativity is dead.” But for animation, authenticity can be a
creative superpower. When you cast and write with cultural specificity, you unlock new comedy rhythms, more believable relationships,
and storylines that don’t feel like they were assembled from generic parts labeled “ethnic background.”

In other words: authenticity doesn’t shrink your sandbox. It adds better toys.

How This Regret Fits the Show’s DNA: BoJack Is About Accountability

The irony (the useful kind, not the “my coffee is cold” kind) is that BoJack Horseman spent years examining how people
justify harmful choices. The show interrogates the idea of redemption, the temptation to confuse self-awareness with self-improvement,
and the ways an apology can become a performance instead of a turning point.

Bob-Waksberg has talked in multiple interviews over the years about learning how narrative and humor carry powerhow jokes can frame
behavior in ways that normalize it, and how stories can unintentionally soften what should be treated seriously. That’s part of why
the later seasons feel so deliberate about showing consequences rather than glamorizing bad behavior.

In that context, it makes sense that his biggest regret isn’t “we should’ve written a different ending,” but “we should’ve built a
better process.” Because process determines what you notice. And what you don’t notice determines what you accidentally leave out.

Diane as a Case Study in Specificity: What Worked and What Didn’t

To be clear: Diane resonates with a lot of viewers for reasons that have nothing to do with cultural identity alone. Her depression
arc, her work anxiety, her political exhaustion, her complicated relationship with “being a good person,” and her struggles with
self-worth are written with a painful clarity that feels earned.

But cultural specificity is not interchangeable with “relatable sadness.” Diane’s Vietnamese-American identity can coexist with her
universal strugglesand, ideally, deepen them rather than sit quietly in the background.

Example: The “home” problemBoston, family, and the feeling of not fitting

One of Diane’s early storylines involves returning to her hometown and dealing with family dynamics that are messy, frustrating,
and emotionally sharp. The show portrays her family in ways that are intentionally uncomfortable, emphasizing Diane’s alienation
and her feeling that she’s always been treated like an outsider in her own home.

That kind of alienation is real for many peoplebut it can land differently when cultural context is thin. Without Vietnamese-American
specificity, family conflict risks reading like a sitcom-shaped “bad family” template rather than a culturally grounded portrait.

Example: The Vietnam episodeidentity, distance, and the limits of a reset button

In a later season, Diane travels to Vietnam during a period of personal upheaval. The episode explores a familiar but meaningful truth:
going somewhere “connected” to your identity doesn’t automatically hand you clarity like it’s a souvenir keychain.

The episode is poignant because it portrays the strange experience of being both “from” a place and not fully of itrecognizing your name,
your face, your origin story, but still feeling like a tourist inside your own heritage. That tension can be powerful storytelling.
It also highlights why deeper Vietnamese-American involvement in the writing process could have made those moments land with even more
texture and confidence.

What the Industry Learned (and Is Still Learning) From 2020 and Beyond

The Diane conversation didn’t happen in a vacuum. Around 2020, the animation industry saw a wave of public reckonings about race, casting,
and representation. Several white actors stepped down from voicing characters of color, and audiences began demanding that studios treat
voice roles as real opportunities for the communities being depicted.

This shift wasn’t about retroactive purity tests. It was about finally acknowledging the cumulative effect of “small” choiceshow decades
of “we didn’t think about it” create a landscape where underrepresented performers and writers have fewer doors open, even when a character
is literally written with their identity on the page.

Bob-Waksberg’s regret sits inside that broader lesson: you don’t fix representation by adding a line of dialogue or a cultural reference
at the last second. You fix it by changing who’s in the room when the story is born.

Practical Takeaways: How Shows Can Avoid This Exact Regret

If you’re a creator, producer, writer, or even a fan who likes peeking behind the curtain, the “Diane lesson” can be translated into a
set of practical moves. Not performative. Not “announce a commitment and hope the internet claps.” Real process changes.

1) Cast with intention earlybefore a character becomes “set”

Early casting decisions shape writing decisions. If you cast a Vietnamese-American actor for a Vietnamese-American character, the show is
naturally more likely to lean into Vietnamese-American specificity with confidence instead of hesitation.

2) Build diversity into the writers’ room, not just the notes stage

Consultants can help, but writers with lived experience help in a deeper way: they shape the character’s worldview, humor, family dynamics,
and cultural references from the inside out.

3) Treat specificity as storytelling fuel

The goal isn’t to make a character “more ethnic.” The goal is to make a character more specific, more real, and more layeredso cultural
identity is part of the character’s life, not a label floating above their head like a video game username.

4) Respond to feedback with action, not defensiveness

A lot of creative teams freeze when they hear criticism because they interpret it as “we failed.” But feedback is often a map: it shows you
where audiences feel unseen or misread. The best response isn’t a dramatic apology monologue. It’s changed behavior in the next project.

Why This Regret Doesn’t Cancel the Show’s LegacyIt Clarifies It

Some fans worry that talking about Diane’s representation means we’re supposed to throw the whole show into the ocean and apologize to the fish.
But acknowledging a regret doesn’t erase the workit sharpens our understanding of it.

In fact, the ability to name the regret publicly is consistent with what BoJack Horseman tried to do at its best: tell the truth about
complicated things without pretending there’s an easy ending. The show’s legacy isn’t “we were perfect.” It’s “we were trying, we learned, and
we can point to where we should’ve done better.”

That’s a more useful legacy than flawless nostalgia. Because real progress is built by people who can say, plainly, “That was a mistake,” and then
actually change the way they work.

Extended Experiences (500+ Words): What the “Diane Lesson” Feels Like in Real Life

The reason Diane’s representation debate keeps resurfacing is that it taps into a set of experiences many viewers recognizeespecially viewers who
belong to communities that have often been portrayed from the outside. There’s a distinct emotional whiplash that can happen when you see a character
who looks like you (or shares your heritage) in a major show, only to realize the story doesn’t quite “speak your language,” even when it’s technically
saying the right words.

For many Vietnamese-American viewers, Diane was an almost-there moment: a smart, complicated Vietnamese-American woman who wasn’t reduced to a stereotype,
who had interiority, ambition, depression, humor, and contradictions. That’s not nothing. That’s a meaningful step compared with the long history of
shallow portrayals in mainstream TV. But “almost-there” can be its own kind of frustration, because it’s a reminder that the industry can get close without
fully committing to authenticity.

That frustration often doesn’t show up as a neat, polite complaint. It shows up as a feeling: “Why does this ring slightly false?” It’s the sense that the
character’s cultural background is either underplayed or used as a convenient costume rather than a lived reality. When viewers say a character doesn’t feel
“authentically” Vietnamese-American, they’re rarely demanding a checklist of cultural markers. They’re describing a deeper mismatchlike watching someone mimic
your family’s rhythm without understanding the beat.

On the creator side, this is one of the hardest lessons in storytelling: you can care about representation and still miss what you don’t know you’re missing.
Many writers begin with a sincere desire to avoid stereotypes, and they respond by getting cautiouskeeping cultural specificity at arm’s length so they don’t
“mess it up.” But caution can create its own problem: it flattens the identity into something vague, which can feel like erasure wearing a friendly sweater.
In Diane’s case, Bob-Waksberg has acknowledged that the lack of Vietnamese-American voices in key creative roles made the show less confident about telling certain
Vietnamese-specific storiesso the character’s heritage sometimes stayed in a safe, generalized zone rather than becoming a fully integrated part of her narrative.

Viewers also experience this debate through the lens of opportunity. Animation voice roles aren’t just artistic choices; they’re jobs, credits, careers, and
visibility. When a Vietnamese-American character is voiced by a white actor, the community doesn’t only lose “authenticity”it loses a chance for a Vietnamese-American
performer to gain a major platform. That’s why the conversation hit so hard in 2020, when multiple shows faced similar casting questions and the industry began (slowly)
treating voice roles as meaningful representation rather than interchangeable performance slots.

The most constructive “experience” many fans take from all this is not outrageit’s literacy. People start noticing how stories are built: who’s credited as writers,
who’s cast, who’s consulted, and who is missing. And once you develop that literacy, you carry it into every show you watch. It becomes easier to appreciate what a series
does well while also naming what it didn’t do. That’s not cynicism; it’s grown-up viewing.

In a strange way, Diane’s storyand the creator’s regret about itcan even deepen the show’s central theme: accountability is a practice, not a pose. The point isn’t to
declare “good people” and “bad people” and then go home. The point is to ask: what did we do, what did it affect, what did we learn, and what will we do differently next time?
If a show about consequences can help creators and audiences practice that mindset in the real world, that’s not a failure of art. That’s art doing its job.

Conclusion

Raphael Bob-Waksberg’s biggest regret about BoJack Horseman isn’t a single scene or storylineit’s a process problem with real human impact. By not fully
centering Vietnamese-American voices in the writing and (ideally) the casting of Diane Nguyen, the show missed opportunities for deeper authenticity and broader opportunity.

The takeaway isn’t that BoJack Horseman should be dismissed. The takeaway is that even acclaimed, thoughtful shows can have blind spotsand that naming them
clearly is the first step toward doing better work. In a world where apologies are cheap but change is rare, the most meaningful regret is the one that transforms how
you build the next story.