Naomi Fry, a critic and podcast host, had something to get off her chest.

“This is such a horrible thing to say, and probably many listeners will not like hearing this,” she began, speaking hesitantly. Her co-hosts, fellow critics Vinson Cunningham and Alexandra Schwartz, leaned in from across a small, round table at a recording studio in Manhattan.

“I don’t like … philosophy?” Fry said, as if asking for permission.

Cunningham and Schwartz, who had joined Fry to discuss, in part, the book “Should We Go Extinct?” by philosopher Todd May, burst into laughter. Soon Fry was laughing, too.

“I thought you were going to be like, ‘I think humans shouldn’t exist,’” Cunningham said.

“It’s just such a philistine thing to say, I feel,” Fry said.

Schwartz interjected: “Everyone knows our biases. Give us a novel, put the philosophy in with it. We love story!”

“I love stories,” said Fry, coming alive. “Like, can you share a piece of gossip with me?”

“Can we get some details from Jeremy Bentham’s love life?” added Schwartz. “Like, let’s go here!”

In a darkened control room adjacent to the studio, Steven Valentino, the executive producer of audio at Condé Nast, laughed along with the co-hosts, who were recording an episode last month of “Critics at Large,” the weekly pop culture podcast of The New Yorker. Valentino developed the show, which premiered last fall, after reading the transcript of an article for the magazine’s website, in which Fry, Cunningham and Schwartz debated the state of sex scenes on film and television.

When he put the critics in front of microphones, for a test in the summer of 2022, Valentino noted their playful manner with one another — vulnerable, inquisitive, lighthearted, generous. In three pilot episodes, recorded with the guidance of producers over the following year, the dynamic only grew stronger. They had real chemistry.

“Right away they were having fun with it — delighting in each other’s answers and cracking jokes,” said Valentino, a former radio producer for WNYC. “There was an energy that felt like it was going to translate really nicely.”

The popularity of chat podcasts has exploded in recent years. Relatively minimal overhead allowed talk shows like “Smartless,” “The Read” and “How Long Gone” to proliferate during the pandemic — a trend that accelerated as a stringent economic environment caused some companies to shy away from more expensive scripted content. As the chat genre’s footprint in the industry has grown, chemistry — that intangible spark shared among two or more people — has become an invaluable resource.

A fortuitous frisson between friends can propel an otherwise ordinary show to the top of the charts, while bad or dull vibes render even a well-funded podcast dead on arrival. If the lifeblood of a talk show is the parasocial relationship listeners develop with its hosts — the soothing illusion that they are silent guests at a communal table — then a critical task facing any would-be creator or publisher is throwing the kind of party visitors never want to leave.

But what is chemistry, exactly? And can it be mass produced?

In interviews, producers of some of the most successful chat shows outlined critical elements necessary to achieve liftoff — as well as common missteps that can kill the buzz.

“It’s not as formulaic as actual chemistry, where you put in things in certain amounts and in a certain order,” said Andy Bowers, who created Slate’s pioneering “Political Gabfest” and “Culture Gabfest,” in 2005 and 2008. “We started lots of shows at Slate and ultimately ended several of them because the chemistry wasn’t quite there.”

Juliet Litman, head of production at The Ringer, which makes shows like “The Watch,” “The Ringer NBA Show” and “Higher Learning,” said it helps if the hosts have things in common — but not too much.

“You want them to have shared passions but also be comfortable disagreeing very often,” she said.

IN A VIRTUAL RECORDING SESSION last November, comedians Tig Notaro, Mae Martin and Fortune Feimster — co-hosts of the comedy and advice podcast “Handsome” — were discussing a wedding Notaro had attended the previous night. There had been a conga line at the reception, which Feimster suggested might explain why Notaro was feeling ill.

“I’ll tell ya, there’s nothing more germy than a conga line,” Feimster said.

Notaro looked horrified.

“No way,” protested Martin, attempting to reassure their sick friend. “It’s just hips and hands! Conga line: Fine.”

Feimster, not letting up, declared that hips and hands are “full of germs.”

“It depends on where your hips and hands went,” Notaro said.

“Did you also do The Electric Slide?” asked Feimster. “There’s a lot of germs in that.”

Notaro seemed confused by the question.

“You’ve never done The Electric Slide?” Feimster asked, mouth agape.

Notaro, blank faced, stared directly at the camera: “Look at me and ask me that again.”

Notaro, a two-time Grammy nominee for her stand-up specials “Live” (2012) and “Boyish Girl Interrupted” (2015), said a core element of “Handsome” is balancing familiarity and surprise.

“We connect on so many levels, but we have very different takes on things,” she said, noting that she and Martin, who is sober and has lived independently since they were 16, come from wildly divergent backgrounds. “I’m always shocked by what the two of them say.”

Many chat podcasts are formed around preexisting relationships — best friends, siblings, spouses, ex-colleagues — and come with an air of intimacy built-in. But weaker ties can have their own advantages. The “Handsome” trio knew one another only passingly when the show started, imbuing their conversations with the giddiness of new friendship.

The three hosts see the success of the collective as more important than that of the individual, a principle they carried over from improv comedy.

“We’re all very giving with wanting everyone to get their time and shine,” Feimster said.

The “Handsome” team doesn’t discuss episode topics in advance, but for those who aren’t professionally funny, some preparation is advised.

For “Pivot,” the popular business and tech podcast co-hosted by Kara Swisher and Scott Galloway, the hosts and their producers have a group chat for floating potential discussion topics throughout the week. Those are later funneled into a script on Google Docs, complete with talking points, background information and relevant links. During recording sessions, the producers communicate with the hosts by editing the document in real time.

“We try to keep the script very lean — mostly facts, prompts, and transitions,” said Lara Naaman, the director of creative operations for “Pivot.” “You want them to have the information they need. But the more you write, the more you’re taking away from the conversational flow.”

Swisher and Galloway have a natural affinity for one another despite nominal differences — she’s a left-leaning, no-nonsense lesbian; he’s a smooth-talking, testosterone-fueled centrist. Because the pair live on opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean (Galloway is based in London, Swisher is in Washington, D.C.) the show arranges occasional field trips to help maintain the magic.

As with love, some host connections just aren’t meant to be. Bad chemistry operates as mysteriously as its opposite.

Andy Bowers, the founder of Slate audio and a co-founder of the audio company Spooler, recalled working on a show with two hosts who were strong individually but didn’t gel as partners.

“The word that comes to mind is ‘stiff.’ There just wasn’t that organic back and forth the way you have in a group that clicks,” he said.

Notaro described the feeling of embarking on a collaboration and realizing that it’s not going to work out.

“They’ll say something and you’ll realize that you don’t understand where they’re coming from at all,” she said. “You’re left with this confused look on your face. Wait, how did we even get this far?”