The visual of 456 people crammed into a single room is hard to shake. It’s claustrophobic. It’s colorful in a way that feels wrong. Mostly, it’s defined by those towering, mint-green structures that look like a cross between a playground and a prison. If you've ever looked at the Squid Game bunk beds and wondered how a production designer even begins to map out that kind of logistical nightmare, you’re not alone. It’s the kind of set design that stays with you because it isn't just background noise; it's a character in its own right.
People usually focus on the Giant Doll or the glass bridge. They should look closer at the beds.
Chae Kyoung-sun, the art director for the series, didn't just pick those beds because they were cheap or easy to build. She actually drew inspiration from the concept of "stacked" people. The idea was to treat the players like objects on a warehouse shelf. It sounds dark because it is. When we see the Squid Game bunk beds for the first time, they represent the absolute erasure of individuality. You aren't a person with a home; you're a number in a slot.
The Architecture of a Social Experiment
The scale of the dormitory is genuinely massive. To fit that many people, the production team had to build a set that felt endless. Honestly, it’s one of the few times in modern television where the physical environment dictates the tension of the scene as much as the script does. You see those beds stretching up toward the ceiling, and you immediately feel the hierarchy.
It’s about power.
When the games start, the beds are neatly organized. It’s a grid. It’s predictable. But as the player count drops, the room changes. The Squid Game bunk beds start to disappear or get moved around, creating a fragmented, broken landscape. By the time we get to the riot scene, the beds aren't furniture anymore. They are barricades. They are weapons. They are high ground for those trying to survive the night.
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I think what most people miss is how the height of the beds plays into the cinematography. Director Hwang Dong-hyuk used the verticality of the set to create layers of action. You have people sleeping, people whispering, and people dying, all happening on different levels of the same structure. It’s a visual representation of a fractured society where everyone is trying to climb over the person below them just to stay in the game.
Logistics of the Mint-Green Menace
From a technical standpoint, building the Squid Game bunk beds was a feat of engineering. They had to be sturdy enough to hold hundreds of actors and stunt performers. We aren't talking about IKEA furniture here. These were custom-built steel frames painted in that specific, unsettling shade of pastel green that defines the show's aesthetic.
Why that green? Chae Kyoung-sun has mentioned in interviews that the colors were meant to evoke nostalgia for Korean school uniforms and childhood items from the 70s and 80s. It’s supposed to feel "innocent." But when you put that color on a five-story bunk bed in a room where people are being executed, it becomes grotesque. It’s that contrast—the "kitsch" of the colors versus the brutality of the situation—that makes the dormitory scenes so hard to watch.
The lighting in that room also changes. Early on, it’s bright and sterile. As the numbers dwindle and the psychological toll rises, the shadows get longer. The beds start to look like skeletons of the people who used to occupy them.
Real-World Influence and the "Capsule" Trend
It’s interesting to see how the Squid Game bunk beds tapped into a very real cultural anxiety about space and housing. In Seoul, and many other major cities, "Goshiwon" or "Goshitel" housing is a real thing. These are tiny, cramped rooms often no bigger than a walk-in closet, used by students or low-income workers.
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The show takes that reality and turns the volume up to eleven.
- The beds represent the "housing ladder" literally.
- The lack of privacy mirrors the lack of agency the players have.
- The communal nature of the room forces conflict.
There’s a reason people started buying "Squid Game" themed merchandise, including miniature versions of the set. There’s a strange fascination with the order and the chaos of that room. Even in the gaming world, you saw players recreating the dormitory in Roblox and Minecraft. They weren't just building a room; they were building the specific tension of those Squid Game bunk beds.
Why the Design Still Bothers Us
Think about the last time you saw a bunk bed. Usually, it's in a hostel or a kid's room. It's associated with travel or childhood. Squid Game subverts that completely. It takes a symbol of rest and turns it into a place of extreme vulnerability. You can’t lock your door. You can’t hide.
The beds also served as a countdown. Every time a bed was removed because a player was "eliminated," the room got emptier, but the space felt more ominous. It’s a clever bit of storytelling through set dressing. You don't need a narrator to tell you the stakes are getting higher; you just need to look at the increasing amount of empty floor space where beds used to be.
Most people don't realize that the beds were actually designed to be modular. This allowed the crew to shift them around to accommodate different camera angles. If you look closely at the "Lights Out" riot scene, the layout is completely different from the first episode. The beds were moved to create "alleys" and "dead ends," turning the dormitory into a literal maze for the characters to navigate while they fought for their lives.
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What Designers Can Learn from the Dormitory
If you're into set design or even just interior aesthetics, there's a lesson here about "hostile architecture." Usually, we think of hostile architecture as benches with spikes to keep people from sleeping on them. In Squid Game, the architecture is hostile because it forces a specific type of social interaction.
It forces visibility.
It denies comfort.
It emphasizes the "group" over the "self."
The Squid Game bunk beds are a masterclass in how to use physical objects to tell a story about class and desperation. It's not just about where the characters sleep. It's about where they are trapped. When the remaining three finalists are eventually moved to a different setting for the final meal, the contrast between the cramped bunk beds and the vast, empty floor of the final arena is jarring. It makes the survivors look even smaller.
Actionable Takeaways for Superfans and Creators
If you’re looking to analyze this further or even use the aesthetic for your own projects, focus on these elements:
- Color Saturation: Use "innocent" colors (pastels, mints, pinks) in high-stress environments to create cognitive dissonance.
- Verticality: If you’re designing a space—digital or physical—think about how height can represent power or status. The person on the top bunk has a different perspective than the person on the floor.
- Subtraction as Storytelling: Don't just add things to a set to show progress. Removing items (like the beds) can be a more powerful way to show loss and the passage of time.
- Materiality: The cold, industrial feel of the steel frames against the soft, numbered tracksuits creates a texture that feels uncomfortable. Pair hard and soft materials to keep the audience on edge.
The legacy of the Squid Game bunk beds isn't just about a cool set. It’s about how we perceive space when our lives are on the line. It's a reminder that even the most mundane object—a bed—can become a symbol of terror if you put it in the right, or wrong, context.
Next time you re-watch the series, pay attention to the beds in the background of the "Man-to-Man" conversations. They aren't just there to fill space. They are framing the desperation of the characters, reminding us that in this world, there is nowhere to go but up, or out.