Let’s be real. When we first sat down to watch a bunch of people in green tracksuits play children's games for money, we didn't expect to end up emotionally wrecked by a guy named Sang-woo. We thought it was just going to be a gore-fest. A "Battle Royale" clone, maybe. But then the Squid Game characters started talking, and suddenly, the stakes weren't just about who got shot—it was about who we were willing to become to survive.
It's been years since Season 1 dropped on Netflix, and yet, the discourse around Seong Gi-hun and the gang hasn't died down. Why? Because creator Hwang Dong-hyuk didn't just write archetypes. He wrote a mirror.
The Messy Reality of Seong Gi-hun
Gi-hun is a total disaster. Let's just say it. He steals from his elderly mother, he’s a gambling addict, and he’s pretty much failing at every aspect of fatherhood. Most protagonists in survival shows are secret badasses or tactical geniuses. Gi-hun? He’s just a guy who’s tired.
But that’s exactly why the Squid Game characters worked so well. You aren't rooting for a hero; you're rooting for a human being who is barely keeping it together. His "luck" throughout the games—like the umbrella honeycomb or the bridge—is almost frustrating. Yet, his empathy remains his greatest weakness and his only redeeming quality. When he tries to help Oh Il-nam, the old man, you see a sliver of the person he used to be before debt swallowed his life whole.
It’s easy to judge him from your couch. It's harder when you realize that his desperation is built on a very real South Korean debt crisis. According to reports from the Bank of Korea, household debt in the country has consistently hit record highs, often exceeding 100% of the nation's GDP. Gi-hun isn't a caricature. He’s a statistic with a face.
Cho Sang-woo and the Fallacy of the "Good Student"
If Gi-hun is the heart, Cho Sang-woo is the cold, hard brain.
Everyone knew a Sang-woo in school. The kid who was "the pride of the neighborhood." He went to Seoul National University. He was supposed to be the success story. Seeing him in that dirt-stained tracksuit was the show's loudest statement on the fragility of the middle class.
Why we hate him (and why he’s right)
He betrayed Ali. That’s the big one. We all screamed at the TV during the marble game. But look at it from his perspective: Sang-woo understood the math of the game before anyone else did. He knew that for one person to win, everyone else had to die.
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- He pushed the glass manufacturer.
- He tricked the most innocent man in the room.
- He killed Sae-byeok while she was literally bleeding out.
Was he a villain? Honestly, it depends on who you ask. In a system designed to kill you, is playing by the rules of that system "evil" or just "logical"? Sang-woo represents the meritocracy gone rotten. He did everything "right"—education, career, status—and he still ended up in the mud with a knife in his hand.
Kang Sae-byeok: The Lone Wolf We Wanted to Save
Kang Sae-byeok, played by Jung Ho-yeon, became a global icon almost overnight. It makes sense. She was the only character who seemed to understand the gravity of the situation from minute one.
She wasn't there for greed. She was there for family. Her backstory as a North Korean defector added a layer of political weight to the Squid Game characters that many international viewers might have missed initially. Defectors often face immense discrimination and economic hardship in South Korea. Sae-byeok’s distrust of everyone wasn't a personality quirk; it was a survival mechanism she’d honed her entire life.
Her death felt cheap to some, but it served a brutal purpose. It stripped away the last bit of "fairness" the games pretended to have. She didn't lose a game. She was murdered in her sleep. It changed the tone of the finale from a competition to a funeral.
The Ali Abdul Tragic Arc
We have to talk about Ali.
Ali Abdul was the soul of the show. As an undocumented migrant worker from Pakistan, he represented the most exploited segment of the Korean workforce. His boss literally stole his fingers and his wages.
When Ali saves Gi-hun in the first episode—"Red Light, Green Light"—he does it because it’s the right thing to do. He hasn't been jaded by the system yet. His death at the hands of Sang-woo's trickery is widely cited by fans as the most heartbreaking moment of the series. It’s the moment the audience realizes that being "good" is a death sentence in this world.
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The Twist We Should Have Seen Coming: Oh Il-nam
Let's talk about the old man, Number 001.
Looking back, the clues were everywhere. He wasn't targeted by the doll. His name literally translates to "First Man." He had the most fun during the most terrifying moments.
Oh Il-nam is the bridge between the players and the creators. He’s bored. That’s his entire motivation. While the other Squid Game characters are fighting for their actual lives, he’s playing for nostalgia. It’s a sickening reveal because it turns our empathy against us. We cried for him in episode six, only to find out he was the one holding the gun the entire time.
The Philosophy of the VIPs
The VIPs are often criticized for being "cringe" or having bad dialogue. But think about it. They are supposed to be out of touch. They are the 0.1% who have so much money that human life has become a literal game to them. Their presence shifts the show from a survival drama to a critique of global capitalism.
Why These Characters Resonate Globally
Why did people in the US, Brazil, and France all obsess over these specific people?
Because debt is universal.
The feeling of being trapped in a system that wants to squeeze you dry isn't unique to Seoul. Whether it's student loans in America or inflation in Europe, the desperation of the Squid Game characters felt familiar.
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- Han Mi-nyeo: The loud, manipulative woman who just wanted to belong. She’s the person who’s been ignored her whole life and finally finds power in chaos.
- Jang Deok-su: The classic gangster. He’s the physical manifestation of "might makes right," and his downfall at the hands of Mi-nyeo is pure poetic justice.
- Ji-yeong: The girl with nothing left to lose. Her sacrifice for Sae-byeok remains one of the most selfless acts in the entire show.
Lessons from the Players
If you're looking for "actionable insights" from a show about mass murder, it’s not about how to win a marble game. It’s about recognizing the systems we live in.
Watch for the "Sang-woo" in your life. Not the murderer, but the mindset. The idea that someone else has to lose for you to win is a trap. It’s what the Front Man wants you to believe.
Empathy is a choice, not a weakness. Gi-hun "won" not because he was the strongest, but because he managed to keep a shred of his humanity, even if it was messy and inconsistent.
Understand the power of the "Gganbu." The show defines this as a friend with whom you share everything. In the end, the only thing that made the games bearable for the players was the fleeting connections they made.
If you're planning a rewatch before Season 2, pay attention to the backgrounds. Watch the way the characters interact when the cameras (in the show) aren't on them. The genius of the Squid Game characters isn't in their deaths—it's in the quiet, desperate ways they tried to stay alive.
Next Steps for the Superfan:
- Analyze the Color Theory: Notice how the pink of the guards contrasts with the green of the players, representing the total lack of individuality in both groups.
- Track the Foreshadowing: Every major character’s death is actually foreshadowed in the second episode, "Hell," when they return to their real lives. Look at how Deok-su jumps off a bridge or how Sae-byeok has a knife to someone's throat.
- Compare the Dub vs. Sub: If you watched the dub, go back and watch with subtitles. A lot of the nuance in the honorifics (the way characters address each other) changes the power dynamics significantly, especially between Sang-woo and Gi-hun.
The games might be fictional, but the people in them? They're everywhere.