He deserved better. Honestly, if you ask anyone who watched the Netflix phenomenon what their "breaking point" was, they aren’t going to talk about the giant doll or the glass bridge. They’re going to talk about Gganbu. They’re going to talk about Player 199. Specifically, they’ll talk about how Ali Abdul was too good for a world that rewarded greed.
It’s been years since Squid Game first wrecked our collective emotional stability, yet Ali remains the emotional anchor of the series. Why? Because he wasn’t just a character. He represented a very real, very marginalized segment of society that often goes invisible. An undocumented worker from Pakistan, Ali was the only person in the games who seemed to have retained his soul. While everyone else was calculating their next betrayal, Ali was busy saving Seong Gi-hun from a face-full of dirt in Red Light, Green Light.
That one moment—Ali catching Gi-hun by the back of his jacket—didn't just save the protagonist’s life. It established the central thesis of the show: humanity exists even in hell, but it usually comes at a fatal price.
The Brutal Backstory of Player 199
We first meet Ali in a state of desperation that feels itchy and uncomfortable to watch. He isn't a degenerate gambler like Gi-hun or a disgraced prodigy like Sang-woo. He’s a father. He’s a husband. He’s a man who has been systematically exploited by the South Korean industrial machine.
The show doesn't shy away from the reality of kopino or the broader struggles of migrant workers. Ali’s boss hadn't paid him in six months. Think about that. Six months of labor in a hazardous factory with nothing to show for it but a mangled hand. When Ali finally confronts his employer and a scuffle ensues, leading to the boss's hand getting crushed in the machinery, it isn't portrayed as a moment of triumph. It’s a tragedy. Ali takes the money owed to him and flees, not out of malice, but out of a biological need to provide for his wife and baby.
It’s this specific brand of desperation that makes his entry into the games so much more gut-wrenching than the others. Most players chose the game because they blew their lives on horses or stocks. Ali chose the game because the "real world" refused to pay him for the skin he’d already put in the game.
Why Ali Abdul Broke the Internet
People loved him because he was "hyung" personified. Even though he was younger than most, his deference and politeness—calling Sang-woo "Sir" or "Boss"—highlighted a cultural nuance that many Western viewers might have missed initially. He was adhering to a social hierarchy that he believed would protect him.
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He was strong, too. Physically, he was arguably the most capable player in the early rounds. During the Tug of War, his position at the back of the line was the only reason the team stayed upright. He was the literal muscle of the group, yet he possessed the temperament of a saint.
But here’s the thing about Squid Game. It’s a show designed to punish virtue.
The writers, led by Hwang Dong-hyuk, used Ali as a mirror. When we saw Ali, we saw what we hope we would be in that situation: helpful, loyal, and brave. When we saw how he was treated, we saw the reality of how the world treats those traits. He wasn’t "stupid" for trusting Sang-woo. He was hopeful. There’s a massive difference between the two, and that’s why his death feels like a personal betrayal to the audience.
The Gganbu Betrayal: A Masterclass in Pain
Let's talk about the marbles. Episode 6.
If you haven't seen it in a while, the details are what sting the most. Ali was winning. He was actually winning the game against Sang-woo fairly. He had the bag of marbles. He had the ticket home.
Then Sang-woo did the unthinkable. He didn't just trick Ali; he weaponized Ali’s respect for him. He convinced him that there was a way for both of them to survive, a way to "trick the system." He told Ali to go scout the other players while he "protected" the marbles.
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Watching Ali walk away with a bag of pebbles around his neck while Sang-woo held the real marbles is one of the most haunting images in modern television. The look on Ali’s face when he finally realizes the bag is full of rocks? That wasn't just shock. It was the realization that the one person he trusted looked at him and saw a sacrificial lamb.
Anupam Tripathi, the actor who played Ali, talked about this in several interviews. He mentioned how he tried to portray Ali as someone who truly believed in the goodness of people until the very last second. That’s why he doesn't scream or fight back when he realizes he’s lost. He just stands there, devastated. It's a quiet end for a man who lived his life trying to make as little noise as possible.
Cultural Impact and the "Model Minority" Trap
There is a deeper layer to Ali that often gets glossed over in TikTok edits and memes. Ali represents the "model immigrant"—hardworking, polite, and submissive. The show uses him to critique how society values these people only as long as they are useful.
The moment Ali became a threat to a "native" player (Sang-woo, the SNU graduate, the pride of the neighborhood), his utility ended. Sang-woo’s betrayal wasn’t just about survival; it was a subconscious assertion of superiority. He felt his life was worth more because of his education and status, whereas Ali was "just" a worker.
This resonated deeply with immigrant communities globally. Whether it’s in the UK, the US, or Korea, the "Ali" of every society is the person who does the heavy lifting but is the first to be discarded when the economy—or the game—turns sour.
What Most People Get Wrong About Ali’s Character
- He wasn't "dumb": Many critics say Ali was too naive. I disagree. Ali was operating under a different set of rules. In his mind, survival was a team sport.
- He wasn't just a sidekick: Ali was the catalyst for Gi-hun’s moral awakening. Without Ali, Gi-hun doesn't become the man who eventually tries to take down the system.
- The language barrier mattered: Ali’s struggle with Korean nuances made him vulnerable. Sang-woo used complex explanations to confuse him, a tactic often used in real-world wage theft against migrant workers.
Looking Ahead: Will We See Ali in Season 2?
Netflix has been dropping teasers for Squid Game Season 2, and while we know Gi-hun is back for revenge, the ghost of Ali Abdul hangs heavy over the production.
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Will there be flashbacks? Probably not. The show tends to move forward, not backward. However, the legacy of Ali is what drives the plot now. Gi-hun isn't just playing for himself anymore. He’s playing for the people like Ali—the ones who played by the rules and got crushed anyway.
There are rumors that Season 2 will dive deeper into the recruitment of players from different backgrounds, perhaps highlighting more stories like Ali’s to show that his experience wasn't an isolated incident. The systematic exploitation of foreign labor is a recurring theme in K-dramas (like Parasite or Lives of Others), and Squid Game is likely to double down on this.
How to Apply the "Ali Lesson" to Real Life
If you’re looking for a takeaway from Ali’s tragic arc, it’s not "don't trust anyone." That’s too cynical. Instead, look at the systemic failures that put him there.
- Advocate for Fair Labor: Ali’s story started with wage theft. Support organizations that protect migrant workers' rights.
- Recognize the "Invisible" Workforce: Notice the people doing the heavy lifting in your community. A little respect goes a long way, but fair treatment goes further.
- Question Meritocracy: The games were supposed to be "fair," but they weren't. They favored those who already knew the games or had the social capital to manipulate others. Recognizing that "fairness" is often a mask for privilege is the first step toward real change.
Ali Abdul didn't lose because he was weak. He lost because he played a game where the rules were written by people who didn't value his humanity. We see it every day. The best way to honor a character like Ali is to make sure the "real world" doesn't look quite so much like the game.
To really understand the impact, you have to look at how Anupam Tripathi’s life changed. He went from a struggling actor in Korea to a global superstar almost overnight. It's the one bit of "meta" justice we get—the man who played the most exploited character ended up winning the real-world game of recognition and success.
Next time you rewatch, pay attention to the small things. Notice how Ali always offers to help carry things. Notice how he smiles when someone uses his name. He was the heart of the show, and that heart is exactly what the game was designed to stop. Stay curious about the "Alis" in your own world. They're usually the ones holding everyone else up.