Goong-gi is messy. He’s impulsive, he drinks too much, and honestly, he makes some pretty terrible decisions when it comes to his heart. But that’s exactly why people can't stop talking about him. If you’ve been following the wave of Korean dramas lately, you know that the love in the big city korean bl isn't your typical "sunshine and rainbows" romance. It’s something different. Something heavier.
The show, based on the acclaimed novel by Sang Young Park, feels less like a polished K-drama and more like a fever dream of Seoul’s nightlife. It’s loud. It’s quiet. It’s lonely.
Most BLs (Boy’s Love) follow a very specific, almost clinical blueprint: two handsome guys meet, there’s a misunderstanding involving a rainy day or a shared umbrella, and they live happily ever after. This series? It throws that blueprint into the Han River. It spans ten years of a man’s life, showing us the ugly, the sweaty, and the heartbreaking reality of being a queer man in a city that doesn't always want to see you.
The Reality Check Behind Love in the Big City Korean BL
You’ve probably seen the backlash or the "controversy" headlines before the show even aired. In South Korea, conservative groups actually protested the release of the trailer. They tried to shut it down. They failed, obviously, but the friction surrounding the show’s existence is a perfect mirror for what the characters experience on screen.
Nam Yoon-su plays Goong-gi with this raw, vibrating energy. He’s a writer. He’s a friend. He’s a son dealing with a mother who is deeply religious and deeply struggling to accept him. This isn't just a "gay story." It’s a human story about the passage of time.
We see him through four distinct chapters, each helmed by a different director: Hur Jin-ho, Hong Ji-young, Son Tae-gyum, and Kim Se-in. This choice was brilliant. It gives the series a disjointed, evolving feel that mimics how we actually remember our twenties—different eras defined by different people.
One moment you're watching a vibrant, neon-soaked night out with his best friend Jae-hee, and the next, you're hit with the crushing weight of a relationship falling apart because of the stifling pressure of societal expectations. It's jarring. It's meant to be.
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Why Jae-hee is the Secret Weapon
Let’s talk about Jae-hee for a second. In most romance-focused shows, the "best friend" is a prop. They exist to give advice or provide comic relief. But in the context of love in the big city korean bl, Jae-hee (played by Choi Hee-jin) is the soul of the first half.
Their relationship is platonic, yet it’s the most intimate bond in the show. They are "roommates" in the truest, most chaotic sense. They hide each other's secrets from parents and navigate the judgmental eyes of Seoul together. When she leaves, the void is palpable. It highlights a truth that most TV shows ignore: your friends are often the great loves of your life, and losing them to "adulthood" or marriage hurts just as much as a breakup.
Breaking the "Pretty Boy" Mold
If you're coming into this expecting the soft-filter aesthetics of Semantic Error or Cherry Blossoms After Winter, prepare for a shock.
The cinematography here is grounded.
There are scenes in hospital rooms that feel suffocatingly sterile. There are scenes in cramped apartments where you can almost smell the leftover takeout and cigarette smoke. It tackles subjects that the BL genre usually treats as taboo or simply ignores: HIV/AIDS, the exhausting reality of the "closet" in a corporate environment, and the transactional nature of hookup culture.
Nam Yoon-su took a massive risk with this role. In the K-drama industry, taking a queer lead role can sometimes be a career-ender for rising stars. Instead of playing it "safe" or "soft," he leans into Goong-gi's flaws. He’s often selfish. He pushes people away. He’s relatable because he’s a disaster.
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The Four Directors, Four Flavors
Because the series is split among four directors, the tone shifts as Goong-gi ages.
- The Early Years: It’s all about the spark. The cinematography is warmer, the pacing is faster. It captures that invincibility of being twenty and thinking you have all the time in the world.
- The Mid-Section: This is where things get heavy. The reality of illness and the death of dreams starts to creep in. The color palette cools down.
- The Final Stretch: It’s contemplative. It doesn’t give you a neat bow at the end because life doesn't give you a neat bow.
This structure is why love in the big city korean bl feels more like "Prestige TV" (think HBO’s Looking or It’s a Sin) than a standard web drama. It demands your full attention. You can't just scroll through TikTok while watching this; you'll miss the subtle shift in a look or a devastating line of dialogue that redefines a whole relationship.
Dealing with the "Controversy"
It's impossible to discuss this show without mentioning the societal pushback in South Korea. The fact that a major streaming platform like TVING stood its ground and released it despite the protests is a milestone.
The author of the original book, Sang Young Park, actually wrote the screenplay for the drama. This is why it feels so authentic. It’s his voice. It’s his Seoul. When people complained that the show was "too explicit" or "promoted a lifestyle," they were essentially complaining about the existence of queer people in the city. The show doesn't argue with these people; it simply exists. It shows Goong-gi living, breathing, hurting, and loving in the same spaces as everyone else.
That’s the most "radical" thing about it. It treats queer life as mundane and epic all at once.
The Sound of Seoul
The OST (Original Soundtrack) deserves its own paragraph. It’s not just catchy pop songs. The music moves from indie-electronic vibes that fit a basement club to somber, piano-driven tracks that emphasize the silence of an empty apartment. It anchors the "big city" feeling. You feel the scale of the buildings and the anonymity of the crowds through the audio.
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What Most People Get Wrong About the Ending
People want a wedding. They want a "happily ever after" where the guy gets the guy and they move into a penthouse.
That’s not what this is.
The beauty of love in the big city korean bl lies in its ending, which focuses more on self-actualization than romantic conquest. Goong-gi learns to live with himself. He learns that the city is big, yes, but it doesn't have to be empty.
It’s an ending that feels earned. It's about resilience. It’s about the fact that even if a relationship ends, it wasn't a "waste of time." It was a chapter that made you who you are.
How to Actually Support the Genre
If you want more stories like this—stories that actually reflect the complexity of life—there are a few things you can do beyond just watching.
- Watch on Official Platforms: Use TVING or Viki. Piracy numbers don't help production companies realize there is a massive, hungry audience for mature, high-quality queer storytelling.
- Read the Source Material: Sang Young Park’s book is available in English translation. It’s just as biting and funny as the show.
- Engage with the "Real" Stories: Follow creators and activists in the Korean LGBTQ+ community. The show is a reflection of a real movement happening in Seoul right now.
- Look Beyond the "BL" Label: Start treating these shows as the character dramas they are. When we pigeonhole them as "just BL," we sometimes miss the broader artistic merit they bring to the table.
The era of the "fluff-only" Korean BL is starting to evolve. We’re seeing more grit. We’re seeing more honesty. And honestly? It’s about time. Goong-gi might be a mess, but he’s our mess, and his journey through the big city is one of the most honest things put on screen in years.
To get the most out of the experience, try watching the episodes in blocks according to the directors. It helps you digest the tonal shifts. Start with the first two episodes to catch the "vibe," but push through the middle section where things get difficult—that's where the real heart of the story lives. Pay attention to the recurring motifs of water and light; they tell a story of their own about Goong-gi's internal state that the dialogue sometimes leaves unsaid.