Squid Game: A Complete Series Retrospective - The Show That Changed Television

It's over. After three seasons, countless cultural moments, and more than 2 billion viewing hours, Squid Game has concluded. And sitting here after the finale, I feel something I didn't expect: gratitude.

Not just for the entertainment—though the show delivered that in abundance. Gratitude for a series that dared to be exactly what it wanted to be. That never compromised its vision despite becoming the biggest show in Netflix history. That used its platform to say something genuinely uncomfortable about our world.

This retrospective isn't a recap. It's an attempt to understand what Squid Game accomplished, why it resonated so deeply, and what it means that it's over.

Understanding the Phenomenon

The Numbers Don't Lie Squid Game became Netflix's most-watched series ever within weeks of its September 2021 premiere. It wasn't supposed to be a hit—it was a Korean-language drama with subtitles, unknown actors, and a premise that sounded absurd when described. And yet it consumed the world.

Why It Worked The brilliance was in the simplicity. Everyone knows Red Light, Green Light. Everyone understands debt, desperation, the gap between haves and have-nots. The games were universal; the message was universal. Language barriers fell because human pain needs no translation.

What I Remember I remember texting friends demanding they watch it. I remember the Halloween costumes, the dalgona candy trend, the memes. I remember the discourse about capitalism and exploitation. A show about Korea's specific economic anxieties became a mirror for global inequality.

The Cultural Moment Squid Game wasn't just popular—it was a shared experience in a fragmented media landscape. It proved that the right story could still unite audiences worldwide. That's not a small thing.

How the Show Evolved

Season 1: The Shock The first season worked because we didn't know what we were watching. The tonal shift from childhood games to bloodbath was genuinely traumatic. Gi-hun's journey from deadbeat dad to reluctant hero captivated 111 million households.

Season 2: The Expansion Returning was risky. Hwang Dong-hyuk had said he never planned to continue the story. Season 2 had to justify its existence—and it did by shifting focus. This wasn't about survival anymore; it was about resistance. Gi-hun's attempt to destroy the games from within added moral complexity the first season only hinted at.

Season 3: The Ending The final season was always going to divide audiences. How do you end something this big? Hwang chose tragedy over triumph, message over satisfaction. Gi-hun's death wasn't crowd-pleasing—it was thematically essential. You cannot beat the system by playing the system's game.

What Held It Together Across three seasons, the show maintained its core thesis: capitalism kills, and we're all complicit. The games escalated; the stakes heightened; the message sharpened. Whether you loved or hated the ending, you can't say it was inconsistent.

Characters Who Haunted Me

Gi-hun (Seong Gi-hun) From 456 to sole survivor to martyr. Gi-hun's arc is the show's arc. Lee Jung-jae gave a performance that ranged from pathetic to heroic, often in the same scene. His death in the finale hurt precisely because we'd spent three seasons hoping he'd find redemption.

Sang-woo The tragedy of Cho Sang-woo cuts deeper on rewatch. A brilliant man destroyed by shame, whose every betrayal stemmed from the inability to admit failure. His Season 1 suicide wasn't weakness—it was the only moral choice he had left.

The Front Man (In-ho) The show's most complex villain. A former winner twisted by the games he survived. Season 3's suggestion that even he could make a different choice—that the system doesn't have to win—might be the show's most hopeful moment.

Kang Sae-byeok Still breaks my heart. The North Korean defector who just wanted safety for herself and her brother. Her death in Season 1 remains the show's cruelest moment.

Il-nam The old man twist in Season 1 was the best twist I've seen in years. Every rewatch reveals new details about how the show played fair. His final game with Gi-hun—betting on whether a homeless man would receive help—was the thematic heart of everything.

The Message That Mattered

What Squid Game Was Really About Strip away the games, the violence, the spectacle. Squid Game was asking one question: What would you sacrifice to escape poverty? And following up with: Why do we accept a system that forces that question?

Capitalism as Horror The VIPs watching contestants die for entertainment weren't subtle. They weren't supposed to be. The wealthy literally betting on the poor's survival—it's not metaphor, it's reality with a mask removed.

The Myth of Fair Competition The games appeared equal. Everyone had the same rules. But not everyone had the same starting point. Not everyone had the same information. The "fairness" was always an illusion—exactly like the meritocracy we're sold.

Complicity Here's what made me uncomfortable: I enjoyed watching. So did billions of others. We watched suffering for entertainment and called it art. The show knew this. The VIPs were us.

Hope Despite Everything And yet—Gi-hun tried. For three seasons, against impossible odds, he tried to do something. The show doesn't promise success, but it insists on the attempt. That matters.

The Legacy of Squid Game

For Korean Entertainment Squid Game smashed barriers. Korean content wasn't a niche anymore—it was the mainstream. Parasite opened the door; Squid Game kicked it down. The streaming industry's approach to international content changed overnight.

For Television The show proved that uncompromising vision could achieve mass appeal. Hwang didn't soften his message or pander to Western audiences. He made exactly the show he wanted, in his language, about his country—and the world responded.

For Netflix Squid Game became Netflix's crown jewel during a period of subscriber struggles. The reality show, the games merchandise, the cultural saturation—all of it stemmed from a show the platform almost passed on.

The Imitators Every streaming service now wants its Squid Game. Most attempts have failed because they missed the point. It wasn't about the games; it was about the desperation that made people play them.

What I'll Remember Years from now, I'll remember the doll's song, the sound of shattering glass on the bridge, the green tracksuits. But more than that, I'll remember how a show about deadly games made me think about how we live.

Final Thoughts: Why It Ended Right

The Controversial Ending Gi-hun dying upset people. The baby "winning" felt like a cop-out to some. No cathartic destruction of the games. No clear victory. I understand the frustration.

Why It Worked But here's why I think the ending was right: Squid Game was never going to give us a fantasy of systemic change. That would undermine everything it said for three seasons. Real systems don't fall because one person tries hard enough. Real change takes generations—symbolized by the baby who inherits a different future.

What Hwang Gave Us He gave us a show that trusted its audience. That didn't explain away its darkness. That ended without easy comfort. That's rare. That's valuable.

My Gratitude I'm grateful Squid Game existed. I'm grateful it ended before it overstayed its welcome. I'm grateful that something this uncompromising became this beloved.

The games are over. But the questions they raised about our world? Those we're still living with.

Red light.