456 people dressed in green tracksuits are placed on a giant chessboard. They gamble with their lives for a seemingly grand reward of 45.6 billion won. Yet behind the illusion of fairness, every participant, every guard, and even the viewers beyond the screen are merely pieces in the hands of the system, their distant gazes absorbed as part of its design. When one season ends, a new game begins. Violence is repeated, repackaged, and sold again. This is the very reality that Squid Game reveals, a system that commercializes both violence and humanity. Across its three seasons, Squid Game no longer frames itself as a story of heroic resistance to a dehumanizing game structure. Instead, it turns violence into a consumable moral spectacle by pulling even its most humane characters into its rules. Seong Gi-hun’s crossing the line into killing is not presented as growth but as a deliberate removal of him as a “pure resistor,” allowing the game’s violent logic to persist and remain marketable on a global scale.
In the first season, Gi-hun (Player 456) is not yet positioned as the direct opponent of the system. Instead, within its brutal rules, he strives to preserve compassion, trust, and fairness as a “moral individual.” This early portrayal of humanity becomes the very material that will later be transformed into spectacle. Facing extreme pressure to survive, Gi-hun repeatedly demonstrates compassion and moral choice, such as helping Ali Abdul (Player 199) and refusing to deceive the old man Oh Il-nam (Player 001). In the final round, Gi-hun refuses to kill his friend Cho Sang-woo (Player 218) and suggests ending the game, showing that humanity still struggles against the system. Sang-woo’s eventual suicide reveals that even when Gi-hun tries to preserve his humanity, the system continues to produce death, proving that its power surpasses individual morality.
Through these scenes, the show seems to promote genuine morality and humanity, yet even these values become part of the spectacle, turning ethical struggle into something for the audience to consume. As Guy Debord points out, in modern society, “life is presented as an immense accumulation of spectacles,” and “the social relationship between people is mediated by images” (Debord 1, 4). In other words, authentic experience is no longer directly lived but is displayed, watched, and consumed. In Squid Game, Gi-hun’s moral struggle and ethical choices are filmed, packaged, and distributed, becoming emotional points of resonance for the audience. His goodness is not the genuine human experience the creator intends to convey but rather a sentimental spectacle transformed by the capitalist system into something consumable, confirming Debord’s idea that real life has been reduced to mere representation.
The portrayal of Gi-hun’s basic humanity in Season 1 establishes a moral image that can be consumed, laying the groundwork for the illusion of resistance in the following seasons. By the time the narrative enters Season 2, what appears to be Gi-hun’s rebellion is already shaped by the logic of the system itself. As some critics note, contemporary capitalism is capable of absorbing and commodifying even forms of resistance, turning defiance into yet another spectacle that can be circulated and consumed (Sá Carvalho). Gi-hun’s return to the game follows this pattern: he enters believing he is fighting back, yet his resistance is reabsorbed by the system and transformed into both narrative and market appeal. The audience experiences the illusion of justice being fulfilled, yet becomes more deeply entangled in the emotional cycle of violence produced by the game. This tension between defiance and control sets the stage for the conflicts that follow, where Gi-hun’s actions reveal how rebellion itself becomes part of the spectacle.
Gi-hun returns to the arena with the conviction to dismantle the system, but this time, he abandons the rules, leading an armed assault and attempting to overthrow authority through violence. His rebellion ultimately evolves into another cycle of brutality, as those he sought to protect perish amid the chaos. The system does not collapse; instead, it feeds on Gi-hun’s resistance, transforming it into greater dramatic tension and audience fascination, turning rebellion itself into material for the very spectacle that sustains the regime. This process directly reflects what Guy Debord describes in his theory of “spectacular consumption.” Guy Debord writes that “the spectacular consumption that preserves past culture in congealed form, including co-opted rehashes of its negative manifestations” reveals how the spectacle absorbs even what once opposed it (Debord 192). Similarly, in Squid Game, acts of rebellion and self-sacrifice are reabsorbed by the system and transformed into consumable emotions, turning moral resistance into a sellable spectacle. Kim and Park argue that the appeal of Squid Game lies in its “dialectic of competition and cooperation,” which captivates audiences through the simultaneous pull of violence and humanity. In Season 2, this dialectical structure extends into the realm of rebellion, as Gi-hun’s resistance functions both as a cooperative awakening and as a continuation of competitive logic. The system thrives on this paradox between outward defiance and internal compliance, generating new dramatic intensity that draws viewers even deeper into the emotional cycle of violence.
Gi-hun’s rebellion in Season 2 does not dismantle the structure of the game; instead, it becomes the narrative fuel that sustains its popularity. As audiences consume the image of resistance, they unknowingly enable the system to renew and perpetuate itself. As the illusion of rebellion fades, Season 3 reveals the system’s final triumph, where moral resistance disintegrates and humanity itself becomes absorbed into the very structure of obedience that sustains violence. This dynamic unfolds as Gi-hun crosses the moral boundary and kills Kang Dae-ho (Player 388), erasing his once-savior identity. In the end, his suicide allows the baby to survive and “win.” On the surface, this appears to symbolize the return of humanity, yet in truth, such sacrifice is consumed by both the system and the spectators, turning it into a new moral spectacle. Violence and humanity are no longer opposites but merge under the logic of capital, repackaged as emotional products for global circulation.
When Gi-hun kills Dae-ho, his action is no longer driven purely by the instinct to survive. It becomes a form of violence shaped and justified by both the system’s rules and his personal emotions. He exercises violence in the very way the system has taught him, attempting to end brutality through brutality, yet in doing so, he becomes the perpetrator he once resisted becoming. His image as a “moral savior” is completely dismantled, and his actions inadvertently sustain the very cycle of systemic violence he sought to destroy. This moral collapse reaches its culmination in the final episode, when Gi-hun throws himself from the platform, allowing the baby to survive and win. On the surface, this appears to signify moral transcendence, but in truth, it represents the emotional climax carefully engineered by the system. Having already lost his identity as a “pure resistor” when he killed Dae-ho, Gi-hun’s sacrifice functions as the system’s rebranding of collapsed humanity into a moving performance. The audience’s sympathy turns them into accomplices within the mechanism of violence, while the system itself gains new life and legitimacy through this emotional consumption. Such continuity is reinforced in the final shot, which shows a “new recruitment” beginning in North America, echoing the upcoming Squid Game: The Challenge Season 2 reality series. This parallel suggests that the system has not ended but has instead been repackaged into an even more commercialized form, allowing violence to continue under the guise of entertainment.
The persistence of the system’s violence lies not in open coercion but in the silent obedience and emotional conditioning that make individuals its unwitting instruments. As Hannah Arendt points out in Eichmann in Jerusalem, the “banality of evil” does not arise from individual wickedness but from the moment when people, within a system, abandon thought and submit to rules, thereby unconsciously becoming agents in the continuation of violence. Similarly, in Gi-hun’s killing of Kang Dae-ho, we see the automation of violence shaped by the logic of the system itself. Believing he is resisting the system, Gi-hun instead reproduces its mechanisms of violence, perpetuating the very structure he seeks to destroy. This dynamic reflects what Lucia Grosaru points out in her social analysis of Squid Game: “What keeps the game going is lack of education, emotional manipulation, and coercion,” a structure that allows both participants and viewers to sustain the system’s operation. She explains that the system does not rely on external coercion but instead constructs the illusion of “voluntary participation,” leading individuals to believe they remain in control while psychologically reproducing the very order that confines them (Grosaru). This mechanism clarifies why Gi-hun’s “heroic sacrifice” is not an act of rebellion but an extension of the system’s emotional logic. When the audience is moved and accepts the “meaning” of his death, the system gains new legitimacy and vitality through empathy itself. As The Guardian reported, although Squid Game carries strong anti-capitalist themes, Netflix simultaneously launched collaborations with McDonald’s and Uber (D’Souza). Director Hwang Dong-hyuk also stated, “For me and Netflix, we started out wanting to create a commercial product” (D’Souza). This reveals that all the narratives of “resistance” and “humanity” in the series are ultimately absorbed and reproduced by capital as a commercial spectacle, confirming Debord’s prophecy that even resistance itself can be absorbed and reproduced as part of the spectacle.
In Season 3, Gi-hun’s sacrifice is no longer an act of resistance but an emotional performance jointly consumed by the system and the audience. Humanity and violence are packaged as affective, marketable commodities, becoming a new means through which capital and the global entertainment industry sustain the myth of the system.
The three seasons of Squid Game trace a trajectory from human struggle to the disillusionment of rebellion, and finally to the commodification of emotion. The moral boundaries that still exist in the first season are gradually absorbed into the “narrative of resistance” in the second, and by the third, they have become emotional products circulating within global capitalism. Violence and humanity are no longer opposites but together form a spectacle to be consumed. When the audience is moved by sacrifice, this machinery-like system does not end but continues to operate amid applause and tears. Ultimately, Squid Game reveals not the failure of Gi-hun, but the futility of resistance itself, showing how modern society sustains violence and control under the guise of empathy and entertainment. In the end, Squid Game leaves us not as spectators, but as part of the spectacle itself.
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