Squid Game Season 3: Waste All, Want Not
by Jasmine Edwards
Netflix’s Squid Game has never said anything unique about capitalism. Instead, it reaffirms certain truths: money turns us into monsters, greed makes us dehumanize others, and wealth does not bring true happiness. Exploitation, commodification, objectification, dissociation—it’s all there in crystal clear high definition. Absent of any particularly novel ideas, however, Squid Game still compels global audiences. Because, juxtaposing the most vile aspects of humanity, the show always and often reaffirms the intrinsic values of love, altruism, and family.
The series asks, “After watching that, do you still have faith in people?” And we can’t help but answer, yes. We’ve just witnessed senseless violence, abundant waste, and been forced to participate as VIP voyeurs, rooting for specific outcomes and characters. Yet certain scenes and messages shine brighter than the betrayals and bloodshed.
At its core, Squid Game is about fatherhood, failure, and second chances. In Season 1, the protagonist, Gi-hun, loses custody of his daughter, and more importantly, her respect due to his gambling habits. Focused on his finances, he misses crucial parts of her life. In Season 2, Gi-hun earns a chance to redeem himself as a paternal figure not to his own daughter, but rather to the new players. As a veteran of the games, Gi-hun offers advice and protection—and, like children, the players either listen or ignore to both their benefit and detriment.
The most devastating part of the games is the lack of opportunity or do-overs. In life, in parenthood, people are granted the chance to do better. Make mistakes, but learn from them. By bringing Gi-hun back during Season 2, he’s afforded an opportunity that the games otherwise deem impossible. And he takes the chance like a dad promising to do better after the divorce.
Squid Game Season 3 drives this message home with searing clarity. After a failed rebellion, Gi-hun surrenders completely. His continued abstention from votes to end the games highlights how utterly defeated and depressed he is. Although he’s a far cry from Season 1 Gi-hun, this despairing, guilt-ridden side of him is not all that dissimilar.
What finally awakens Gi-hun’s lost passion to fight is Jun-hee’s baby. Born during a harrowing round of hide-and-seek, the infant is a perfect paragon of innocence. Moreover, the baby, her mother, and Geum-ja remind Gi-hun of humanity’s infinite potential for compassion. This baby is the future; Gi-hun must save her at any cost.
Unfortunately, Squid Game Season 3 is still incredibly male-dominated. Fatherhood is beautiful, Gi-hun is easy to root for, but we lose so many women for him to shine. Their sacrifices feel cheap compared to his. Sloppy writing leads to rushed endings for many characters who surely would have gone on fighting—all so Gi-hun can play god, hero, and martyr in the finale. I cannot decide if that was an intentional comment on how often women are forgotten in a sexist society, or if the showrunners just couldn’t envision a world where the man doesn’t come out on top. I’m leaning toward the latter.
The series finale also includes some pretty mixed messaging. Squid Game can’t figure out if it wants to be hopeful or hopeless. Therefore, it straddles an ending somewhere in the middle, reaffirming this cycle of the rich forever taking advantage of the poor. Perhaps that’s topical or realistic, but in a fictional series with infinite possibilities, I would have preferred a little optimism. Idealism, even, if they think a kinder world is so obviously unobtainable. Instead, we get a wink and a nod to a potential spin-off show . . . as if senseless capitalism is not the very thing they’ve been criticizing since 2021.