Squid Game: Season 2 Review

Let’s start by showing y’all the trailers shall we?

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Wait… why is it called Squid Game again?

Okay, so if you’re like me and sat through three seasons wondering where the actual squid was, you’re not crazy. You probably thought the name was just edgy nonsense, like calling a dystopian horror series Goldfish Brawl or Octopus Trials. But it turns out, Squid Game is actually based on a real Korean kids’ game from the ’70s and ’80s. The original version involves drawing a squid-like shape on the ground and playing an aggressive version of tag with offense and defense.

Do they explain this clearly in the show?
Nope.
Not until the final episode of Season 1, by which point you’ve watched people die over marbles, hopscotch, and crypto fraud, and you’re just emotionally cooked.

So if you were confused by the title and were expecting a giant cephalopod to show up and host the games—same. But the name sticks because it’s nostalgic and culturally relevant in Korea, even if the show itself mostly revolves around triangles, circles, and squares like we’re trapped in some deathmatch version of a PlayStation logo.

⚠️ Content Warning & Viewer Advisory:

Squid Game is not just violent — it’s psychologically brutal, morally exhausting, and hauntingly real. If you’re expecting a simple game of survival with flashy colors and suspense, prepare yourself: this show goes far beyond shock value. It dives deep into economic despair, exploitation, and systemic cruelty that mirrors our own reality in disturbingly accurate ways.

Episodes contain graphic depictions of murder, suicide, organ trafficking, and manipulation of the most vulnerable — including the elderly, the indebted, and the mentally unwell. The emotional toll is just as intense as the physical violence. You will watch good people break. You will see innocence weaponized. And worst of all? You’ll realize none of it is as far-fetched as it seems.

If you are sensitive to themes of desperation, hopelessness, betrayal, or financial exploitation, this show could be emotionally triggering. Approach with caution, and don’t be afraid to step away if it becomes too much.

This is not just a game.
It’s a mirror.
And some reflections aren’t easy to look at.

Non-Spoiler Plot Overview:
Season 2 picks up right after the events of Season 1, and it’s a chaotic reunion of returning trauma, corporate manipulation, and deadly childhood games. Gi-hun is back and on a mission. After tracking down the man who recruits contestants with a slap to the face and a mysterious card, Gi-hun volunteers to re-enter the game to try and expose it from within. Except, plot twist: this time, the games are… different. Not just in format, but in how they’re presented and manipulated.

We’re introduced to a whole new set of contestants — some good, some idiotic, and some just there to be awful. There’s now a twist: players can vote to leave after each game, and if they do, they walk away with the money they’ve earned so far. This time, the game is supposedly “more fair,” but as expected, things go off the rails real fast.
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Character Rundown:

Gi-hun (a.k.a. the main character) returns more determined, a bit more calculating, but still holding on to a shred of morality in a world that rewards cruelty.

Gi-hun’s friend joins the game again, and while he pretends to be loyal, his motives are clearly not in anyone’s best interest.

Kang Dae-Ho, a former marine with “Yes, sir!” energy, quickly turns into a comic relief drill sergeant type who salutes more than he thinks.

Front Man disguises himself as a player (Player 1) this season to keep tabs on the operation and manipulate outcomes firsthand. His backstory is expanded, and it’s revealed he once gave his liver to his dying brother — a twisted echo of the story he now tells others.

Cho Hyun-Ju, a trans woman who shows up with a kind heart and a lot of pain. She befriends Young-Mi, a shy, traumatized girl who slowly opens up.

Now real quick, let’s talk about Cho Hyun Ju. Easily one of the best new characters. A transgender woman who actually has depth, who’s strong, who’s caring, who literally sacrifices herself to save a baby and its mom. She’s not treated like a joke. She’s not some walking stereotype. She feels real. And yeah, I got attached.

But here’s the thing that’s got me torn: she’s played by a male actor in real life. His name’s Park Sung-hoon. And like—on one hand? He kills it. He brings so much emotion to the role. It never feels mocking or fake. You can tell he actually cared about portraying her with respect. But on the other hand… he’s not trans. And that matters.

This is one of those situations where yeah, some people might watch and think “What’s the problem? He did a great job!” And I get that. But for a lot of trans people — and even more folks in the broader LGBTQ+ community — it might still feel frustrating or even hurtful. Not all, of course. I’m sure there are some who appreciated the performance, and I’m not here to speak for everyone. But it’s a pattern we’ve seen way too often: cisgender actors being chosen over actual trans performers to tell trans stories.

That choice sends a message — even if unintentionally — that being trans is just a role to play, not a lived experience. And while this character was written with care and acted with talent, the casting still hits a nerve. It’s complicated. It’s touchy. And yeah, it’s going to sit differently with different people.

So I’m split. I loved Cho. I think Park Sung-hoon acted the hell out of that role. But I also wish a trans actress had been given the chance to bring her to life. Both things can be true at once.

Ok update, I just read something that kinda lessens the controversy for me.

Originally, I was torn about the casting of Cho Hyun Ju. She’s a great character — written with depth, played with care, and genuinely one of the few lights in a bleak season. But the fact that she was portrayed by a cisgender male actor still felt… off. It’s a pattern we’ve seen too often: trans characters being played by cis actors, turning lived experiences into roles instead of giving those experiences to people who’ve actually lived them.

But then I found out something important: the director did try to cast a transgender Korean actress first. He just couldn’t find one. And when you think about Korea’s limited representation for trans performers — especially in mainstream media — that makes sense. It’s not that he didn’t care. He did. He tried. And instead of scrapping the character or turning her into a caricature, he cast someone who handled the role with genuine empathy and respect.

So yeah, it’s still not ideal. And sure, that frustration about representation doesn’t magically go away. But knowing that this wasn’t laziness or erasure — knowing that the team wanted to do right by the community and just didn’t have the resources — makes a difference. Park Sung-hoon clearly cared about playing Cho with dignity, and the writing supported that.

It’s complicated. But at least this time, it came from a place of intentional care — not indifference.

Jang Geyma-Ja, an elderly woman who survived the Korean War and came into the game to pay off her son’s debt.

Park Yong-Sik, her son, who has zero problem calling his own mother dumb.

Seon Nyeo, the bizarre religious lady who speaks in cryptic riddles and keeps telling people their deaths are fate.

“Thanos”, a purple-haired rapper with no respect for anyone and whose nickname alone deserves jail time. He bullies a crypto dude who got him and thousands of others scammed due to bad financial advice. Their subplot is both frustrating and cartoonish.

Heck one bis first lines to crypto coin man was “You don’t know me, but I know you G”

I know you G? What writing is this? Is this how Gen Z talk? And somehow he’s a fan favorite how?

Okay, let’s talk about the “scandal” surrounding T.O.P — aka the actor who plays Thanos in Squid Game Season 2 — because this entire controversy is the biggest waste of outrage since people got mad that the Little Mermaid wasn’t white.

So what did he do? Murder someone? Start a cult? Launder billions?
Nope.
He smoked weed.

That’s it.
That’s the tweet.

And somehow in South Korea, that’s treated like he summoned Satan using a bong and sacrificed a K-pop idol on a blood altar. The man got caught with weed, got fired from the police force, did prison time, finished probation back in 2019, apologized for being a disappointment, and quietly dipped.

Fast forward years later:
He joins Squid Game Season 2 and suddenly the internet’s acting like Netflix hired Satan himself. Meanwhile, Hollywood keeps handing movie deals to men with laundry lists of sexual assault allegations and calls it a “comeback.”

Let’s be real — the only crime here is the fact that his character is a crypto bro with purple hair named Thanos.
Not the weed.
The hair. The nickname. The line “I know you, G.”
That’s what we should be investigating.

The man paid his dues and moved on. Maybe society should do the same.
Or, I dunno, maybe go cry into a bag of Doritos about a real issue.

Also there’s a crazy religious nut job who speaks in vague mystical mumbo jumbo, speaking of. We got to talk about her.

The Discount Mi-nyeo Problem: When Copying Chaos Goes Wrong

Season 2 clearly wanted to recreate the wild-card magic of Season 1’s Mi-nyeo (Player 212)—the unhinged queen of chaos who made threats, made deals, and made damn sure she went out taking someone with her. Love her or hate her, she was unforgettable. A train wreck with purpose.

But what did we get instead?

Seon Nyeo—a cryptic religious lady who wanders around whispering vague prophecies like she’s possessed by a haunted Bible app. She’s not chaotic, she’s just… confusing. Instead of giving us tension or comic relief, she gives us doomsday monologues no one asked for.

> “Your death is not the end. It is the beginning.” Okay cool, now pass the soup?



She doesn’t manipulate anyone, doesn’t stir the pot, doesn’t advance the plot. She’s just there—murmuring like she’s reading fortune cookies soaked in trauma.

If Mi-nyeo was chaotic evil, Seon Nyeo is chaotic filler.

It’s clear the writers tried to hit the same tone—a morally gray, unhinged woman who shakes things up—but this ain’t it. Seon Nyeo feels less like a character and more like someone the show forgot to edit out. They took the idea of unpredictability and replaced it with ✨aura and vibes✨—which doesn’t work when you’re surrounded by players literally stabbing each other over rice.

She’s not the next Mi-nyeo. She’s Mi-nyeo after drinking expired holy water and wandering into the wrong genre.


The Pregnant Woman, here to find her ghosting husband. Spoiler alert: he’s in the game too.

Hwang Jun-ho is alive! After Season 1, he’s demoted to traffic duty but is still investigating the Games, eventually trailing Gi-hun again.

Character Spotlight: Number 11 and Cho Hyun Ju

Out of the chaos, betrayals, and Gen Z nonsense Season 2 threw at us, two characters rose above the noise: Number 11 and Cho Hyun Ju.

Number 11, a Squid Games guard, instantly became a fan-favorite (well, my favorite) not just because she had a gun and aim, but because she actually had a soul. Her backstory hits hard: she works at a carnival and connects with a little girl battling cancer — only to later spot the child’s dad among the new contestants. That moment when she sees him through the sniper scope and chooses to protect him? That’s not just character development. That’s cinema. While everyone else is stabbing each other for soup, Number 11 is pulling double duty: surviving the games and secretly trying to keep one decent man alive. She’s gritty, selfless, and proves you don’t need a flashy entrance to steal a season.

Then there’s Cho Hyun Ju — the trans contestant who, against all odds and prejudice, steps into the games with strength and compassion. She’s instantly likable and you feel yourself rooting for her the moment she teams up with timid Young Mi. Their unlikely bond gives Season 2 some of its rare moments of heart. Cho stands out in a cast that often leans into caricatures, and she brings quiet resilience in a blood-soaked circus. She’s not loud. She’s not flashy. She’s just real — and in a show this bleak, that’s powerful.

Both Number 11 and Cho Hyun Ju are the kind of characters that remind you there’s still humanity buried somewhere in the brutality — even if it’s wearing a mask or dodging bullets.

Example of the Most Absurd Dialogue Exchange (aka the “Marine Sir! Sir!” Moment):

There’s a scene in Season 2 that almost feels like it was written during a military-themed improv session after too much caffeine. Front Man (in disguise) is hanging out with Gi-hun and his friend — I don’t remember the guy’s name, look, I barely remember my own sometimes — when a new contestant approaches. This guy, Kang Dae-ho (ponytail and all), asks if he can join their group. But instead of a normal conversation, we launch into what I can only describe as Marine Theater™.

Here’s a paraphrased breakdown of how it plays out:

> Kang Dae-ho: “Please sir, give me a chance, sir!”

Gi-hun’s friend (noticing a tattoo): “Wait… Marines? Which cohort?”

Kang: “Victory at all costs, sir! Cohort 1140, sir!”

Friend (rips off jacket dramatically): “746. Welcome, Marine.” (Shoulder pat.)

Kang: “SIR!”

Friend (laughing): “I like your discipline.” (Another shoulder pat.)

Kang: “SIR!!”

Friend (laughing harder): [pats again]

Kang: “SIR!!”

Friend: “Hahaha.”

Kang: “SIR!!!”

This whole scene lasts under a minute, but it feels like it goes on for days. It’s like watching two NPCs glitch in a Call of Duty lobby.

Also, here’s a second example of dialogue so cringe it should come with a chiropractor:

At one point, Thanos (no, not the Marvel one — just a dude who thinks he’s terrifying because he’s bald and loud) walks up to a woman—Player 380—and tries to recruit her to his little goon squad.

Thanos: “We want you on our team.”

Player 380: “Why should I?”

One of his minions: “Don’t worry, Thanos will protect you.”

Player 380: “Thanos, huh? What did you do, collect all the Infinity Stones?”

[Insert visible eye-roll and death of secondhand dignity]

Thanos (doing weird jazz hands): “Yes, of course! I’ll destroy anyone who dares stand in my way of greatness!”

Okay, Shakespeare, calm down. This isn’t Comic-Con. No one asked for your villain monologue. The only thing you’re snapping is the audience’s will to live.
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Pacing / Episode Flow:
The season starts off a little clunky. With so many new characters, and several of them being loud Gen Z caricatures, it takes a minute to find the emotional anchor again. However, once the games begin and the stakes rise, so does the tension. Episodes 3 through 6 hit hard, leading into a wild back-half with betrayal, brutal deaths, and a half-baked revolution. The slower subplots — like the guards debating ethics or the marine saluting too much — weirdly balance out the chaos.

I have 1 con with this sesson, and it’d that this time around I cared less about the contestants minus the small handful, but I mean like the ones I should be hating for script reasons, I ended up hating because they represented Gen Z and I hate Gen Z, especially the entitled ones.
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Final Thoughts:
This season tries to build on Season 1’s themes of economic desperation, morality, and trauma, but adds in a layer of chaos that doesn’t always work. Some of the new characters are clearly there for commentary (like the crypto guy or the influencer-esque bullies), but others feel like cheap filler. That said, there are standout moments — Gi-hun’s moral struggle, the trans and shy girl friendship, the elder mother-son arc, and Front Man’s unraveling persona.

It’s not as tight or groundbreaking as Season 1, but it’s still engaging. The added ability to vote out after each game is a cool twist, and the restructured format gives it some rewatch value. But wow, the new players are exhausting at times.

But let this be known this is the type of show where I’ll ever watch once and never again, it’s that bleak.

I wouldn’t call my relationship with Squid Game “mixed” — that’s way too soft. It’s emotional blackmail. This show drags me in with gripping tension, a few phenomenal characters, and insane plot twists… only to repeatedly gut-punch me by killing off the best ones and leaving the worst people standing. Every season, I tell myself, “Don’t get attached,” and every season, I do. And then they die. It’s not entertainment anymore — it’s a trap I keep walking into voluntarily. I love it. I hate it. And yet I can’t look away.

This isn’t love. This is Stockholm Syndrome storytelling. Squid Game has me emotionally handcuffed, and just when I think I’m free? It hits me with another character death or existential gut punch. I’m not mixed on this show—I’m trapped in a twisted emotional hostage situation with my own feelings.
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🎵 Favorite Song:

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☣️ Rating: 9/10


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🚨 Spoiler Warning!
From here on out, full spoilers ahead. You’ve been warned. 🚨


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Spoilers:

Gi-hun hires people to track down the Games and ends up inserting himself back in to expose them.

He has a tracker tooth installed, but it doesn’t do much once Front Man figures things out.

Front Man is undercover as Player 1 and watches everything.

The games are new: Green Light/Red Light returns, but others include multi-leg group games like ddjaki, gong-gi, spinning tops, and jegi.

Thanos and his goons bully the crypto guy, and in a wild moment, Front Man beats Thanos up during lunch in front of everyone to remind him who’s in charge.

Cho (the trans woman) is discriminated against by other players, but forms a powerful bond with Young-Mi.

A cancer-stricken child’s father is in the game, and his ex (a guard) tries to secretly protect him.

Seon Nyeo repeatedly predicts deaths and tries to manipulate Cho emotionally.

Front Man fakes wanting to leave the game to stir things up.

The crypto guy is held hostage by Thanos’ group.

Thanos gets stabbed in the neck during a fight in the bathroom.

The revolution plot kicks off during the massacre, but ammo shortages and hesitation lead to failure.

Gi-hun’s friend pretends to help but betrays him.

In a devastating finale, Front Man kills Gi-hun’s friend in front of him, declaring: “Player 456, did you have fun playing the hero? Now witness the consequences of your actions.”


Brutal. Bleak. Frustrating. But unforgettable.

At least Season 2 tried something different.

Say what you want about this season — it wasn’t perfect, but it tried. It shifted the lens, expanded the lore, and dipped its toes into new territory with themes like guilt, trauma, and aftermath. It was quieter, more introspective. Less “death carnival,” more “what happens when the carnival’s over and you’re still breathing.”

Season 3? Nah. Season 3 looked at all that and said: let’s roll it back.

We’re right back to status quo (yeah, that’s how you spell it, but also who cares because it’s crumbling). The games are back. The masks are back. The message is back: rich people pull the strings, and everyone else breaks or bleeds. The nuance of Season 2 is gone — traded in for familiar shock value and recycled nihilism.

It’s not that the message is bad — it’s powerful, even relevant. But we’ve heard it before. Season 1 shouted it. Season 3 just echoes.