In an early episode of Squid Game 2, Seong Gi-hun (played by Lee Jung-jae) is drawn into a Halloween party, navigating through a crowd of revelers dressed in provocative costumes. Amid the chaos, he spots a masked figure in the distinctive hot-pink tracksuit of a Squid Game guard, a moment that likely nods to the surge of Squid Game-inspired Halloween costumes in 2021, just weeks after the show’s record-breaking release. While this could be a playful reference by creator Hwang Dong-hyuk to the show’s growing cultural impact, it also highlights a deeper irony: the rapid commodification of Squid Game that contradicts its original message.
From its first season, Squid Game—the brutal critique of capitalism where desperate individuals battle for survival under the gaze of wealthy elites—has evolved into a global brand. Fans purchase merchandise, partake in real-life simulations, and watch spin-offs, all of which highlight the series’ increasing commercialization. This shift is perhaps unsurprising, given that Squid Game is a product of Netflix, the world’s largest streaming platform, yet it underscores a stark irony. As the second season rolls out, the commercial success of the show now overshadows its initial political and social critique.
When we last saw Gi-hun, the remorseful victor, he had been en route to the U.S. to reunite with his daughter when he encountered the recruiter (Gong Yoo) and realized that he could not simply walk away from his fortune. Season 2 begins with Gi-hun’s decision to pursue the masterminds of Squid Game, setting the stage for his relentless quest to dismantle the deadly spectacle. Meanwhile, police detective Hwang Jun-ho (Wi Ha-jun), recovering from his near-death experience, joins Gi-hun in a mission to end the game once and for all, leading them back to Squid Game island.
Despite its compelling premise, Season 2 feels slow and repetitive. The first episodes rehash critiques of wealthy billionaires viewing Squid Game as a macabre sport, and the return of familiar elements—such as the deadly games—feels more like fan service than fresh storytelling. New players and emotional stakes emerge, but the narrative often feels like a re-run, lacking the urgency and innovation of the first season. The plot’s rhythm drags, with the voting mechanism that allows players to decide whether to continue the deadly games offering a minor thematic exploration of mob mentality. However, by the time the plot picks up, it feels like little more than a teaser for the next season.
Though Squid Game 2 isn’t without merit—it remains visually striking and features strong performances, particularly from Lee Jung-jae—the show has shifted away from its original political themes. The series now feels more like a cash-grab franchise than a work of art designed to provoke social change. This evolution reflects a broader trend, as the commodification of Squid Game has become inescapable. Official and unofficial merchandise floods the market, with collaborations from brands like Mattel, Crocs, and Johnnie Walker. Meanwhile, Netflix capitalizes on fan demand with non-lethal simulations and even immersive experiences that undermine the original message of resistance to a system that pits the poor against each other for the entertainment of the rich.
What began as a sharp critique of exploitation and inequality has morphed into a global brand, with Squid Game the show becoming overshadowed by Squid Game the product. Hwang Dong-hyuk has expressed exhaustion with the series and its commercial trajectory, revealing that he never intended to make a second season but felt compelled to continue due to insufficient compensation for the first. This frustration is evident in Season 2, which struggles to balance its original intent with the pressures of a global franchise. In the end, Squid Game’s brand dominance reflects the very system of exploitation it initially sought to critique, raising the question: Can art ever truly change the world, or does it inevitably become part of the system it criticizes?
