When Netflix’s Squid Game burst onto screens in 2021, it was hailed as a searing, suspenseful critique of modern inequality—one that resonated far beyond its South Korean origins. But as the dust settles on its recently concluded third season, critics and fans alike are left wondering: what happened to the show that once so powerfully captured the world’s attention?
Season Three, which many believe will be the series’ last, picks up in the aftermath of a failed uprising that threatened to topple the perverse system at the heart of the games. The stakes, if possible, are even higher: contestants, desperate as ever, compete in deadly versions of childhood games for a shot at a life-changing cash prize. Yet, as Slate notes, the new season has ditched much of the nuance and complexity that made the original so compelling. In place of the layered, deeply human characters of Season One, viewers are confronted with moral extremes—one side represented by a literal newborn, the other by those willing to kill it. The result, critics say, is a bleak vision of humanity that makes the show’s brutal games seem almost preferable to the world outside.
“Gone are the nuanced characters of Season One—instead we get moral archetypes so exaggerated that one side is represented by a literal newborn, the other by people willing to kill it,” wrote Slate in a scathing review. The critique doesn’t stop there. The few compelling characters who do appear don’t survive, and audiences hoping for long-awaited justice are left, as the review puts it, “utterly unsatisfied.”
The season’s subplot—a detective’s dogged search for the secret island where the games are staged—feels, to many, like a narrative afterthought. “A side plot about a detective hunting for the game’s secret island in order to expose those responsible could be cut without affecting the storyline,” Slate observed. For a show that once balanced social commentary with razor-sharp suspense, this lack of narrative cohesion is a bitter pill to swallow.
Still, the show’s impact is undeniable. Squid Game was created as a commentary on South Korea’s social and economic landscape, but its message struck a chord around the globe. As Slate pointed out, “Anyone paying attention in the United States can see powerful people reveling in cruelty against those they deem less than human.” The show’s depiction of desperation and the lengths to which people will go when pushed to the brink resonated with viewers from Seoul to San Francisco. Yet, as the review laments, “That’s never been the whole story, in life or this show. There is real goodness in most people—a kind of goodness that resists cruelty, protects innocents, and fights back. Squid Game once understood that. We still need stories that do.”
But the drama hasn’t been confined to the screen. In July 2025, cast member Park Gyu-young found herself at the center of a media firestorm after a set photo she shared following Season Two inadvertently revealed a major plot development for Season Three. At a press interview that month, Park began by thanking reporters for braving the heat and acknowledged “months of disappointing conduct,” before delivering a formal 90-degree bow to the cameras. She admitted there was “no excuse” for the spoiler leak and apologized to both fans and the production team.
“While there were no hard device-sealing protocols on set, staff had stressed personal vigilance,” Park explained, according to KM Sports. Critics, however, argued that this only underscored a lack of personal discipline expected on a franchise of Squid Game’s magnitude. The press session, which stretched to nearly an hour, became less about Park’s performance or the show’s direction and more about apology, explanation, and questions about internal guidance. Attempts to steer the conversation back to character and craft repeatedly stalled as reporters, unsatisfied with the answers, returned to the spoiler incident.
The controversy might have faded, but in early September 2025, a reporter who allegedly attended the July press day posted a detailed account on social media, reigniting the backlash. The post described tense off-mic exchanges, hurried PR interventions, and persistent efforts to redirect questions—painting the event as more about reputation management than creative insight. “The timing amplified anger by suggesting unresolved unease within the room had simply gone unvoiced until now,” KM Sports reported.
As the backlash intensified, criticism of Park Gyu-young sharpened. Detractors argued that by pointing to the absence of strict on-set security, Park was shifting focus away from the personal responsibility expected in high-stakes productions. The early spread of the spoiler and the apology-dominated press cycle, critics say, became self-inflicted distractions that eclipsed the hard work of collaborators and the show’s narrative ambitions.
Calls have since grown for immediate disclosure to production after such errors, the establishment of clear personal protocols for handling sensitive information, and press sessions that strike a balance—acknowledging responsibility while still leaving room to discuss the creative work itself. “The spoiler’s early spread and an apology-dominated press cycle are now framed as self-inflicted distractions that eclipsed collaborators and narrative discussion,” KM Sports wrote.
For fans, the disappointment is twofold. Not only did the show’s final season, in the eyes of many, abandon the very themes that made it resonate worldwide, but the off-screen drama also overshadowed the efforts of hundreds of artists, writers, and crew who brought the series to life. What was once a powerful allegory about humanity’s capacity for both cruelty and compassion has, at least for now, become a cautionary tale about the dangers of losing sight of what matters—both on and off the set.
As the curtain falls on Squid Game, questions linger. Will the franchise find a way to recapture the spark that made it a global sensation? Or will its legacy be defined by a finale that, for many, missed the mark? For now, audiences are left with a show that once understood the importance of hope and resistance—and a reminder that we still need stories willing to embrace both.
