SQUID GAME
Squid Game makes you question narratives. Dramas and stories abound. These narratives give us purpose about our role in society, the type of person we should be, or how we should behave towards friends, families, and strangers. There are even stories that direct us as we age and instruct us about how we should be living.
Narratives, of course, were made for power. When the empress has the mandate of heaven, she rules under a decree that is not man-given, so it cannot be revoked by man. When the king has the blessing of God, any attempts to sabotage this rule is not just an act of political subversion, but an act of treason and heresy.
Participants of Squid Game
Although I understand the power of story-telling, still, it came as a surprise to me that a television drama made me ethically question my role in the narrative as an audience member. In the final episode, we learn why Squid Game was created. Those at the upper echelon of wealth have so much money and the pleasures of life are so readily available that they become meaningless. Those in poverty are so poor that the brutality of each day strips life of meaning. Rather than continue the mundane, they reason, a game should be created that is not just for prestige, but provides a high-stakes form of stimulation literally costing human lives.
Near the end of the season, the rich VIPs are flown onto the island where Squid Game is played to observe the final rounds for themselves. As the VIPs luxuriously watch people struggle and spend blood on the promise of treasure, the show makes you question your role by providing an eerie parallel to one's position as an audience member. You start to observe how skillfully the narrative is woven that you don't catch that you are falling into the hands of those who weave stories like a spider spins a beautiful web that delicately glistens in the morning light, almost not leaving any traces. Feeling similarly trapped, I attempt to step away, but the mystery of the conclusion keeps me hooked. I find myself cheering for a protagonist, all the while knowing that cheering for one person to win, is not simply a matter of pride. On the show, it is a matter of life and death.
And just like the audience members, I question the show, but ultimately return for more. After the first gruesome game where the participants realize they are competing for their lives, a vote is called to disband the games. The very last vote comes down to player 001, who we learn is actually the mastermind (or more accurately the ultimate villiain). Rather than vote to continue the game, even the creator votes to disband. Members return back to the banality and hardships of a larger game -- the rate race of life. Faced with such hardship, many follow Prospect Theory's tenets that those in a losing situation will be more risk-averse and decide to risk it all -- even their life -- for the chance of winning enough money to lift themselves and their families out of complicated and dire situations.
The show is meant to be a commentary on a variety of situations but I can't help but comment on my role within the narrative. That I allowed myself to become so ensnared in a show that feels so compromising and uncomfortable as you become wrapped up in each layer of the web that the show's creators have spun. It makes me think of other narratives that I've participated in. Perhaps the biggest and most important question the show raises is what are these narratives in our own lives and where should we make the vote to leave that game?