¶¶Òõ¾«Æ·

WHAT if the most sinister achievement of modern capitalism is its ability to convince people that their suffering is entirely self-inflicted? Netflix’s Squid Game, which burst into global consciousness in 2021, isn’t merely a dystopian thriller, it is a masterclass in economic allegory. On the surface, it tells the story of 456 people who voluntarily sign up to compete in deadly games for a life-changing prize. But dig deeper and one finds a far more disturbing truth: the games are not about choice but coercion. And it is this illusion of choice that mirrors the real-world economy, where people are not so much free as they are conditioned to believe they are.

In the show’s opening game, players are given simple, clear rules: move on green, stop on red. Everyone begins equally, or so it seems. Yet within minutes, those rules become meaningless in the face of their lethal consequences. Similarly, capitalism often masquerades as a meritocratic system: open to all, fair in principle. But when small missteps mean ruin — whether through debt, dismissal, or destitution — equality loses its substance. The economic thinkers behind neoliberalism may extol the virtues of the free market, but as economist Ha-Joon Chang has bluntly put it, ‘There is no such thing as a free market.’ Every market operates under rules, and those rules are crafted by, and for, a particular class. Just as in ‘Squid Game’, the true arbiters of the system are never those who are playing, but those who designed it.

Throughout the series, players return to the games willingly, even after being allowed to leave. Critics might say they have no one to blame but themselves. Yet, that too is part of the illusion. People take exploitative jobs not because they want to, but because the alternative — unemployment, homelessness, starvation — is worse. When survival is the only viable path, freedom becomes irrelevant. As Chang observes, ‘Free-market policies rarely make poor countries rich.’ It’s not a matter of poor choices, but of limited, often rigged, options. In ‘Squid Game’, this idea is literalised. Players vote to leave, experience the brutal realities of their lives outside, and then choose to return. Their decision is framed as consent. In truth, it is surrender to a system offering no other escape.

One of the most brutal scenes involves players being paired up, only to discover they must eliminate their partner. Trust becomes a liability. Relationships are punished. In one particularly poignant moment, Ali, the most loyal and honest contestant, is betrayed by someone he considered a friend. His decency, in the logic of the game, becomes his downfall. This, too, reflects capitalism’s cold rationality. Collaboration is lauded rhetorically, but in practice, individuals are pitted against each other — workers for wages, students for scholarships, neighbours for subsidies. Ha-Joon Chang notes that ‘markets reward behaviour that fits the game, not necessarily what is right.’

As the story progresses, viewers are introduced to the game’s creators: a cadre of elites who watch the events unfold like a grotesque sporting match. They sip wine, place bets and derive entertainment from suffering. They are not unlike the global one per cent, insulated from the brutal consequences of the systems they profit from. In ‘23 Things They Don’t Tell You About Capitalism’, Chang explains that the richest in developed nations are often paid disproportionately, not because of individual brilliance, but due to historical and structural advantages. The system doesn’t just favour them; it was built by them.

By the second season, Squid Game sheds even the pretext of ignorance. Gi-hun, the protagonist, now understands the mechanics of the game. He tries to warn new players: the system is designed to break them. Yet, they ignore him. Some mock him. Others suspect ulterior motives. Here, the show cuts closest to reality. In today’s world, whistleblowers are often ridiculed or vilified. Those who critique capitalism are dismissed as envious or naive. Chang argues that companies do not simply sell products; they sell belief. Once people internalise these beliefs — about merit, about choice, about freedom — truth loses its footing. The myth becomes the market.

Even worse, capitalism doesn’t just co-opt the oppressed; it recycles them into enforcers. The Front Man, once a victor of the game, now ensures its smooth operation. Likewise, former victims of economic hardship who ‘make it’ often become guardians of the very structures that once harmed them. Refugees opposing immigration. Working-class individuals criticising welfare. Survivors turned gatekeepers. This isn’t betrayal, but conditioning. As Chang says, ‘Governments have always picked winners; they just pretend not to.’

Season three drives this home with devastating precision. A new mother, recently given birth, returns to the game, telling herself it’s for her child. Her rationale — ‘I’ve come this far’ — echoes the logic of countless workers trapped in abusive jobs or debt cycles. It’s not about choice anymore. It’s about sunk cost, a path so far travelled that turning back feels more painful than enduring further harm. Chang summarises this trap succinctly: people stay not because they believe, but because they’ve already given too much.

Elsewhere, a newborn inherits her mother’s player number and must face a group vote. The justifications offered — protection, fairness, morality — are little more than veiled self-interest. This sequence mirrors real-world policies that dress cruelty as care: deportations for safety, welfare cuts in the name of discipline, healthcare denial as fiscal prudence. What’s being preserved isn’t justice, but comfort for those already clinging to their share.

The final episodes depict the rules falling apart altogether. Votes are voided. Contradictions pile up. The game continues not because of logic, but belief. This is capitalism’s final mutation: it no longer needs consistency, only participation. Fear and faith keep the machinery running. Chang writes that capitalism survives not by being perfect, but by dismantling belief in any alternative. In such a world, to question the game is to invite ridicule — or worse, exclusion.

But the closing moments offer something more subversive. Gi-hun chooses not to win. He forfeits the prize, saving others instead. In doing so, he performs an act that capitalism cannot compute: compassion without transaction. No reward, no gain, no strategy — just defiance through empathy. In that moment, he breaks the system’s logic. The game doesn’t end. But something shifts. Because capitalism, for all its complexity, cannot tolerate irrational humanity.

Squid Game doesn’t merely expose the cruelty of capitalism. It indicts the audience for accepting it. For saying, ‘They chose it.’ For looking away when the contract is signed. For believing that pain is deserved if it comes with a waiver. In the end, the show’s most radical claim is not about the game itself. It is about the players. And that the only true freedom may lie in choosing not to play at all.

Ìý

Shakil Ahmad is a CFA charter holder and Fulbright scholar.