The problem isn’t that the world works like Squid Game.
The problem is that we have already accepted it as normal.
This is not simply a television series. It is a brutal allegory that exposes, with surgical precision, how global power operates. South Korea delivered to the world a ferocious parable: behind the neon lights lies blood. Behind the game lies economic extermination. Behind the entertainment lies a geopolitical war for the remaining spoils of the planet.
Because that is the world today: a ruthless competition for survival in a system that rewards the most merciless, not the most just. And while the players in the series are desperate debtors, in reality the participants are entire nations, multinational corporations, and governments competing in an arena built by the owners of the game.
Indebted Nations as Marked Players
Every contestant in Squid Game is there because they have no economic escape. Reduced to their bare minimum: a human asset in the red.
That is the same logic governing the global economy: peripheral countries trapped in unpayable debt, strangled by compound interest, forced to fight one another for crumbs of foreign investment.
- Argentina negotiating with the IMF is basically Player 456 trying to survive one more round.
- The Congo fighting for sovereignty over coltan is a player surrounded by snipers.
Countries do not negotiate as equals. They compete under rules engineered so they always lose, while the “VIPs” enjoy the spectacle of suffering from a safe distance.
In Squid Game, the organizers do not merely allow carnage—they monetize it. Corporations behave the same way: they do not seek human well-being, but market control, resource extraction, and the transformation of human needs into profit.
Every corporation has its own Squid Game:
Precarious workers.
Indebted consumers.
Algorithms exploiting attention, time, and mental health.
The rules are obscure. The contract is unbreakable. The match is stacked.
And when someone rebels, they are eliminated—quietly, legally, digitally.
The VIP Spectators
The most disturbing scene in Squid Game is also the most realistic: a group of wealthy men, disguised behind golden masks, watching the massacre for entertainment.
That is precisely how vulture funds behave when they speculate on bankrupt nations. While thousands starve, migrate, or die in resource wars, global elites bet on “outcomes,” “growth forecasts,” and “market opportunities.”
Climate change? They blame individuals for leaving the lights on, while the richest 1% emit more carbon than all African nations combined.
In the series, players can vote to end the game. In real life, voting to exit would mean leaving the system entirely—something the system itself insists is impossible.
Yet many are already walking away:
BRICS de-dollarization, local currencies, cooperatives, digital resistance.
Not full solutions, but alternatives.
Squid Game is not fiction. It is a confession.
A revelation of what power looks like when no one restrains it.
Playful Violence: Entertainment as a Weapon
Fiction sometimes reveals truths more brutal than news broadcasts. Squid Game is a parable of systemic competition that dominates globalization. It is not a dystopian future—it’s a mirror of the present.
While many praised its creativity, the series functions as a merciless X-ray of post-pandemic economic hierarchies. Childhood games transformed into extermination rituals, reminding us that, in the logic of power, spectacle and violence are governance tools.
Its emergence in a world of massive debt, rising suicide rates, social unrest, and widespread emotional collapse is not a coincidence.
Squid Game is not portraying a hypothetical world—it is denouncing a real one, structured like a fourth-generation war:
No battlefields.
No uniforms.
But equally lethal.
South Korea: A Surveillance Laboratory
That the series comes from South Korea is no accident. The country has:
- one of the world’s highest suicide rates,
- extreme academic pressure,
- a hyper-indebted population,
- and one of the most sophisticated surveillance systems.
South Korea has long been a testing ground for neoliberal doctrine in Asia—first through war, then dictatorship, now through algorithms, cryptocurrencies, and data governance.
Squid Game exposes this model: debt as a trap, the game as ideology, the camera as judge. Its characters are not criminals by choice—they are criminalized by the system.
Sound familiar?
An Allegory of Hybrid Warfare
The series is more than socioeconomic critique—it is a geopolitical parable. In a world where war is fought through memes, streaming platforms, bots, and narratives, Squid Game shows how the global subconscious is shaped through aesthetics of death.
Each game represents a stage of modern hybrid warfare:
Disinformation.
Trauma.
Propaganda.
Spectacle.
Selective elimination.
The “Front Man” could work in any digital security agency.
The VIPs resemble hedge funds, Big Tech, and stateless elites who profit from global collapse.
The true dystopia?
Millions of viewers wanted to play Squid Game.
Pink jumpsuits. Parties. Real-life reenactments.
The critique became a commodity.
The message was devoured by the algorithm.
Netflix smiled.
A Final, Uncomfortable Truth
Squid Game is not just a series.
It is a geopolitical document disguised as drama.
A reminder that systemic violence has become entertainment.
That hunger is aesthetic.
That desperation is trending content.
And above all, that in today’s global arena, those who do not “kill” —metaphorically— are condemned to irrelevance.
Welcome to the new normal.
Contradictory as it may sound, yes—I enjoyed the series.
Because great works of art hide truths we must decode.
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