Spoiler Alert: This section contains spoilers for the Squid Game series on Netflix . Proceed with caution!
Squid Game: the merry romp through the idyllic countryside of debilitating debt, merciless killing games, and "maybe not trust the fella in the pink jumpsuit toting a revolver." It's the show that made us go, "Would I survive?" and "Is my bestie one betrayal away from pushing me off a glass bridge?" But today, we are skipping the glass bridge and taking the leap into the philosophical abyss: can everyone in Squid Game be morally right?
The question of morality is not an academic exercise, as it's very central in understanding human behavior, human decision-making, and the systems we create. Morality has created some of the most great milestones in human history—wars and revolutions—as societies struggle for survival, power, and progress with notions of what was right and what was wrong. The issue of moral justification has been a core aspect, for example, in the ideological drives in such conflicts as World War II, where leaders and soldiers, down to every citizen, needed to understand morally war crimes, resistance, and survival [5]. At other times, such as the abolition of slavery or the civil rights movement, questions about morality have shown the way through revolutionary changes in entrenched systems of oppression [8]. Here, morality serves both as a tool for change and a justification of the status quo. In Squid Game, this tension comes alive through the ways in which characters grapple with personal survival against broader ethical dilemmas, almost like a microcosm for the complexity of morality that still influences the human condition today.
Buckle up because it's a tug-of-war over a pit of mental doom.
Players: Sartre Would Like a Word
Throughout the series, the players are sure of morality—their status as victims—much like the way one was crystal clear about Gi-hun's fated inability to win at rock-paper-scissors. Crushed by debts more towering than a K-drama plot twist, they're cornered into a game where the stakes are literally life and death. Their desperation feels real, their choices forced. Jean-Paul Sartre might argue that they are exercising existential freedom—choosing to return to the games even after seeing the horrors [1]. But how free can such a choice be when it issues from a sense of crushing desperation? Sartre, buddy, try philosophizing your way out of $10 million in hospital bills.
The players’ perspective is painfully familiar: survive at all costs. He gets a losing hand from society, and can we blame him for trying to reshuffle the deck? In complicity with the system, in sacrifice, they are ultimately sustained. But in a world where dignity's a luxury, morality becomes elastic. Or as Nietzsche might have put it, "Morality is just the herd's coping mechanism until someone gives you a gun and jumpsuit" [2].
But let's go further. Their participation is also a grim reflection of Hobbes' theory of the state of nature—a life that is "nasty, brutish, and short" [3]. The players, left to fend for themselves without any help from society, devolve into a feral state where their struggle for survival justifies things they would otherwise never do. Was it moral when Gi-hun, at the end, betrayed Sang-woo? Or is it just human nature without the veneer of civilization? And what about Sang-woo, who makes decisions that seem cold-blooded but, in his eyes, are the needed logical steps toward victory? Hobbes would say this is inevitable behavior for them if there were no laws and order around them. But does inevitability absolve guilt?
Even more intriguing, however, is how their actions reflect Viktor Frankl's idea of finding meaning in suffering. The games are a desperate attempt not just to keep themselves alive, but attempts of recovery of agency in a world that has left them with none. The cases of Ali entrusting his trust, Sae-byeok sacrificing herself for Gi-hun, or Gi-hun making the ultimate choice to stand against the system are proof that amidst chaos, purpose can still be found [4].
The Guards: Hannah Arendt's "Banality of Evil" in Pink
The guards are the faceless enforcers of Squid Game's sanguinary rules, but are they evil? Or are they just overworked, underpaid cogs in the machinery of doom? Cue Hannah Arendt's concept of the "banality of evil," where ordinary individuals commit atrocities simply by following orders [5].
Perhaps the guards have families, debts, or even their own versions of Squid Games to escape. The masks strip them of identity, not so different from how capitalism strips people of individuality. They are put in a system they didn't create and are forced to enforce rules that they themselves don't agree with. In their silences, they reflect Kafka protagonists: ensnared in a bureaucracy that is so absurd it is grotesquely logical.
But let's add layers here. The complicity of the guards brings into question individual agency within oppressive systems: to what degree should they be held morally responsible for their part in the perpetuation of violence, or are they themselves victims of systemic coercion? The philosopher Zygmunt Bauman might suggest that the guards epitomized the dark side of modernity, whereby people—reduced to roles within a system—lose the capacity to question their actions [6].
The guards also echo some theories of Foucault regarding surveillance and discipline. That constant watching, similar to the panopticon as a structure of power where the act of being watched enforces compliance, now sees the guards themselves on display under watch, reinforcing their system of control wherein nobody would be left free [7]. Actually, their roles depict how it is not just victims that oppressive systems dehumanize but the enforcers themselves too.
The VIPs: Nietzsche's Übermensch or Just Rich Jerks?
Oh, the VIPs. With their animal masks and grotesque sense of entitlement, they are like walking, talking embodiments of late-stage capitalism. But let's try, just for a second, to see things from their perspective. Yes, even the guy in the tiger mask. They believe they have "earned" the right to be at the top of the social pyramid. To them, the players are there by choice—a grim reflection of Nietzsche's will to power [2]. The VIPs are beyond conventional morality, making their rules in a world where wealth means freedom. Are they evil? Undeniably. But in their own warped mindset, they're not villains; they're spectators enjoying what they see as a high-stakes performance art.
More importantly, the detachment to the suffering of the players is a dehumanization parallel to Marx's critique of capitalism: the players are no longer people but commodities, resources to be used for the amusement of the VIPs [8]. One might ask how close that would come to the real-world inequality of wealth.
The Creator: The Philosopher-King of Chaos
Then we have the nightmare architect, aka the creator of Squid Game, for whom this all was a social experiment—a "fair" system testing human nature. After all, isn't this the biggest equality anybody could ask for when everyone gets an equal opportunity?
His actions push us to an understanding of the consequences of prioritizing ideals over lives. There's also a theological element within his function: the creator as a god, moving things along, testing the will of man.
His games echo the philosophical problem of evil: If he has the power to prevent suffering but chooses not to, can he truly claim moral superiority? His claim to being fair is finally undone by his personal fascination with the games, which really shows that his motives have less to do with any sense of equity than with power and control. He is not a philosopher-king; he is a God-complex tyrant.
Moral Takeaway: Gray Light!
So, who is right on grounds of morals in Squid Game? Everyone? No one? Morality here is less a straight line, more a kaleidoscope of grays. The players are victims, and yet they are perpetrators too. The guards are pawns, but they are complicit. The VIPs? Well, they're irredeemable. And the creator? A philosopher of cruelty who believes life is just a game—until it isn't.
Is it even possible for fairness to exist when people start out in such wildly different circumstances? And how does the idea of fairness change depending on who’s calling the shots—the ones struggling or the ones in charge?
When survival’s on the line, does morality just go out the window, or is there some kind of universal rulebook we’re supposed to stick to no matter what?
How much responsibility can someone really have for their choices when they’re trapped in a messed-up, oppressive system? Can the pressure of the system completely let them off the hook, or is there always at least a little accountability?
Does going through suffering automatically lead to a deeper sense of purpose, like Viktor Frankl suggests, or are there some situations where it’s just pointless pain that destroys more than it teaches?
Are people like the guards and VIPs in Squid Game genuinely evil, or are they just playing the roles assigned to them in a broken system? Is “evil” something that comes from within a person, or is it always tied to the environment they’re stuck in?
If Squid Game is basically a nightmare version of morality, what would morality even look like in a perfect world? Would people still face tough choices, or do those only exist in messed-up systems like this one?
If the game’s creator actually believed in fairness and equality, why didn’t he fix the root problems that caused the players’ suffering instead of creating a brutal game? Does this make him a hypocrite, or does it say something bigger about how people tend to go for quick fixes instead of tackling the real issues?
Your turn to think peasants!
References
Sartre, J.-P. (1943). Being and Nothingness. Routledge.
Nietzsche, F. (1887). On the Genealogy of Morality. Oxford University Press.
Hobbes, T. (1651). Leviathan. Cambridge University Press.
Frankl, V. E. (1985). Man's Search for Meaning. Simon and Schuster.
Arendt, H. (1963). Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. Penguin Books.
Bauman, Z. (1991). Modernity and the Holocaust. Cornell University Press.
Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Vintage Books.
Marx, K. (1867). Capital: Critique of Political Economy. Penguin Classics.
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