Squid Game season 3 review: When the stakes are human

Spoiler warning: Spoilers ahead for the full third season of Squid Game. There’s no way to talk about this without going deep.

This season feels like grief

Right from the start, it’s obvious. Something is off. Not in a bad way. But in a heavier way.

The light has gone out of Gi-hun’s eyes. He moves like a man trapped in a memory he can’t stop reliving. You get the sense he didn’t return for a cause; he came back because staying away hurt worse.

And the games? They haven’t changed. But he has. So now, they hit differently.

There’s blood, sure; but that’s not what lingers

Season 3 still kills people. Some of those deaths are brutal. Some are slow. Some are... quiet, even. But that’s not what sticks with you.

What sticks is the weight behind it all. The waiting. The moments before the inevitable. The tension that builds when you see someone reaching out—and you just know the cost.

There’s no twist here. Just the consequence. And that feels far more terrifying.

Psychological horror done right

This season isn’t horror in the traditional sense anymore. It’s not jump scares or buckets of blood; it’s quieter than that. Sharper, too.

This is psychological horror, boiled down to its essence. It’s about control. Manipulation. Watching empathy become a trap. Watching love become a liability.

You’re not scared because someone might die. You’re scared because you know they will—and because their death is going to make someone else unravel.

Jun-hee is the fuse

Her story doesn’t play out like a plotline. It feels like something delicate that the writers are daring you to hold without shaking.

She’s pregnant. And in a show like this, that’s not just a detail. It’s a timer. A pressure point.

You want her to make it. You want someone to make it. And that—more than any game or rule—is what makes you vulnerable. Just like the characters.

Gi-hun sees her and something shifts. It’s not redemption. Not exactly. More like... instinct. Protection for the sake of doing one thing right after doing so many things wrong.

Geum-ja broke me

There’s always that one moment in a season where your chest tightens. For me, it was her.

I don’t want to describe it in full. You’ll know it when you get there. But it’s messy. And cruel. And... understandable, which is maybe the worst part.

She does what she thinks is necessary. And when it’s done, there’s no relief. No justification. Just the echo of something that can’t be undone.

It isn’t framed heroically. Or tragically. It just is. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it for hours after.

Gi-hun doesn’t win; not really

His final act feels inevitable. He’s not saving Jun-hee because he believes in justice. He’s doing it because he can’t survive the guilt if he doesn’t.

There’s no glory in it. No tearful goodbye. It’s worn-down, final, and... weirdly peaceful. The kind of peace you only find when you’ve already lost too much to feel anything else.

He makes the trade. And he walks away. But what he carries, that’s the real cost.

The games stopped being fun seasons ago

I didn’t realize it until halfway through—but at no point of this season did I feel excitement. Not even once.

And that’s not a flaw. That’s the point.

This isn’t about clever games anymore. It’s about what happens to people when they’re forced to keep playing even after they’ve broken. About what’s left when everything else is gone.

It hurts. Honestly, it should.

No winners. No answers.

Season 3 doesn’t wrap things up with a message. There’s no "moral" waiting at the end. No catharsis. Just a single human decision made in the ruins of everything that came before it.

And weirdly, that’s the most powerful thing this show has done yet.

It trusted the silence.

Closing thought

When I finished watching, I didn’t feel impressed. I felt wrecked. Not because the show shocked me, but because it understood something that most shows like this miss.

Horror isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it looks like a man stepping out of a door with his head down. Sometimes it looks like choosing to care again, knowing what it might cost you.

That’s where Squid Game ends.

Not with a bang. Not with a win. But with someone deciding that maybe, just maybe, one life is worth all the rest.