You remember that green tracksuit? It’s hard to forget. When Netflix dropped Squid Game in 2021, nobody really expected a South Korean thriller about debt-ridden people playing children’s games to become a global obsession. But it did. The show wasn't just about the blood or the giant creepy doll; it was about the people. Honestly, the way we talk about Squid Game all characters usually focuses on who died, but the real meat is in why they were there in the first place. These weren't just archetypes. They were reflections of a broken system, and with Season 2 finally hitting our screens, looking back at the original roster feels like opening a time capsule of trauma.
Gi-hun, Sang-woo, and the Illusion of Choice
Seong Gi-hun is a mess. Let’s be real. When we first meet him, he’s stealing money from his elderly mother to bet on horses. He’s Player 456, the "protagonist" we aren't sure we should even like. But Lee Jung-jae plays him with this desperate, goofy vulnerability that makes you root for him anyway. He represents the "everyman," the person who isn't necessarily evil but is pushed to the brink by a mountain of debt and a lack of options.
Then you have Cho Sang-woo (Player 218). He’s the opposite. He’s the "prodigal son" of the neighborhood, the SNU graduate who was supposed to be a success story. Except he stole millions from his clients and lost it all in the futures market. The dynamic between Gi-hun and Sang-woo is the heart of the show. While Gi-hun tries to maintain some shred of humanity, Sang-woo is pragmatic to a fault. He’s the one who realizes early on that for one person to win, everyone else has to die. It’s cold. It’s brutal. It's basically a commentary on meritocracy—the idea that even the "smartest" guy in the room is just another pawn when the game is rigged.
The Outsiders: Kang Sae-byeok and Abdul Ali
If Gi-hun is the heart and Sang-woo is the brain, Kang Sae-byeok (Player 067) is the soul. A North Korean defector trying to get her mother across the border and her brother out of an orphanage. She doesn't trust anyone. Why would she? She's been burned by every system she's encountered. Her stoicism makes her eventual bond with Ji-yeong (Player 240) one of the most devastating moments in television history. When Ji-yeong drops that marble during the Gganbu game, she isn't just giving up; she’s acknowledging that Sae-byeok has a reason to live that outweighs her own. It’s a heavy scene. You probably cried. I know I did.
Then there’s Ali. Sweet, trusting Abdul Ali (Player 199). His story is perhaps the most infuriating because it feels so grounded in reality. He’s an undocumented worker from Pakistan whose boss is literally withholding his wages while his fingers are crushed in a machine. He enters the game because he has no other choice. His betrayal by Sang-woo is the turning point where the audience realizes that "fairness" in the game is a total lie. Sang-woo didn't beat Ali with skill; he beat him by exploiting his kindness. It’s a gut-punch that stays with you.
The Villains and the Wildcards
We have to talk about Jang Deok-su. Player 101. He’s the classic gangster, the bully who thinks he can muscle his way through a game of marbles. He’s a terrifying presence, but he’s also pathetic in a way. He’s a small fish in a big pond who thinks he’s a shark. His rivalry with Han Mi-nyeo (Player 212) provides some of the show's weirdest and most intense moments. Mi-nyeo is a fascinating character because she’s so loud and manipulative, yet you realize she’s just terrified. Her "scorned woman" arc ending in a literal death hug with Deok-su on the glass bridge? Iconic.
And then, the twist. Oh Il-nam. Player 001.
Most people didn't see it coming on the first watch. The old man with the brain tumor who just wanted to have a little fun before he died. When you re-watch the show, the clues are everywhere. He isn't targeted by the doll in "Red Light, Green Light." His file isn't in the 2020 binder when Jun-ho looks through the archives. He’s the architect of the whole thing. The revelation that the "Gganbu" Gi-hun loved was actually the monster behind the curtain changes everything about how we view the Squid Game all characters list. It turns a story about survival into a story about the boredom of the ultra-wealthy.
The Side Characters Who Built the World
Not every character needed forty minutes of screen time to leave a mark. Think about the doctor, Byeong-gi (Player 111). His subplot with the organ-harvesting guards showed that the "equality" the Front Man preached was a facade. Even the guards were breaking the rules. Then there’s Hwang Jun-ho, the police officer. His journey through the facility gave us the "inside look" we needed. His search for his brother, In-ho, eventually leads to the shock that his brother didn't just play the game—he won it and stayed to run it.
👉 See also: Selena Songs Dreaming of You: The Story of a Masterpiece She Barely Finished
That realization—that the victims can become the victimizers—is central to the show's philosophy. It’s not just about the money. It’s about what the money does to your head.
Why We Are Still Obsessing Over Them
The reason Squid Game all characters resonate so deeply is that they aren't just "good" or "bad." They are desperate. In a world where the gap between the rich and the poor is widening every single day, the idea of a "fair" game where you might actually win a fortune—even at the cost of your life—doesn't feel like science fiction anymore. It feels like a dark exaggeration of the gig economy.
Gi-hun’s hair at the end of the season—that bright, aggressive red—is a signal. He isn't the same man who stole his mom's money. He's a man who has seen the bottom of the pit and decided he’s going to burn the whole thing down.
How to Apply These Insights
If you’re looking to understand the narrative weight of these characters before diving into Season 2, or if you're analyzing the show for a film project, keep these things in mind:
- Look for the Foil: Every character has a direct opposite. Gi-hun (unstructured/kind) vs. Sang-woo (structured/ruthless). Ali (honest) vs. Deok-su (deceitful). Understanding these pairings makes the plot movements clearer.
- The Power of Backstory: Notice how the show gives you "Entry Points." We see the characters' lives outside the game first. This is a classic writing technique called "Establishing the Stakes." If we didn't see Ali’s wife and baby, his death wouldn't hurt.
- Symbolism in Color: The pink guards vs. the green players is basic color theory—complementary colors that create visual tension. But notice how Gi-hun wears the suit at the end. He’s no longer "in" the game, but he’s not a guard either. He’s something new.
- Re-watch with Knowledge: Go back and watch Oh Il-nam specifically. Look at his face during the games. He’s the only one actually smiling. It’s chilling once you know.
The legacy of these characters isn't just in the memes or the Halloween costumes. It's in the way they forced us to ask: "What would I do for 45.6 billion won?" Most of us want to think we're Gi-hun, but in a real crisis, a lot of us might just be Sang-woo. And that’s the most uncomfortable truth of all.