Squid Game Season 3 Review: Gi-hun Returns… But At What Cost?

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When Squid Game first dropped, it wasn’t just another survival show—it hit a nerve. It was intense, messy, emotional, and kind of unshakable. And by the time Season 2 ended, Gi-hun was no longer just a player; he was someone trying to fight back, to resist a system built on blood and power. But now, in Season 3? That fire’s gone. This time, we meet a version of Gi-hun who’s completely shattered.

This season doesn’t open with action or strategy. It opens with silence. Regret. A man who’s lost too much and has nothing left to give. And honestly, it sets the tone for what turns out to be the heaviest and most emotionally draining season yet.

Season 3 doesn’t want to thrill you the way past seasons did. It wants you to feel the weight of it all. It wants you to sit in the discomfort. And while that might not be everyone’s cup of tea, it’s definitely the boldest direction the series has taken so far.

Plot: Gi-hun Is Back… But He's Barely Holding On

Season 3 picks up right where Season 2 left us devastated. After Gi-hun tried to rally players against the system in Season 2, things went horribly wrong. His childhood friend was killed. Innocent lives were taken. And the rebellion? Crushed. Gi-hun himself was captured, tortured emotionally, and then tossed back into the real world, not as a survivor, but as someone broken into silence.

We see a completely different version of him now—empty, lost, and no longer trying to fight. There’s no fiery comeback here. No hero arc. Just a man slowly rotting in the shadows of trauma, while the system that destroyed him continues to thrive.

But the Game hasn’t moved on. It’s evolved—and it wants him back. Not because he's strong, but because he's familiar. A symbol. A puppet to parade, maybe. Or maybe just another piece in a bigger game.

What’s truly terrifying this season is how the structure of the Game has changed. It’s no longer about physical survival alone. There’s a strange, almost invisible power play going on. Rules change mid-game. Tasks turn on themselves. It’s like the contestants are constantly being tricked into thinking they understand the Game, only to find out they’re pawns in something way more twisted.

There are scenes where the players don’t even know if they’re playing or just being watched. People disappear. Some games are psychological setups, breaking down alliances from within. Others feel like traps disguised as mercy. The tension never comes from a ticking clock; it comes from not knowing what to trust.

One of the eeriest changes this season? The VIPs. They’re back. And worse. They don’t just watch the pain; now they engineer it. Every new round feels like it’s been designed to push people further than before, mentally, emotionally, and physically. It’s no longer about who’s willing to cross the line… it’s about who even knows where the line is anymore.

And right in the middle of it all is Gi-hun. He’s not fighting to win this time. He’s not even sure why he’s still alive. His presence feels like a punishment. Every move he makes is hesitant, haunted, unsure.

By the end of the season, it becomes painfully clear this is no longer just a game. It’s a never-ending system. One that keeps changing shape, tightening control, and feeding off pain. And Gi-hun? He’s not running, not resisting, not strategizing. He’s just… there. Caught in something far bigger, far colder, and far more final than anyone saw coming.

Actors and Their Performance: The Ones Who Really Left a Mark

Let’s start with Lee Jung-jae as Gi-hun. He is the heart of the show, and in Season 3, that heart is barely beating. You can feel the emotional weight he’s carrying in almost every frame. He’s quieter, slower, completely wrecked, and while there are moments where I wish for a little more intensity, the stillness he brings feels intentional. He doesn’t need to cry or scream; his eyes do most of the work. It’s not his flashiest season, but it’s his most broken, and that somehow hits harder.

Lee Byung-hun as the Front Man keeps his cold, composed presence intact. While his arc doesn’t evolve much, his scenes still carry that chilling authority we've come to expect. Yim Si-wan as Myung-gi is easily one of this season’s standouts. Quietly manipulative and eerily calm, he brings tension without needing to raise his voice. Kang Ha-neul as Dae-ho adds a surprising layer of warmth and suspicion at once—he's likable but never quite trustworthy, and that balance works well. 

Wi Ha-jun reprises his role as Hwang Jun-ho, and while his screen time is limited, he remains sharp and purposeful, adding depth to the returning arc. Park Gyu-young as No-eul is emotionally grounded and honest. She brings vulnerability without being fragile, and that makes her presence one of the most authentic in the cast. Park Sung-hoon plays Hyun-ju with chaotic energy—loud, intense, and unpredictable. He adds the friction that the Game thrives on. 

Yang Dong-geun as Yong-sik walks a fine line between impulsive and broken. His unpredictability keeps you watching. Kang Ae-sim as his mother, Geum-ja, is quietly devastating. She doesn’t have many scenes, but she steals every one with understated grace. Jo Yuri as Jun-hee is soft, tragic, and leaves a quiet impact. She’s not flashy, but she’s deeply felt. And finally, Jun Suk-ho as Woo-seok brings a subtle, reserved performance that builds slowly but meaningfully as the story unfolds.

These are the performances that brought heart, tension, and humanity to a season that often felt emotionally brutal. Even when the story slowed down or wandered, these actors kept it grounded.

Direction and Screenplay: Heavy, Symbolic, and Sometimes Off-Balance

Hwang Dong-hyuk really leans into the quiet this season. It’s not about flashy deaths or loud reveals anymore. It’s about sitting with grief, silence, and moments that just linger. Some of the most powerful scenes aren’t violent, they’re just... still.

We also get flashbacks from the Season 2 uprising, which are smartly used to haunt the present. The writing leans into pauses, regret, and blood that doesn’t just spill, it sticks. It’s thoughtful. But also?

Some moments feel rushed. Especially one of the most important: the childbirth scene. It lasts barely five minutes. Five minutes for something so raw and monumental. Meanwhile, a twisted ankle gets way more screen time and tension. And honestly, it feels off. Like, how can you brush past childbirth like it’s a side note? It’s one of those moments that remind you this season sometimes forgets the human side of the horror.

That said, the symbolism is still strong. The message is clear: the Game isn’t just a place. It’s a system. And it’s evolving.

Final Verdict: Dark, Quiet, and Kind of Devastating

This isn’t about winning anymore. Squid Game Season 3 is about survival in the emptiest sense. It’s about what’s left of people when everything is taken from them. Gi-hun isn’t a hero; he’s a cautionary tale now.

Yeah, the pacing is slow. And sure, not every performance lands. But the storytelling? Still fearless. Still hitting nerves. The final few scenes don’t really wrap things up; they leave you uneasy. Like the Game might still be out there, changing, waiting.

There’s no official English spin-off or continuation (despite what fan theories might say). So don’t read too much into the ending. This is just where Season 3 leaves us unsettled, heartbroken, and maybe a little angry. And honestly? That’s probably exactly what it wanted.

P.S. If you're into shows that balance drama with grounded characters (though very different in tone), you might enjoy reading my thoughts on Panchayat Season 4. That season had a very different kind of tension—and a whole lot of heart.
👉 Check out my Panchayat S4 review here

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