Squid Game remains the most-watched show in Netflix history. It still holds the all-time record, with 265.2 million views and over 2.2 billion hours watched within its first 91 days of release. Alongside its immense popularity, attempts to analyze the series have flourished, often focusing on its meticulous details: the geometric symbols on the masked guards—square, circle, and triangle—the hierarchy between contestants and the Front Man, and the structure of the games themselves, from “Red Light, Green Light” to tug-of-war. These readings have frequently converged on an interpretation of the show as an allegory of late capitalism and the relentless logic of the free market.
Yet the thematic resonance that captivated millions appears in a new light following the release of The Great Flood and Omniscient Reader. Both films have achieved notable success in terms of viewing hours, and more importantly, they offer a set of clues as to why Squid Game proved so globally compelling. Taken together, these works suggest a deeper structural affinity—a shared narrative logic that runs through some of the most widely consumed Korean stories today.
Omniscient Reader opens with a striking subway sequence in which reality either collapses into fantasy or reveals its underlying structure: the world begins to operate according to the rules of the protagonist’s favorite web novel. Kim Dok-ja—his name signifying both “reader” and “only son”—must now navigate a series of escalating quests in order to survive. The world he confronts resembles that of an MMORPG, where players adopt characters and respond to challenges issued by a game system. The crucial difference, however, is that Dok-ja does not choose a character; he is forced to proceed as himself.
The first quest demands that each participant kill a living organism to advance. A holographic interface appears midair inside the subway car, and the passengers—initially hesitant—gradually descend into violence. The premise is already strikingly close to that of Squid Game: survival is contingent upon successfully completing a sequence of games. This raises a central question: is Squid Game itself structured according to the logic of an MMORPG? The similarities in their narrative construction are strong enough to suggest that it is.
Dok-ja’s journey continues at Geumho Station. Having cleared the first “scenario,” he becomes an “incarnation”—a player rewarded with coins. The next scenario requires breaking through to the adjacent station while neutralizing monsters. The space is controlled by a corrupt group led by a former politician who extorts coins from those seeking protection. Forming an alliance with others from the previous scenario, Dok-ja enters this new stage equipped with an imperfect weapon, “Broken Faith,” which he upgrades into a powerful tool using an item purchased with his coins.
By completing the scenario, Dok-ja begins to accumulate what the narrative terms a “fable”—a record of his actions that will eventually allow him to ascend from incarnation to constellation. There is something immediately familiar here: an ordinary individual confronts adversity, discovers his calling, and gradually becomes a hero. Yet Dok-ja’s trajectory departs from the conventional hero’s journey in a crucial way. His progression unfolds not as a continuous narrative arc, but as a series of discrete scenarios—modular, rule-bound segments that define both the goals to be achieved and the means available. Coins, items, skills, and strategic improvisation together form a system in which creativity operates within, and occasionally against, the constraints of the game. In this sense, Dok-ja’s story is not simply heroic—it is procedural.
Algorithmic Narrative
Omniscient Reader is structurally aligned with what may be called an algorithmic narrative, in which story elements are generated from a dataset of pre-existing narrative patterns and assembled into a step-by-step procedural system. As a system, it operates according to underlying logics—most notably, probabilistic rules that determine what is likely to occur and what is not.
Within such a framework, characters are defined less by psychological depth than by functional roles. Protagonists are oriented toward goals, establishing the primary objectives of the plot. Antagonists oppose and obstruct these trajectories. Guardians assist or guide the protagonist. Additional roles emerge as variations of reason and emotion: one functions as a voice of calculation, the other as an agent of affect. These types interact dynamically to produce narrative progression. Importantly, the protagonist’s immediate goals do not necessarily coincide with the overall objective of the story.
The operation of algorithmic narrative departs significantly from the conventional linear plot structure of exposition, rising action, crisis, climax, and resolution. In the traditional model, the narrative progresses through a sequence: an initial situation is established, disrupted by an inciting incident, developed through escalating conflict, and ultimately resolved into a new equilibrium. The protagonist’s transformation—often marked by a decisive moment of realization—propels this forward movement.
At first glance, Kim Dok-ja appears to follow this trajectory. His ordinary life as an office worker is disrupted by the sudden imposition of life-threatening scenarios. Each challenge generates conflict, demanding decisions that allow him to navigate and occasionally manipulate the system’s rules. Through these actions, he emerges as a successful player.
Yet this arc constitutes only a fragment of the larger structure. Rather than progressing toward a final resolution, the narrative repeatedly resets into new scenarios. Each completed arc functions as a modular unit, only loosely connected to a larger temporal progression. The effect is not cumulative development but iterative variation.
This repetition is particularly evident in Dok-ja’s moments of realization. His initial epiphany in the subway—recognizing that he has entered the world of the novel—is not a singular turning point. Instead, similar moments recur across different scenarios, each time reconfiguring his understanding of the system in slightly altered terms. In a traditional narrative, such an awakening would propel the story forward as a decisive shift in consciousness. Here, it becomes a repeatable function within the system.
In this sense, Dok-ja does not inhabit a linear narrative of transformation but a procedural structure governed by iteration. His story unfolds not as a continuous arc, but as a sequence of algorithmic operations.
Squid Game’s Secret
Algorithmic narrative unfolds according to a logic of correlation rather than causality, the driving force of the linear plot in which each event emerges as the direct consequence of a preceding one. In causal narrative, events are linked through necessity: one action produces another, forming a chain governed by coherence and progression. By contrast, correlation operates through probability. It draws upon patterns derived from accumulated narrative histories, genre conventions, and behavioral data—preferences inferred from clicks, feedback, and user interactions.
Narratives structured by correlation may appear fragmented when measured against the expectations of causal logic. Yet this apparent discontinuity is precisely what enables their flexibility. Because events are not bound to strict causal necessity, they can recur, recombine, and iterate. Algorithmic narrative, in this sense, is constructed from patterns within a database, where repetition is not redundancy but a fundamental mode of operation.
Squid Game exemplifies this structure through its succession of games, each governed by rules imposed by unseen game masters. At first glance, these games—“Red Light, Green Light,” tug-of-war—evoke familiar childhood activities, invoking a sense of nostalgia. This familiarity, however, is immediately destabilized. When a player fails to stop, the doll Young-hee turns and shoots. The violence appears abrupt, lacking a clear causal buildup.
Yet this moment becomes intelligible when situated within a broader field of correlated media forms. Figures such as SCP-173 or the Weeping Angels from Doctor Who operate according to a similar logic: they are triggered by specific conditions and respond with lethal immediacy. Within this network of recognizable patterns, Young-hee is not anomalous but legible. The shock of disrupted nostalgia gives way to a recognition grounded in probability—what feels “likely” within the shared database of contemporary media.
Each game in Squid Game functions as a discrete module, loosely connected yet structurally consistent. When one ends, another begins, not as a causal continuation but as a reiteration within a system. The series progresses through accumulation rather than development, sustaining engagement through variation within constraint.
The global success of Squid Game can be understood, in part, through this algorithmic structure. Beneath its culturally specific surface lies a mode of storytelling that resonates with audiences accustomed to correlation-based media environments, particularly video games. What appears as an unfamiliar, even exotic narrative is, at a structural level, deeply familiar. It is this convergence—between novelty of content and familiarity of form—that underpins the series’ widespread appeal.
In this sense, Squid Game is not simply watched—it is recognized. Its structure aligns with a mode of perception shaped by algorithmic environments, where meaning emerges through patterns, repetition, and probabilistic association. What the series reveals is not only a new form of storytelling, but a transformation in the conditions under which stories are understood. The viewer, like the player, becomes attuned to correlation rather than causality.