This article contains spoilers for the Netflix TV Show Squid Game.

All of the players stand around uneasily, shifting in their blood-stained shoes. The “Squid Game” administrators have just instructed them to, for the next game, pair up. The central question here is — who to team up with? Long-formed alliances are broken as players quickly spurn old friendships in favor of teaming up with stronger players. Apologetic glances are exchanged to the old and frail in a scene that exposes the deepest, vilest and most self-interested personalities buried deep within the characters. 

In some ways, our life at Yale is also littered with these difficult moments and questions. Who to team up with for a group project? Who to check problem set answers with? If given a choice, when do I choose to give a presentation? 

“Squid Game” is a Korean television show that has, in the last month, morphed into something that less resembles a TV show and more so a cult following. Fans worldwide have seized upon this unexpected Netflix Original’s success and based hundreds of Halloween costumes on it. What could be the reasons for its success? 

The show takes place against a backdrop of destitution and poverty, which is what brought the characters to the game to begin with. Through the premise of a dystopian game, the show manages to showcase important societal issues that implicitly run through South Korean society, such as the rapidly expanding and insurmountable socioeconomic divides, youth debt, refugee crises and the mistreatment of foreign workers from South Asia. 

The primary reason, however, for its smashing success on small screens worldwide, is the applicability of its trauma. We see ourselves in the shoes of the characters and sympathize with the difficult decisions that they have to make. Albeit writ large, the essentials of their dilemmas are still very real to us.

“Squid Game” as a show speaks volumes to the essential Yale experience. I say this with a thought to my first year, when the genial and friendly arms of fellow first years was my everyday reality. Towards sophomore and junior year, however, I have witnessed a spike in the number of uncomfortable interactions and toxic behavior in the context of academic pressure. For instance, when choosing group partners for projects, I have on multiple occasions seen some people willfully left out of the running by sheer virtue of their class year or perceived lower standing in class. In classes with many problem sets, it is too common to see people who want to get answers from others; and yet, they are incredibly reluctant to share their own. We could even consider how the resurgence of academic dishonesty during the pandemic is very much an artifact of the “every-man-for-himself” mentality. 

I am in no way trying to imply that this is the defining experience of every single student at Yale, and am more than sure that there are moments of compassion that occur on campus. What I am trying to say, though, is that there is an undercurrent of self-interest that pervades our communities. People are interested in their own classes, their own extracurriculars, their own friends and far too easily dispense of that which is not utile to them. 

For all its fanciful sets and outrageously dramatized scenes, we would do well to think of Squid Game not just as a representation of what is, but as an invitation of what could be. In the context of Yale, this invitation is particularly timely. Despite a system or environment of academic pressures that might create a hostile environment, it is up to us, the individual players, to make compassionate choices. Yes, this might sound simple — how hard could it possibly be to be less self-involved? The truth of the matter is, choosing to prioritize the interests of others over your own sometimes involves making very difficult choices. Help a friend out on a problem set even if the class is curved. Actually listen when someone is telling you about their day. Miss those office hours to walk a suitemate to Yale Health. It is the sum of these choices that makes or breaks a healthy campus community. 

By the end of the show, the main character’s outward appearance is a far cry from his original beaming self. His clothes are bloody and tattered, and he has to murder his childhood best friend in order to win the game. But a moment of incredible compassion moves him to stay his hand. We are too, by the end of four years, hardened and disheveled from trying to get ahead in the rat race that is Yale. But an important lesson that “Squid Game” teaches us is that it is up to us to create the college environment we want to see. We could just think of our own interests a little less and perhaps take a second to spare a thought for someone else.

SHI WEN YEO  is a junior in Morse College. Contact her at shiwen.yeo@yale.edu