When the TV show Squid Game first aired on Netflix, I almost didn’t watch it.
The hype was overwhelming, and I assumed it wasn’t my thing. A violent game show wrapped in a survival drama? Pass.
But then a friend talked it up, so I gave it a chance.
And wow.
It was gripping, layered, and surprisingly deep in places (I'll admit it; I cried). The characters, the stakes, the commentary—it somehow all worked.
So, when season 2 dropped, I was excited.
And then… I watched it.
And as a fiction writer, I couldn’t help but notice the storytelling choices that felt off. The stakes were lower, the characters flatter, and the ending? I’ll get to that.
This post isn’t a teardown of Squid Game 2. Instead, it’s about what I, as a fiction writer, can learn from it—because even disappointing stories can teach us something valuable.
So without further ado, here are my personal fiction writing lessons that I'm taking away after watching Squid Game 2.
1. High Stakes Need Clear Payoffs
One of the things that made Squid Game 1 so compelling was its clear stakes. Every game had life-or-death consequences, so every decision mattered, every betrayal hurt, and even win carried a heavy cost.
The result? Tension that is razor-sharp.
In season 2, the stakes felt muddled. The pacing dragged, and the urgency from the first season was lost. There were long stretches where nothing felt urgent, and by the time tension reappeared, it was too late. The story already lost me.
My fiction-writing takeaway:
When you set up high stakes, make sure they’re consistently clear and impactful. Whether it’s a character’s survival or an emotional confrontation, readers need to feel that everything matters.
The stakes don’t have to be as extreme as life or death, but they do need to matter deeply to the characters—and, by extension, the readers. If the stakes fizzle out, so will reader engagement.
2. Complex Characters, Not Contrived Drama
Season 1 gave us characters with depth—flawed, desperate people whose choices felt real.
In other words, season 1 wasn't just about the games—it was about the people playing them. Their choices and sacrifices were heartbreaking because we felt their humanity.
Season 2, on the other hand, leaned into contrived drama and flat character arcs. Much of that emotional depth was replaced with spectacle and surface-level drama.
Many motivations felt forced, and the emotional beats lacked the raw authenticity of the original. The result? Characters I didn't care about.
My fiction-writing takeaway:
Readers connect with characters, not plot twists. If I lose sight of my story’s emotional core, no amount of clever plotting or worldbuilding will save it.
The emotional stakes—what the characters stand to gain or lose on a personal level—are what give stories their heart. Focus on developing characters whose motivations are deeply rooted in their pasts, desires, and fears.
In other words, the drama should arise naturally from who the characters are, not from a need to move the plot forward. Readers (and viewers) can always tell the difference.
3. Keep the Worldbuilding Fresh, Not Recycled
One of the joys of Squid Game 1 was its uniquely creepy worldbuilding—the games, the masks, the eerie yet beautiful sets.
But in season 2, it felt like the show was recycling its own ideas, leaning heavily on rehashing the same formula, without introducing enough new elements to keep it exciting.
The result? The novelty of the game world wore off, and with nothing really new taking its place, the world felt boring, recycled.
My fiction-writing takeaway:
Even if I'm revisiting a familiar world in my writing, I need find ways to expand it in surprising directions.
I can start by asking questions, like What can I add? How can I expand this world world in a way that feels fresh and unexpected? I can come up with many possible answers.
By introducing new elements, rules, or settings, I can better keep my audience curious and engaged. Too much repetition can dilute the magic of even the best concepts.
4. Dig Deeper for Plot Ideas
Speaking of too much repetition, Pixar’s famous 22 rules for storytelling include one of my favorite pieces of advice:
"Rule 12: Discount the first idea that comes to mind. And the 2nd, and the 3rd and 4th and 5th. Get the obvious ones out of the way. Surprise yourself."
The idea is that obvious choices often lead to predictable storytelling. Our brains often gravitate toward familiar, obvious solutions when crafting a plot. But those first ideas? They’re often the ones that audiences will predict too.
The ending of Squid Game 2 felt like it skipped this step. On one hand, it was painfully contrived—a resolution that felt too convenient, very predictable, and overly simplified.
Yet at the same time, it left too many crucial elements unexplained. In storytelling terms, it failed to answer the “story question” that the season had spent so much time building toward.
As a viewer, this left me feeling cheated. The emotional and intellectual investment I’d made in the story wasn’t rewarded with a satisfying payoff.
My fiction-writing takeaway:
When I’m plotting, I need to push past the first idea that comes to mind. It might be easier, but it won’t surprise anyone. Digging deeper—exploring unexpected paths or unlikely resolutions—leads to more memorable and meaningful stories.
What's more? It's not just about digging for unique ideas. It's about making sure those ideas fully address the story's central question.
If the big reveal at the end doesn’t tie back to the question I’ve been asking throughout the story, it will leave readers feeling frustrated. This means revisiting the core question at every stage of the writing process.
5. Know When to End a Story
Perhaps the biggest lesson from Squid Game 2 is that not every story needs a sequel.
The first season ended on a poignant, powerful note—a bittersweet conclusion that felt both inevitable and complete. It left enough questions to spark conversation but didn’t feel unfinished.
And yet, the show returned, not because the story demanded it, but because of the massive success of the first season.
The problem? Season 2 struggled to justify its existence.
It revisited themes and ideas from the first season without adding enough depth or freshness to feel truly necessary. Instead of expanding the narrative, it diluted the impact of what came before.
As writers, the temptation to extend a successful story is real. It’s hard to say goodbye to characters and worlds we’ve created—and if an audience loves them too, it’s even harder.
But revisiting a story without a compelling reason risks undoing what made it special in the first place.
My fiction-writing takeaway:
If I ever get to a place where I'm considering a sequel, spin-off, or series, I'm going to remember that it’s important to ask: Does this story truly need to continue?
Is there a new narrative worth exploring, or am I returning to this world because it’s familiar—or worse, because I feel obligated to?
If the answer isn’t a resounding yes, it might be better to leave the story as it is. A strong, self-contained narrative can have more lasting impact than a series that overstays its welcome.
This doesn’t mean sequels are inherently bad—many are excellent (The Two Towers, anyone?). But the best sequels don’t just continue the story. They deepen it.
Sometimes, the bravest choice is knowing when to stop. There’s power in restraint, in leaving your audience wanting more rather than wishing you’d stopped while you were ahead.
And for me, as a writer, this is a reminder to resist the urge to revisit stories just because they’re familiar. Instead, I want to pour my energy into stories that demand to be told—stories that feel alive with possibility, rather than forced into existence.
Final thoughts on fiction writing lessons from Squid Game 2
Squid Game 2 was a letdown for me, but it also gave me a lot to think about as a writer. It’s a reminder that even the most successful stories can falter if the stakes aren’t clear, the characters lack depth, or the plot takes the easy way out.
But perhaps the biggest lesson is about respect—respect for the story you’re telling and the audience who’s investing their time and emotions in it.
What I'm really taking away is that whether you’re crafting a standalone piece or considering a sequel, it’s important to ask yourself: Am I honoring this story? Am I giving it the care, attention, and originality it deserves?
Because ultimately, writing is about connection, right?
When the stakes feel real, the characters come alive, and the resolution satisfies, your story will stay with readers long after they’ve put it down. And isn’t that what we’re all aiming for?
So here’s to digging deeper, pushing past the obvious, and staying true to the heart of the stories we write.
What did you think of Squid Game 2? Did it leave you inspired, frustrated, or somewhere in between? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments!
Peace & plenty,
Comments