For ten long years, the creator of Squid Game pitched his script to studios, only to be met with a solid stream of “no”s. They weren’t biting. But then Netflix, the company that made binge-watching a sport, finally took a chance—and Squid Game became their most-watched show EVER in just 28 days. It’s the story of how one man’s unshakable persistence turned a decade of rejection into a US$900 million “yes”—proof that sometimes, the best ideas are just a little too ahead of their time.
The beginning
In 2008, a broke filmmaker named Hwang Dong-hyuk sat in a café, trying to stretch a few bills by reading manga. His living situation was far from glamorous—he was staying with his mother and had even sold his laptop just to pay bills. But between the pages of Battle Royale and Liar Game, something clicked. An idea began to take shape, one that would eventually change his life forever.
Dong-hyuk grew up in Seoul’s working-class Ssangmun-dong district, where the weight of inequality was a constant. He watched friends and neighbours fall into debt, trying desperately to claw their way out. That bleak reality became the foundation for Squid Game.
With raw honesty, Dong-hyuk poured his personal struggles into the script. Seong Gi-hun, the show’s main character, was essentially Dong-hyuk’s mirror, reflecting his own battles. Cho Sang-woo, the pressure to succeed at all costs, echoed Dong-hyuk’s experience at Seoul National University, where the weight of expectations was suffocating. But when he pitched the script, the feedback wasn’t kind. Studios dismissed it as “too grotesque.”
For the next decade, Dong-hyuk faced rejection after rejection. Korean studios called it “too complex,” “too violent,” and “too unrealistic.” But he didn’t stop. Even while directing other films, he kept pitching Squid Game—it was his passion project, and he wasn’t giving up on it.
And then, in 2019, the spark came.
Enter Netflix, and the rest is history
In 2019, Netflix had just launched its Asia division and was on the hunt for bold, fresh content. They had already pumped $700 million into Korean shows between 2015 and 2020, but more importantly, they were eager to take a gamble on something a little unconventional. Enter Kim Minyoung, Netflix’s content officer, who read Dong-hyuk’s Squid Game script and immediately saw what others had missed: a universal story about survival and inequality. The rest of the industry might have thought it was “too grotesque,” but Netflix saw gold.
Unlike the Korean studios who had turned him down, Netflix handed Dong-hyuk the keys to the creative kingdom. Complete control? Check. A budget of $21.4 million? Well, modest by Netflix standards, but for Dong-hyuk, it was a dream come true—he didn’t need piles of cash, just the freedom to tell the story his way.
Production kicked off in 2020, but Dong-hyuk soon realised the stress of it all would be enough to knock a few teeth out—literally. Every detail was obsessively planned: each game set was built to full scale, every costume carried hidden meanings, and every frame was meticulously crafted. Dong-hyuk was all in, even if it meant losing a few teeth along the way.
Then came release day.
On September 17, 2021, Squid Game hit Netflix, and within days, it went supernova. Netflix’s strategy was genius: the show was dubbed in 16 languages, subtitled for global reach, and released simultaneously worldwide. The numbers were mind-blowing.
In just four weeks, Squid Game achieved:
- 1.65 billion viewing hours
- #1 in 94 countries
- $900 million in value from a $21.4 million investment
But it wasn’t just a show—it became a cultural juggernaut. Halloween costumes flew off shelves, TikTok was flooded with Squid Game challenges, and brands scrambled to slap the show’s logo on every piece of merchandise they could think of. What started as a simple story about inequality ended up changing global culture, proving once and for all that sometimes, the weirdest ideas are the ones that make the biggest splash.
The crazy truth behind its success
While Netflix paid for Squid Game, it had ZERO faith in the series. Netflix didn’t even allocate a single cent on marketing, so no on saw any promo on it. Their data team predicted it would only reach 2M viewers max, and the show didn’t even make it to Netflix’s homepage recommendations.
Squid Game had more viewers than Friends reruns and Stranger Things. Dollar for dollar, it was the best return on investment for Netflix when you consider the fact that they spent $100million on Friends and $30 million per episode on Stranger Things. The Dalgona challenge had 11 billion views and the Red Light Green Light had 9.5 billion views. The biggest surprise is that 98% of viewers finished the series – a number never seen before by Netflix.
This showed the power of social media. TikTok over TV ads, fan theories over official promotions, and Reddit discussions over press releases.
It’s called the “Cultural Paradox Effect” which means the more culturally specific a content is, the more universally it resonates. In the series, the local games were untranslated, the Korean honorifics were kept intact, and Seoul’s class struggle was unfiltered and exposed. While the childhood games created nostalgia, the economic anxiety was universal, as Netflix found that 93% of viewers related to the main character’s struggles.
The aftermath
After Squid Game took the world by storm, Netflix pledged an additional US$2.5 billion towards Korean content. They also greenlit Season 2.
Studios that once turned Dong-hyuk away now had a sudden change of heart and were queuing up to work with him. The show scored 14 Emmy nominations—an unheard-of achievement for a non-English series. But here’s the real kicker: Squid Game didn’t just break records; it proved something much more important.
The key lesson from Dong-hyuk’s story isn’t just about relentless persistence (though that helps). It’s about building an audience that truly believes in your vision and Netflix saw what others missed. In today’s world, the best ideas don’t win by default—they win through sharing a unique personal story.
Dong-hyuk’s decade of rejection? That wasn’t a setback—it was his secret weapon. Every “no” he heard only made his story stronger, more relatable, and ultimately, more powerful.
