2
5
1
1
Less Plot, More Thought
Death’s Game is a show whose central message I fundamentally disagree with. From the outset, its moral framework feels shallow, heavy-handed, and more interested in preaching than in genuine exploration. That said, my biggest issue isn’t even the message itself—it’s how quickly the show abandons whatever thematic confidence it initially had in favor of spectacle and artificial stakes.
The series begins with a promising psychological fantasy tone, flirting with existential ideas like fate versus free will, personal accountability, and death as an inevitability. For a brief moment, it feels introspective and willing to trust the audience to sit with uncomfortable questions. Even though I didn’t agree with what the show was trying to say, I could at least tell the writers believed in it.
Then the show introduces a villain—and everything collapses.
That single decision triggers a major tonal shift. What could have remained a character-driven, philosophical exploration suddenly becomes a crime thriller. Instead of centering the protagonist’s internal struggle, the narrative externalizes conflict. Accountability shifts outward. Reflection is replaced with reaction. The protagonist stops looking inward and starts chasing a “big bad,” flattening the very message the show initially seemed committed to.
This is especially frustrating because the strongest antagonist was already there: Death itself. Death, as an existential force, was far more compelling than any human villain could ever be. It was thematic, inevitable, and deeply unsettling. You could feel that, at some point, the writers genuinely believed in this idea. Unfortunately, they didn’t trust it to be interesting enough. They chose spectacle over substance, drama over meaning.
That lack of trust bleeds into the characters—particularly the main character. The first episode presents him as intelligent, driven, and calculating. But from there, his writing becomes wildly inconsistent. He knows he could die at any moment, yet does nothing to prevent it. He makes no real plans, avoids sensible decisions, and reduces his motivation almost entirely to money, and later, revenge. The loved ones he supposedly left behind—central to the show’s moral guilt-tripping—barely cross his mind unless he physically runs into them by chance or is reminded of the by something in his current life. It’s ironic, considering the entire premise is meant to force him to confront the consequences of his suicide.
The supporting cast is equally underwhelming, which is shocking given how stacked it is. Many capable actors give committed performances, but the writing boxes their characters into simplistic roles: selfish and greedy, or kind-hearted and doomed. We spend so much time anchored to the main character that everyone else feels narratively disposable. Even Death—the only character with real presence in the show—has so little screen time that her prominence in the marketing feels misleading.
To make matters worse, the show is suffering from a severe identity crisis. By the time it ends, it’s hard to say what Death’s Game is even trying to be. Is it action? Fantasy? Comedy? Romance? Horror? Psychological thriller? Crime drama? High school drama? Somehow, it attempts all of these within a handful of episodes, resulting in tonal whiplash rather than genre-blending. Nothing is given room to breathe.
The plot also prioritizes shock value above all else. Deaths are sudden, often illogical, and sometimes outright nonsensical. Instead of feeling tragic or meaningful, they feel engineered to surprise.
In the end, Death’s Game is all vibes and very little substance. It gestures at depth without truly engaging with its ideas, coming across as shallow and preachy rather than profound. I’ve genuinely never seen such a stacked cast wasted on such a nothingburger of a plot.
Still, credit where it’s due: the set pieces are visually impressive, and the production value is strong. Unfortunately, aesthetics can’t compensate for weak characterization and confused storytelling.
Overall, this was a lackluster experience. The show wants to be deep, but it doesn’t seem to fully understand the topics it’s tackling—and worse, it doesn’t trust its audience to sit with anything real.
The series begins with a promising psychological fantasy tone, flirting with existential ideas like fate versus free will, personal accountability, and death as an inevitability. For a brief moment, it feels introspective and willing to trust the audience to sit with uncomfortable questions. Even though I didn’t agree with what the show was trying to say, I could at least tell the writers believed in it.
Then the show introduces a villain—and everything collapses.
That single decision triggers a major tonal shift. What could have remained a character-driven, philosophical exploration suddenly becomes a crime thriller. Instead of centering the protagonist’s internal struggle, the narrative externalizes conflict. Accountability shifts outward. Reflection is replaced with reaction. The protagonist stops looking inward and starts chasing a “big bad,” flattening the very message the show initially seemed committed to.
This is especially frustrating because the strongest antagonist was already there: Death itself. Death, as an existential force, was far more compelling than any human villain could ever be. It was thematic, inevitable, and deeply unsettling. You could feel that, at some point, the writers genuinely believed in this idea. Unfortunately, they didn’t trust it to be interesting enough. They chose spectacle over substance, drama over meaning.
That lack of trust bleeds into the characters—particularly the main character. The first episode presents him as intelligent, driven, and calculating. But from there, his writing becomes wildly inconsistent. He knows he could die at any moment, yet does nothing to prevent it. He makes no real plans, avoids sensible decisions, and reduces his motivation almost entirely to money, and later, revenge. The loved ones he supposedly left behind—central to the show’s moral guilt-tripping—barely cross his mind unless he physically runs into them by chance or is reminded of the by something in his current life. It’s ironic, considering the entire premise is meant to force him to confront the consequences of his suicide.
The supporting cast is equally underwhelming, which is shocking given how stacked it is. Many capable actors give committed performances, but the writing boxes their characters into simplistic roles: selfish and greedy, or kind-hearted and doomed. We spend so much time anchored to the main character that everyone else feels narratively disposable. Even Death—the only character with real presence in the show—has so little screen time that her prominence in the marketing feels misleading.
To make matters worse, the show is suffering from a severe identity crisis. By the time it ends, it’s hard to say what Death’s Game is even trying to be. Is it action? Fantasy? Comedy? Romance? Horror? Psychological thriller? Crime drama? High school drama? Somehow, it attempts all of these within a handful of episodes, resulting in tonal whiplash rather than genre-blending. Nothing is given room to breathe.
The plot also prioritizes shock value above all else. Deaths are sudden, often illogical, and sometimes outright nonsensical. Instead of feeling tragic or meaningful, they feel engineered to surprise.
In the end, Death’s Game is all vibes and very little substance. It gestures at depth without truly engaging with its ideas, coming across as shallow and preachy rather than profound. I’ve genuinely never seen such a stacked cast wasted on such a nothingburger of a plot.
Still, credit where it’s due: the set pieces are visually impressive, and the production value is strong. Unfortunately, aesthetics can’t compensate for weak characterization and confused storytelling.
Overall, this was a lackluster experience. The show wants to be deep, but it doesn’t seem to fully understand the topics it’s tackling—and worse, it doesn’t trust its audience to sit with anything real.
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