1
1
Trading light romance for a violent corporate drama of revenge, ambition, and broken family ties
The Wicked Game enters the Thai BL landscape as a risky invitation: trading the comfort of light romance for a dive into a corporate drama shaped by violence, revenge, and family ties eaten away by ambition. Instead of sunny campuses or shy first dates, the series places its focus on boardrooms, power struggles, and a past that refuses to stay buried. It is a bold and imperfect choice, but one that often results in something gripping and deeply engaging.
The story centers on Pheem, the rejected heir of a hospital empire whose childhood was brutally shattered by family betrayal. His return is driven not by longing, but by reckoning. What could have been just another revenge plot gains weight as each episode reveals how greed can turn siblings into enemies and parents into executioners. There is an almost tragic echo here, reminiscent of classic tales about dynasties that destroy themselves in the pursuit of power, and this heavy atmosphere carries much of the show’s emotional impact.
The series’ greatest strength lies in the way Pheem is written and portrayed. Offroad delivers a layered performance, shaping a character who is both cruel and deeply wounded. Every silence speaks as loudly as his most calculated attacks. Trauma is not merely mentioned; it shapes his gestures, his gaze, and his choices. Pheem is hard to love, yet impossible to ignore, and the show understands this well, using his coldness as a shield rather than an empty pose.
It is on this unstable ground that Than appears, played by Daou, as an almost luminous counterbalance. A former police officer, honest and emotionally open, he serves as the moral axis of the story and the viewer’s emotional anchor. The chemistry between Daou and Offroad is undeniable and perhaps the most consistent element of the series. Even when the script falters, the relationship between Than and Pheem keeps the narrative alive, fueled by tension, desire, and a constant sense of emotional danger. The romance is not comfortable, nor should it be, and that is precisely why it stands out.
The supporting cast also strengthens this web of conflict. Thanet, the father, embodies a toxic and cruel patriarchy, the kind that provokes instant discomfort because it feels painfully real. Risa and Chet move between victimhood and villainy, showing how the hunger for recognition can easily turn into cruelty. Even secondary characters, such as Jason or Chet’s bodyguard, carry a tension that suggests more depth than the script sometimes fully explores.
Not everything, however, works with the same precision. The series leans too heavily on gun violence, with frequent shootouts and an internal logic that stretches believability. Characters are shot, fall, and return almost unharmed, while the police seem to exist only as background figures. Uneven CGI and certain directorial choices weaken scenes that needed stronger impact. The ten-episode format also weighs heavily, as some characters and conflicts clearly needed more time to breathe.
The finale gathers many of these weaknesses. While it brings closure to the main arcs, it feels rushed and less emotionally charged than it promises. Some reunions call for more silence, more collapse, more release. Even so, the ending preserves the story’s tragic core, reinforcing the idea that wicked games rarely allow truly happy conclusions.
Taken as a whole, The Wicked Game is not an easy BL, nor a polished or perfectly balanced one. It is excessive, at times chaotic, but also intense, magnetic, and emotionally honest at its best. Carried by strong performances and a central chemistry that cuts through technical flaws, the series proves that the genre can flirt with darkness without losing its power to captivate. Imperfect yet memorable, it is the kind of story that leaves you exhausted at the end and, strangely enough, wanting to remember it.
The story centers on Pheem, the rejected heir of a hospital empire whose childhood was brutally shattered by family betrayal. His return is driven not by longing, but by reckoning. What could have been just another revenge plot gains weight as each episode reveals how greed can turn siblings into enemies and parents into executioners. There is an almost tragic echo here, reminiscent of classic tales about dynasties that destroy themselves in the pursuit of power, and this heavy atmosphere carries much of the show’s emotional impact.
The series’ greatest strength lies in the way Pheem is written and portrayed. Offroad delivers a layered performance, shaping a character who is both cruel and deeply wounded. Every silence speaks as loudly as his most calculated attacks. Trauma is not merely mentioned; it shapes his gestures, his gaze, and his choices. Pheem is hard to love, yet impossible to ignore, and the show understands this well, using his coldness as a shield rather than an empty pose.
It is on this unstable ground that Than appears, played by Daou, as an almost luminous counterbalance. A former police officer, honest and emotionally open, he serves as the moral axis of the story and the viewer’s emotional anchor. The chemistry between Daou and Offroad is undeniable and perhaps the most consistent element of the series. Even when the script falters, the relationship between Than and Pheem keeps the narrative alive, fueled by tension, desire, and a constant sense of emotional danger. The romance is not comfortable, nor should it be, and that is precisely why it stands out.
The supporting cast also strengthens this web of conflict. Thanet, the father, embodies a toxic and cruel patriarchy, the kind that provokes instant discomfort because it feels painfully real. Risa and Chet move between victimhood and villainy, showing how the hunger for recognition can easily turn into cruelty. Even secondary characters, such as Jason or Chet’s bodyguard, carry a tension that suggests more depth than the script sometimes fully explores.
Not everything, however, works with the same precision. The series leans too heavily on gun violence, with frequent shootouts and an internal logic that stretches believability. Characters are shot, fall, and return almost unharmed, while the police seem to exist only as background figures. Uneven CGI and certain directorial choices weaken scenes that needed stronger impact. The ten-episode format also weighs heavily, as some characters and conflicts clearly needed more time to breathe.
The finale gathers many of these weaknesses. While it brings closure to the main arcs, it feels rushed and less emotionally charged than it promises. Some reunions call for more silence, more collapse, more release. Even so, the ending preserves the story’s tragic core, reinforcing the idea that wicked games rarely allow truly happy conclusions.
Taken as a whole, The Wicked Game is not an easy BL, nor a polished or perfectly balanced one. It is excessive, at times chaotic, but also intense, magnetic, and emotionally honest at its best. Carried by strong performances and a central chemistry that cuts through technical flaws, the series proves that the genre can flirt with darkness without losing its power to captivate. Imperfect yet memorable, it is the kind of story that leaves you exhausted at the end and, strangely enough, wanting to remember it.
Was this review helpful to you?
