In 2009, a 38-year-old South Korean filmmaker found himself stuck in a small rented room in Seoul, staring at a laptop that had become both his creative lifeline and his last remaining asset. The script on its screen had consumed years of effort, revisions, and belief. Financially, however, there was nothing left. Debt had piled up. Rent was due. Basic living expenses had become impossible to manage.
That laptop—worth roughly $675—was eventually sold. Not as a symbolic gesture, but as a necessity to secure immediate cash for family expenses and survival. Writing stopped entirely. The tool that carried the script’s future was gone.
This was not the trajectory his career was meant to follow.
The filmmaker was Hwang Dong-hyuk, a graduate of Seoul National University, where he studied communications, followed by a master’s degree in film production from the University of Southern California’s School of Cinematic Arts—one of the most prestigious film schools in the world. His credentials were impeccable. His training was elite. By every conventional measure, success should have followed.
Instead, one script refused to move forward.
Written in 2009, the story was repeatedly rejected by Korean studios and investors. Feedback was consistent and dismissive. The concept was considered too violent, too strange, too unrealistic, and too dark to ever attract a mainstream audience. No broadcaster wanted to touch it. No financier wanted to take the risk.
With no income and no immediate prospects, Hwang returned to live with his mother and grandmother. What was meant to be a short pause turned into nearly ten years of creative limbo.
During that decade, the script remained largely unchanged in spirit, though it was revisited and refined whenever possible. It existed in the background—unproduced, unfunded, and ignored—while the industry moved on without it.
Eventually, the script found an unexpected buyer.
Netflix.
The project that Korean broadcasters had rejected for nearly a decade was picked up by the global streaming platform and produced as Squid Game. Upon release, it became one of the most-watched series in Netflix’s history, dominating global charts and pushing Korean dramas further into the international mainstream than ever before.
What followed was a worldwide perception of overnight success.
What remained largely unspoken was the financial reality behind it.
Despite Squid Game reportedly generating close to $900 million in value for Netflix, its creator did not receive a proportional share of that success.
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| Photo Credit - The Guardian: Hwang Dong-Hyuk Interview With The Guardian |
Hwang Dong-hyuk has stated in multiple interviews, including with The Guardian, that he was paid according to the original contract—written at a time when he was an unknown creator with little leverage.
The compensation was a fixed, upfront fee. There were no royalties, no backend participation, and no ownership stake in the intellectual property. Hwang later described the payment as enough to live on, but explicitly “not enough to put me on the Forbes list.”
In short, Squid Game did not make its creator wealthy.
Netflix provided an opportunity no one else would, and that opportunity allowed the project to exist. The life-changing upside, however, flowed elsewhere.
Hwang later renegotiated terms for subsequent seasons, placing him in a much stronger financial position. Still, the original deal became a clear illustration of deeper structural issues within the Korean drama industry—issues hidden beneath its glossy global image.
From the outside, Korean dramas appear to be thriving. Titles such as Crash Landing on You, Goblin, Reply 1988, and Itaewon Class are recognized worldwide. Korean actors dominate global award ceremonies, luxury brand endorsements, and international streaming platforms. The industry appears to be enjoying a historic golden age, filling the creative vacuum left by Hollywood’s struggles.
Behind the scenes, the reality is far more fragile.
Budgets have ballooned dramatically. Many production companies operate under mounting debt and chronic cash-flow problems. Writers and crew members often work longer hours for pay that, in real terms, has barely improved—or has even declined—over the past decade.
The contradiction is striking: some of the most addictive and globally successful series on the planet are being produced by an industry barely holding itself together.
To understand how this happened, it is necessary to examine the system that made Korean dramas so effective in the first place.
For decades, Korean television perfected emotional pacing. Traditional dramas relied on familiar narrative structures—romantic hierarchies, family conflict, childhood trauma, and dramatic late-stage twists. These patterns did not weaken engagement. They strengthened it. Each episode ended with carefully engineered hooks, encouraging viewers to continue.
This binge-ready structure existed long before streaming popularized the concept.
At the heart of this system was the 16-episode format. Long enough to build emotional attachment, short enough to avoid narrative fatigue. This format was not arbitrary. In earlier decades, Korean television favored long-running family sagas such as Country Diaries, which aired for over 20 years and more than 1,000 episodes. These shows trained audiences to live with characters over extended periods and care deeply about incremental emotional shifts.
By the 1990s, broadcasters such as KBS, MBC, and SBS transitioned to fixed-length prime-time miniseries. Some stretched to 20 or 24 episodes, and audiences responded in enormous numbers. Shows like First Love reached national ratings exceeding 65%, figures unimaginable in today’s fragmented media environment.
Over time, rising costs and narrative stagnation pushed episode counts down. Sixteen episodes emerged as the ideal balance. Economically, the format aligned perfectly with eight-week advertising cycles, allowing broadcasters to pre-sell ad slots before airing even began. The structure became both a storytelling framework and a financial machine.
Emotionally, most classic K-dramas followed a predictable arc. Early episodes established the premise and emotional hook. The middle section deepened character bonds and planted conflict. Episodes nine through twelve delivered betrayals and revelations. The final stretch focused on catharsis and resolution, with climactic moments arriving just before the conclusion.
Unlike Western television, these stories ended decisively.
Culturally, the format was reinforced by two key concepts. Jeong, the slow-building emotional bond formed through shared daily life. And Han, a deep-rooted sense of unresolved sorrow and resentment. Korean dramas allowed these emotions to accumulate gradually, making eventual payoffs feel intense and earned.
Production methods amplified engagement. Many shows were filmed while already airing, allowing audience reactions to influence the story in near real time. Popular characters expanded. Weak subplots vanished. Ratings dictated creative decisions. The system demanded brutal working hours, but it maximized emotional impact.
By the early 2000s, this storytelling machine was ready for export.
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| Winter Sonata Korean Drama Endless Love series. |
Winter Sonata marked the breakthrough. Its success in Japan demonstrated that Korean emotional storytelling could resonate far beyond national borders. Fans travelled to filming locations, purchased merchandise, and consumed soundtracks. Korean dramas, alongside K-pop and cinema, became a strategic cultural export.
Financially, however, the system was deeply flawed.
Broadcasters retained ownership of intellectual property. Independent production companies were paid fixed fees to deliver completed series, often surrendering long-term rights in exchange for guaranteed financing. Writers were paid per episode, not per success. Assistant writers earned extremely low wages under extreme time pressure.
The live-shoot system pushed crews to exhaustion. Accidents, hospitalisations, and visible quality collapses became common. Only a small elite of writers and actors could negotiate meaningful compensation. Overseas licensing revenue flowed almost entirely to broadcasters and distributors.
By the early 2010s, the cracks were impossible to ignore.
The arrival of Netflix did not create these problems—but it permanently exposed and accelerated them.
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Disclaimer:
This content is based on publicly available interviews, reports, and industry analysis. Financial figures and industry practices are discussed for informational and educational purposes only. Exact contractual terms and compensation details may vary and are not fully disclosed in the public domain. This Content is NOT SPONSORED BY NETFLIX.
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