As Netflix’s global phenomenon Squid Game dropped its explosive final season this weekend, series creator Hwang Dong-hyuk delivered a revelation that has stunned fans and critics alike: Elon Musk—the tech magnate, space pioneer, and billionaire showman—served as a living inspiration for the show’s most notorious villains, the masked VIPs.

While the VIPs’ grotesque antics and chilling detachment have always been a focal point of the series, Hwang’s recent comments in a post-release interview cast their evolution in a new, unsettling light. “Elon Musk is everywhere these days, right?” Hwang mused. “Everybody talks about him. Not only is he the head of a huge tech company that controls the world almost, but he’s also this showman.” That blend of power and theatrical dominance, Hwang says, is exactly what defines the VIPs—who, by Season 3, have stepped out from behind their masks and into the heart of the deadly games themselves.

From Shadows to Spotlight: The VIPs’ Evolution

Since its debut, Squid Game has been lauded for its razor-sharp social commentary, pitting desperate, debt-ridden contestants against one another in a series of life-or-death games orchestrated by the shadowy elite. The VIPs—first introduced as a cabal of obscenely wealthy, English-speaking gamblers in Season 1—have always embodied the show’s critique of unchecked privilege. But in the new season, their role takes a dark new turn.

“In the past, those that really controlled the system and maintained power, they were hidden behind the curtain, almost like this big unseen conspiracy,” Hwang explained. “However, it’s no longer the case, especially in America. The people who really control the power and the system, they no longer hide behind a curtain. They willingly take their masks off, almost as if to declare, ‘We’re the ones running everything. We’re the ones in control.’”

In Season 3, released June 27, the VIPs abandon their passive role as spectators. Instead of lounging in decadent surroundings and betting on lives with champagne in hand, they don the iconic pink uniforms, pick up weapons, and participate in the violence firsthand. The metaphor is clear: the elite, no longer content with pulling strings from the shadows, now want to be seen—and feared—for their power.

Elon Musk: Billionaire, Showman, Inspiration

Hwang is careful to clarify that the VIPs weren’t originally modeled on any real individual. Yet, as the show’s final chapter unfolded, he found it impossible not to see Musk’s influence in their evolution. “After writing [Season 3], of course I thought, ‘Oh, some of the VIPs do kind of resemble Elon Musk,’” Hwang admitted.

It’s not just the wealth or eccentricity that drew Hwang’s attention—it’s the visibility. Musk, whose net worth now rivals the GDP of entire nations, is not content with running Tesla or SpaceX from behind closed doors. He’s a constant presence in global headlines, a provocateur on social media, and a force in politics, business, and culture.

This is the very definition of a “VIP” in the Squid Game universe: not just a hidden hand, but a public figure who shapes economies, policies, and even the culture itself—sometimes with a single tweet.

Fiction Mirrors Reality: The New Face of Power

The show’s latest season lands at a time when the world’s billionaire class is more visible—and more powerful—than ever. In 2020, there were about 2,000 billionaires globally, holding $8 trillion. By 2025, that number has soared to over 3,000, with their collective wealth doubling to $16 trillion—more than the GDP of every country except the United States and China.

Musk alone commands a fortune greater than the economies of Denmark, Malaysia, or Iran. And he’s not alone in flaunting his influence. Jeff Bezos, for example, recently made headlines with a $46 million Venice wedding, complete with nearly 90 private jets—a display of wealth that seems ripped straight from the show’s most decadent scenes.

For Hwang, this isn’t just coincidence—it’s commentary. “We talk a lot about oligarchy these days, but these so-called big tech owners, they step up, telling everyone who they’re backing with their money,” Hwang said. “They willingly take their masks off, almost as if to declare, ‘We’re the ones running everything. We’re the ones in control.’”

A Game No Longer Confined to Fiction

At its core, Squid Game has always been about the powerless—the indebted, the desperate, the forgotten. Contestants risk their lives for a chance at freedom, only to discover that the true game is stacked against them by those who profit most from their misery.

The show’s most chilling twist in Season 1 came when Oh Il-nam, the kindly old man, was revealed as the Games’ founder—a moneylender who joined the competition out of boredom. By Season 3, the VIPs’ transition from observers to participants mirrors the real world’s shift: the ultra-wealthy are no longer satisfied with passive influence. They want active participation, visibility, and control—even if it means getting their hands dirty.

In today’s world, billionaires don’t just shape policy behind closed doors. They tweet, livestream, endorse political candidates, and move markets with a keystroke. Musk, in particular, has become the archetype of this “unmasked elite”—a figure who doesn’t just wield power, but performs it for all to see.

A Mirror for Modern Society

Hwang’s reflections on Musk and the VIPs are not meant as a personal attack, but as a mirror for society. “Fiction, after all, reflects truth,” he said. The uncomfortable reality, he suggests, is that the line between the world of Squid Game and our own is growing thinner by the day.

As acclaimed director David Fincher prepares a U.S. remake of Squid Game, the show’s central metaphor is poised to evolve even further. In a country where billionaires dominate elections, shape public discourse, and elevate themselves to near-mythic status, Hwang’s warning is more relevant than ever.

The True Monsters: Not the Players, But the Builders

Squid Game doesn’t ask viewers to hate its desperate contestants. Instead, it points a finger at the system—and those who build and maintain it. The show’s final season strips away the last pretense, exposing the faces behind the gold masks as all-too-familiar.

The message is clear: the true monsters aren’t those forced to play the game—they’re the ones who create it, profit from it, and watch for their own amusement.

As the world tunes in to watch the final chapter of Squid Game, the line between fiction and reality blurs ever further. The game, it seems, isn’t just on a fictional island—it’s playing out in boardrooms, on social media, and in the halls of power.

And if, as Hwang suggests, the face behind the mask starts to look familiar, that’s not an accident. That’s the point.