Returning home for vacation, I was greeted by a surreal carnival engineered by the viral content gods. My 12-year-old brother, remote in hand and entirely unfazed by my homecoming, had commandeered the television. Onscreen, contestants in identical tracksuits flung themselves through obstacle courses seemingly designed by unmedicated AI. The set sprawled in shiny, synthetic grandeur, underscored by a singular promise: $5 million to whoever outlasted the gauntlet of ludicrous challenges. The appearance of my personal nemesis, Jimmy Donaldson, cemented my suspicions – it was Beast Games, in all its candy-coated glory. I sat down.

“It resembled the lovechild of Total Wipeout and something extraterrestrial”

At first, it resembled the lovechild of Total Wipeout and something extraterrestrial, dipped in the claymation realm of Mio Mao. But, as I watched, the facade of parody dissolved, revealing a sincere artefact of our times. Wealth dangled as a golden carrot while contestants surrendered dignity, comfort, and reason. Bright colours and frenetic editing smoothed over the discomfort of watching people contort themselves – physically and emotionally – for survival. It wasn’t satirical to its own excessiveness; it was an earnest reflection of a culture thriving on pageantry, where human strife is rendered in HD for the scrolling masses.

Beast Games, streaming on Amazon Prime Video, is the latest brainchild of MrBeast. The YouTuber-turned-ghost-kitchen-frequenter-turned-media-mogul has made a fortune engineering virality: high-stakes challenges, ostentatious giveaways, and philanthropic stunts designed for maximum impact. With a record-shattering $100 million budget, Beast Games takes his formula to its most bloatedform yet: 1,000 contestants battling punishing trials for a chance at the jackpot, interspersed with shots of its ringleader atop piles of money with offensively white trainers.

If this premise feels familiar, it’s because Beast Games debuted practically in lockstep with Squid Game’s much-anticipated second season, inviting comparisons that write themselves. Both shows revolve around individuals driven to extremes by desperation, enduring horrors for a life-changing payout. But where Squid Game forces viewers to confront systemic inequalities, Beast Games bulldozes past any commentative nuance; for all its grandiosity, it offers little beyond it. Watching them side by side feels like seeing clothes tailored for dystopian critique hanging limp on a hollow frame of corporate-sponsored celebration.

The show’s challenges are staged with a pathological commitment to the dramatic. Contestants engage in tyrannical acts of self-preservation, ranging from competitive-potato-sacking to hide-and-seek with Navy Seals, all to earn their lodgings in the elusive ‘Beast City’. While these events appear seamless onscreen, contestants describe a messier reality: gruelling hours in extreme weather, little access to food or water, and injuries galore. More troubling are allegations of sexual harassment, now part of multiple lawsuits, which indicate Beast Games’ ethos of life-changing “generational wealth” conceal something darker. Beneath its dazzling branding lies an industry that prioritises production over welfare.

“For all its flaws, Beast Games is unshakably compelling”

The show’s discomfort is heightened by its sponsorship from MoneyLion, a fintech company notorious for payday loans and predatory lending. A series claiming to offer financial freedom, backed by a brand profiting from economic insecurity, feels less ironic than inevitable. This partnership encapsulates Beast Games’ premise, commodifying the forces driving contestants to many a crying montage set to classical music. Unlike Squid Game, which critiques capitalist stratification, Beast Games cloaks its exploitative roots in compensatory optimism. Its glossy exterior demands audience complicity, encouraging uncritical cheering while glossing over the conditions enabling its production. The sponsorship doesn’t undermine the show’s message – it complements it, merging a neon-lit colosseum with corporate opportunism. Together, they glorify the same mechanisms of division that contestants are desperate to escape.

And yet, for all its flaws, Beast Games is unshakably compelling. There’s a primal thrill in watching people push limits, and the contestants – an odd mix of influencers, thrill-seekers, and financially strapped hopefuls – bring raw humanity to the chaos. Many seem acutely aware that even failure could lead to a win. Viral fame often trumps monetary reward today, and losing spectacularly might earn more followers than quietly succeeding. The show shamelessly feeds this logic, offering participants not just a chance at $5 million but an invitation to become content themselves.

Donaldson’s career is one built on acts of generosity so large they verge on absurdity – donating cars, building homes, planting forests – but always with the caveat that each act serves as something worth clicking onto. Unlike Survivor or The Amazing Race, which framed competition within arcs of strategy or growth, Donaldson’s games discard storytelling. Everything is framed through the motor of monetisation: optimised for overstimulated audiences, their attention bouncing from one aggrandised challenge to the next. The first episode was even removed from copyright to encourage co-streaming, amplifying its reach across platforms.

By the time my brother turned off the TV, leaving me to process the insanity I’d just witnessed, I couldn’t decide whether I was captivated, unsettled, or resigned to both. Beast Games is, without question, a mirror to its era: enamoured with wealth, spectacle, and monetised desperation. It’s dystopia masquerading as prime-time entertainment – repellent yet impossible to ignore.

For now, if only to keep an eye on Jimmy’s whereabouts, I’ll keep watching. Reluctantly, of course.

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