The Damn Truth About Working in Korea

I’ve been in this industry long enough to see cycles repeat. Different studios, different projects, different names on the walls, but underneath it all, the same cultural patterns show up again and again. And here’s the part people don’t want to hear: working in Korea isn’t brutally hard because of the long hours, or the competition, or even the pressure from the global market. Those things are real, but they’re manageable. What eats at me day after day is much quieter: people walking into the room without discipline, without hunger, and without any sense of ownership for what they’re doing.

I don’t mean beginners. Beginners can stumble, ask “dumb” questions, get lost in the pipeline—that’s fine. In fact, I enjoy working with beginners when they’re hungry, because hunger is fuel. What drains me are the ones who don’t care at all. Who show up with no spark in their eyes, no desire to get better, no curiosity about what’s in front of them. They’re just present. A warm body in a chair. And when that kind of emptiness becomes the norm, it doesn’t just slow down progress—it poisons the entire atmosphere.

I’ve seen good teams die this way. Not because they lacked talent or budget, but because indifference spreads faster than fire.

The Misunderstanding of “Living Freely”

One phrase I hear constantly in Korea is: “너 하고 싶은대로.” Live at your own will. On the surface, it’s inspiring. I believe in living authentically. I believe in taking risks, chasing what matters, and refusing to coast through life. But here’s the twist: in practice, the phrase often becomes an excuse. It gets misused as a shield for apathy.

Instead of “seize the moment,” it turns into “don’t bother.”Instead of “choose your path,” it becomes “just drift.”Instead of courage, it becomes comfort.

And in the workplace, that mindset is lethal. It means projects drift too. It means people give half their effort and convince themselves it’s “enough.” It means ambition is not just ignored—it’s sometimes treated as embarrassing, like wanting too much makes you naive.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I don’t expect anyone to give 100% every single day. That’s not human. Life is heavy, burnout is real, and people need space to breathe. But there has to be a baseline. A minimum level of responsibility, of engagement, of presence. Creative work isn’t factory output—it demands your full attention, your taste, your discipline. When too many people around you treat their role like a placeholder, the collective fire dims. The room feels heavier. And eventually, even the people who do care start to wonder why they’re burning themselves out while everyone else drifts along.

The most painful part? I see people aiming impossibly high—expecting greatness, demanding respect, dreaming of glamorous careers—while lacking the most basic foundation. Discipline. Craft. Patience. You have to suffer, you have to fail, you have to be ready to take harsh feedback and still get up. You have to expand your 그릇 to hold more. But here, too often, the bowl is empty before it even touches the fire.

The Bottleneck of Leadership Philosophy

And this brings me to leadership. In Korea, leadership is often framed as protection. Be the caretaker. Put your team above yourself. Sacrifice. On paper, this sounds noble. In reality, it’s a trap.

Projects stall because leaders are forced to shield underperformers. Deadlines slip because “fairness” demands we carry those who refuse to pull their weight. And the culture defines a “good leader” as someone endlessly patient, endlessly forgiving—even when it hurts the work.

But leadership is not martyrdom. My job is not to sacrifice the project’s momentum for the sake of someone who refuses to move. My job is to protect the standard, and to protect the people who are actually giving their best years to this craft.

Empathy matters—but empathy without responsibility is poison. What I see too often is the burden always falling on the leader: “make it work, no matter what.” That’s not leadership. That’s dysfunction.

What makes it worse is the excuses. “I tried.” “I did what you told me.” “I tried my best but it wasn’t enough.” These lines aren’t growth—they’re shields. They’re a way to avoid responsibility. I hear them from grown adults, not students. And every time, I feel the weight of how normalized this has become.

Workplaces are not playgrounds. They’re not therapy groups. They’re not places to endlessly “find yourself” while dragging others down. Either you adapt, or you leave. If you can take the criticism, if you want to be good, then accept the hard truth. But if you can’t? Then stop wasting everyone else’s time.

The Fire vs. The Hollow

I’ve seen both sides—the fire and the hollow. When someone walks in with fire—hungry, fearless, relentless—the entire room shifts. Suddenly ideas spark faster, deadlines feel lighter, even mistakes become fuel. That kind of person doesn’t just perform well—they elevate everyone around them.

But when someone walks in hollow, it’s the opposite. Meetings feel like dragging a boulder uphill. Deadlines feel heavier. The silence in the room isn’t thoughtful—it’s empty. And worst of all, that emptiness spreads. Before long, your strongest people start slowing down, because they’re tired of carrying dead weight. They start asking: Why am I killing myself when others are coasting? That’s how resentment brews. That’s how A-players walk out the door.

And in creative work, the hollow hurts more than anywhere else. Because in this field, the work is the people. Their taste, their discipline, their passion—it bleeds directly into the output. When mediocrity becomes normalized, the game looks mediocre. When apathy takes hold, the art feels plastic, lifeless. You can spot it instantly.

And it happens because the standard bar is too low. So low that people don’t even realize they’re phoning it in.

Why It Hurts More in Creative Fields

If this was manufacturing, maybe the damage wouldn’t sting as much. But in art—especially game art—the work is the people. It carries their fingerprints: their taste, their hunger, their mindset. The discipline of the artist is the discipline of the art.

When apathy dominates, you can see it instantly. Characters look flat. Worlds feel plastic. Stories lose bite. The pixels themselves feel like they’ve given up. And once mediocrity becomes the default, it doesn’t just ruin the project—it rewires the culture.

New hires learn not to aim high. Juniors learn to survive instead of to grow. Seniors stop pushing because the room won’t move with them. Excellence becomes the exception, not the baseline...이건 적으면서도 너무 뼈아프다. 이게 절대적인 기준이 아닌데..

And here’s the harshest truth: no amount of crunch, no amount of efficiency, no amount of pretty pipelines can resurrect work once its soul is gone.

The Cultural Weight Behind It

To understand why this happens, you have to look at the bigger picture. Korea is a country built on hierarchy, conformity, and speed. These traits helped industries grow at insane rates. But in creative fields, those same traits turn toxic.

Hierarchy silences voices. Conformity flattens taste. Speed kills craft. And instead of nurturing talent, the system rewards obedience. So of course you get rooms full of people who don’t know what they want—they were never asked. Of course you get juniors without hunger—they were trained to follow, not to dream.

This is why, when you look at much of the creative output, it feels hollow. It’s not just about technical skill—it’s about mindset. Without a culture that values ownership and taste, the work feels like it’s built on sand.

The Emotional Toll

This is the part leaders rarely talk about: what it does to you personally. It’s not just project delays or weak output. It’s the emotional cost of constantly lowering the bar. It’s the guilt of wondering if you’re too harsh, even when you know you’re right. It’s the loneliness of pushing harder than anyone else in the room, only to realize no one is following.

I’ve been in meetings where I asked a simple question—and the silence wasn’t thoughtfulness. It was emptiness. Or worse, excuses, complaints, negativity. That silence still echoes in me, because it wasn’t just one person—it was an entire culture of detachment sitting across the table.

This wears you down in ways no overtime ever could. And the worst part? You start doubting yourself. You start asking if maybe you are the problem—for caring too much, for expecting too much. That doubt can eat away at you if you let it.

Why It Cuts Leaders to the Bone

For a leader, this is the most painful part. Because you don’t just lose projects—you lose 팀원들에 대한 믿음. You lose years of momentum to babysitting. You lose your top performers to exhaustion. You lose your own fire, watching brilliance suffocate in an environment that rewards survival over excellence.

And the cruelest irony? Leaders who push for higher standards are often branded “harsh.” 그리고 놀라운건 ,어느새 나쁜놈으로 낙인찍힘. 리더는 리더답게가 통하지 않는듯. Meanwhile, leaders who tolerate mediocrity are praised as “caring.” But which is really more cruel? Demanding effort—or letting someone’s potential rot while dragging everyone else down with them?

The Hard Truth

So here it is, without softening it: the hardest part of working in Korea is not the deadlines, not the hours, not even the brutal global competition. It’s the people who show up without will—and the cultural expectation that leaders should carry them anyway.

People will argue I’m being too harsh. That I lack empathy. That the system is to blame. And sure, the system is broken. But here’s what I know: if we keep sacrificing the momentum of the whole for the comfort of the unmotivated few, we’re not leading. We’re sinking.

I don’t claim to be perfect. I blame myself constantly—for not being good enough, for tolerating too much, for failing to shift the culture faster. But the one thing I refuse to do is lower the bar. Because once the bar falls, it never rises again.

This isn’t cruelty. This is clarity. It’s the reality of watching talent, passion, and possibility strangled by apathy. And if I have one duty left as a leader, it’s to protect the bar—for the people who still burn, for the work that still matters, for the fire that hasn’t gone out yet.

Why I Keep Going

And yet—despite all this—here I am. Still in it. Still pushing. Still believing it’s possible to build teams that are alive, hungry, disciplined, and fearless. Why? Because I’ve seen what happens when the fire catches.

I’ve seen one A-player raise the bar so high that everyone else has no choice but to climb. I’ve seen ambition spread like wildfire. I’ve seen teams where mediocrity wasn’t carried—it was cut away. And the work that came out of those rooms? It had soul. It had fire. It felt alive.

That’s what I fight for. Not perfection. Not endless patience. But a standard that matters. A standard that protects the craft, the project, and the people who truly care.

So no—I don’t care about low performers. I care about the fire. I care about the standard. I care about the people who care. Everything else is noise.