Jeonghyeon Shim
Between M and Z, a way to locate a hybrid, singular homeland: becoming media
Before introducing a specific piece of media that could represent Korea, I find myself pausing. I sit between the Millennial and Gen Z boundary, carrying the confusion that comes with living in that in-between space. Even within the same country, people experience different forms of “representation,” and I sometimes worry that my own sense of it might feel unfamiliar to others. At the same time, I don’t quite belong to any particular fandom lineage either. I’m simply a person shaped by a hybrid era—an era that has already softened the borders between national identity and personal taste.
I tend to remember a country not through a specific work of media but through a certain feeling. When that feeling becomes necessary, I look for the content that embodies it. Perhaps the feeling itself is a kind of media.
There are moments when Korea feels fast, intense, and overflowing with a bright, almost feverish energy. And when I want to experience a slight detachment from that pace—something that feels more aligned with the distance my generation often senses—I find myself turning to webtoons more easily than to video-based formats. The long downward movement of a scroll on a phone screen, where the transition between scenes is measured not by time but by length, creates a rhythm that helps recalibrate the balance between myself and the country I live in.
The vertical scroll is not a simple convenience but a reading practice reshaped for mobile life. Full-color illustrations, weekly updates, and platforms built specifically around this form—Naver Webtoon, Daum, KakaoPage—together created a self-sustaining ecosystem. Webtoons are not merely “Korean-style comics”; they represent a digital media structure that first took shape in Korea.
Comment culture, fan communities, waves of derivative works, and the rapid adaptation of webtoons into dramas and films have turned the form into something more than storytelling. It has become a social apparatus. Interestingly, this structure no longer belongs only to Korea. The term “webtoon” is now used as-is in the United States and Europe, and vertical-scroll comic platforms continue to spread. Even in countries with long-established comic traditions—like France—webtoons are emerging as a distinct genre.
Watching this happen, I realize that “Korean media” cannot be treated simply as a category of national content. My generation grew up at a moment when the local and the global coexisted within the same small screen. The hybrid nature of that time was inescapable. Still, when I think of webtoons, I understand that Korean media’s defining characteristic is not national identity but the ability to invent new forms. Certain social and technological conditionsfostered a media experience that has now become global. Webtoons represent not just a popular Korean product but a structural contribution Korea has made to the world’s media ecosystem.
My generation grew up within the rhythm of the scroll—looking down into a screen, letting text and image accumulate in a single vertical flow, moving through stories at a fast and steady pace. This is the experience formed where Korean locality meets the digital world, and it is the most direct way I can speak about Korean media. Webtoons are not only a matter of taste; they capture both the structure of Korean media and the sensibility of the generation that grew up inside it.
Faced with the task of introducing a piece of Korean media, I find myself returning not to a particular film or television program, but to the familiar gesture of scrolling downward. In that small movement lies the trajectory of Korea’s digital culture, and the sensibilities of a generation shaped by its flow.
Nayœng Kim
A Compressed Growth Society
Originally released in South Korea in 2003, MapleStory rapidly achieved mass popularity, ultimately solidifying its status as a cultural icon within the nation’s online gaming landscape. At its peak, nearly 20 million Koreans—spanning multiple generations and social strata—had engaged with the game. This extraordinary level of participation suggests that MapleStory functioned not merely as a source of entertainment but as a significant cultural medium that helped shape the social imagination of contemporary Korean society.
South Korea’s remarkable economic trajectory during the latter half of the 20th century, often referred to as “compressed growth,” was characterized by rapid industrialization and modernization within a highly condensed timeframe. While this process yielded impressive national development, it also entailed profound human costs: prolonged working hours, intensive educational pressures, and an ingrained ethos of relentless self-optimization. During what is often called the “Miracle on the Han River,” Korea was frequently described as unmatched globally in terms of labor and study time. Within this broader sociocultural framework, MapleStory’s game design logic can be read as a mediated reflection—if not an extension—of Korea’s labor-oriented, performance- driven social order.
At the heart of MapleStory lies a progression system in which players achieve character development through the accumulation of experience points. This process, achieved by grinding monsters and completing quests, necessitates extensive time investment and high tolerance for repetitive tasks. Within the player community, such gameplay has been colloquially referred to as nogada—a Korean slang term originally denoting menial or physically exhausting labor.
The use of this term within the context of gameplay is telling: it exemplifies how MapleStory blurs the boundaries between play and work, projecting industrial labor values into the digital leisure sphere. Particularly during its early years, MapleStory was notorious for its labor-intensive mechanics and steep leveling curve, often requiring years of persistent grinding to reach maximum levels. Even as the game evolved, successive updates introduced new content and ever-higher ceilings, effectively locking players into a perpetual growth imperative.
In this way, the game operates as a microcosm of South Korea’s competitive society, immersing users in continuous pressure to perform, improve, and endure. Beneath the surface of play lies a system of repetitive digital labor that, while framed as enjoyable,often generates fatigue and affective exhaustion. As such, MapleStory may be seen as uncritically reproducing Korea’s broader culture of overwork and meritocratic obsession.
From a personal standpoint, growing up with MapleStory led me to normalize the idea that long-term, repetitive labor was not only necessary but virtuous. Tasks that demanded monotony and time—whether in-game or in real life—came to feel expected and even desirable, particularly when tied to notions of visible achievement.
This mindset, deeply resonant with broader Korean cultural ideals that valorize endurance and competitiveness, shaped how I viewed success and self-worth. For some, the game’s internal reward structure reinforced beliefs such as “effort never betrays.” For others, the game’s aggressive monetization and endless competitive loop may have induced disillusionment, prompting a more critical view of the similarly ruthless structures in real life.
In either case, MapleStory emerges not as a neutral form of entertainment, but as a complex cultural artifact—one that has left both affirming and unsettling imprints on how users experience labor, leisure, and identity.
Hyeyun Lee
Film and television dramas are among the most beloved forms of popular media in Korea. Among them, Ode to My Father (original title: Gukjesijang) is a film that effectively represents the characteristics of Korean media. The movie attracted over ten million viewers upon its release, reflecting how strongly many Koreans resonate with the historical and emotional themes embedded in the story.
The protagonist of Ode to My Father represents not only the men and heads of households of his time but also the Korean people of that entire generation. Through his life experiences—escaping during the Korean War, being dispatched as a miner to Germany—the film reveals the hardships of Korea’s modern history marked by war and turmoil.
The story also reflects Korea’s Confucian heritage, in which loyalty and sacrifice for one’s family are deeply valued. The protagonist continually sacrifices himself for his family and supports them as a way of keeping the promise he made to his late father. This illustrates the Korean emphasis on family and jeong , the emotional bond that connects people. In this sense, it is fitting that the English title shifts from the original setting of Gukjesijang (international market) to Ode to My Father, emphasizing the central theme of filial devotion.
The film also incorporates a strong shinpa (melodramatic) sentiment, one of the key elements of Korean popular culture. Its emotionally charged scenes, designed to move audiences to tears, are characteristic of Korean media. Although such melodrama can sometimes divide audiences—especially when it appears disconnected from the overall narrative—it remains an essential and enduring feature of Korean popular culture.
Ultimately, Ode to My Father encapsulates several defining aspects of Korean media: historical consciousness, Confucian family-centered values, and a powerful melodramatic sentiment.