The Cruelty Is the Best Part of ‘Beast Games,’ Actually

Prime Video’s inexplicably popular Beast Games returned this week for its second season. For the unfamiliar, the series is hosted by Mr. Beast, and the supposed hook is that it offers the largest cash prize in game show history: $5 million (although the first season’s winner ultimately walked away with $10 million). I understand why $5 million might raise the stakes for the players, but it does nothing to make for a better viewing experience, unless hearing Jimmy Donaldson shout “it’s a life-changing amount of money” every five minutes is someone’s ideal version of ASMR.

For viewers, the prize money is almost never the point. Survivor has offered the same $1 million prize for 25 years. The Amazing Race is also capped at $1 million, and the two other most popular reality competitions, Big Brother and Traitors, offer even less. Viewers do not care. As long as the prize is large enough for the contestants to take it seriously, the exact amount is beside the point.

So what, exactly, sets Beast Games apart from other reality competitions? The sheer number of players, perhaps (this season starts with 200)? Not really. Physical Asia and Squid Games also begin with massive casts, which actually hurts viewer investment early on. It is nearly impossible to care about anyone when there are 100 people on screen. The opening episodes become less about competition and more about arbitrary culling.

Case in point: In season two, players are divided into 100 of the “strongest” people on Earth and 100 of the “smartest,” although the criteria for determining either strength or intelligence are never explained. I am deeply skeptical that Beast Games managed to recruit the 100 smartest people on the planet for a show where the odds of winning $5 million are roughly half a percent, while the odds of humiliating yourself on television or being eliminated with under 20 seconds of screen time are closer to 50 percent.

As for the gameplay, Beast Games borrows liberally from Squid Game, Physical Asia, American Ninja Warrior, and, somehow, Total Wipeout. The first culling has the “strong” players climbing ropes while carrying a percentage of their own body weight, while the “smart” players memorize the color order of a series of blocks. These are not exactly MENSA-level challenges. The second culling is no better: a dodgeball game, a balancing challenge involving rocks that rewards neither strength nor intelligence, and a bluffing game the players refused to play, forcing the show to eliminate people at random. Awkward. A slightly more interesting challenge required teams to stack enormous blocks roughly 75 yards into the air, a process that reportedly took hours, only for the show to reduce it to a five-minute montage that stripped away any real suspense.

So what does distinguish Beast Games, aside from Mr. Beast’s unsettling Cheshire Cat smile and consistently questionable wardrobe? The cruelty. And to be fair, I am not dismissing that as a compelling element. It is, in fact, the only thing that occasionally makes the show interesting, because it introduces a moral dimension. Personally, I am not especially bothered by cruelty inflicted on 200 people whose collective vocabulary seems limited to two words: “Let’s” and “goooooooo!”

The cruelty usually works like this: A small group of contestants, newly bonded after roughly an hour of forced camaraderie, must choose a captain. That captain is then pitted against several others and offered escalating sums of money, sometimes up to $1 million. If any captain takes the cash, the rest of their team is eliminated, while the captain remains in the game.

What I actually find fascinating, in a world that seems increasingly indifferent to the well-being of others, is that anyone ever turns down $1 million so that four near-strangers can continue playing a game in which each has a minuscule chance of winning. The “smart” players, in particular, should understand that a guaranteed $1 million is far more rational than giving four random people a four percent chance at $5 million, especially in a competition that largely favors blind luck.

The other reason to watch is that two astonishingly naive contestants fell head-over-heels for each other in roughly 12 hours, declared themselves boyfriend and girlfriend on camera, and are almost certainly going to have that “love” tested by Mr. Beast in the form of a financial dilemma. I am not saying they deserve that particular brand of cruelty, but I am also not saying I object to it.

In fact, perhaps Mr. Beast’s next game should involve 25 unsuspecting, happily married couples who are offered $5 million if they agree to divorce on the spot. Those are compelling stakes, and at least then the cruelty would feel earned. If you are going to be an a-hole, you might as well do it properly.