Suzy
Seo Dal-mi
Overview
Young entrepreneurs aspiring to launch virtual dreams into reality compete for success and love in the cutthroat world of Korea's high-tech industry.
Cast
12 people
Reviews
6 min read AI-generated editorial review
Dreams in a Glass Tower
I kept thinking, while watching Start-Up, that the series understands something a lot of slick shows about young ambition miss: success doesn’t just arrive as money or status. It arrives as a change in posture. Shoulders square. Voice firms up. A person starts talking like they believe they deserve the room they’re in. That’s really what this 2020 Korean series is watching for, even when it dresses itself in startup jargon, pitch decks, and the bright, polished surfaces of Seoul’s tech world.
I should say up front that Start-Up is a familiar kind of drama in structure — a romance braided into an underdog workplace story — and it was also a very timed arrival. It landed in a moment when “startup culture” had already become a global fantasy machine: sleep-deprived brilliance, disruptive thinking, the myth that one app can reorganize your whole life. Korean dramas have been especially good at exposing the strain under these fantasies, and this one does it with a soft touch rather than a knife. Still, the show’s central question is clear enough. What happens when the dream of building something from nothing collides with the equally stubborn dream of being loved?
The series comes from creator Oh Choong-hwan, whose name carries real weight in melodrama land. If you’ve seen his earlier work — especially Hotel del Luna or While You Were Sleeping — you know he likes stories where genre pleasures and emotional injury sit right next to each other, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes beautifully. Start-Up fits that pattern. It’s glossy and caffeinated on the surface, but the best thing about it is that it keeps returning to humiliation: the things people say in interviews, the debts they can’t pay, the family wounds they try to turn into motivation. I’m not entirely sure the show always knows how to balance its tonal ingredients. At times it leans too hard on the inspirational beat, as if every setback must be polished into a lesson. But when it slows down and watches people fumble — especially in relation to money, family, and self-worth — it becomes much more interesting.
The conversation around the series, as it aired, was predictably about the love triangle. That was the watercooler hook, sure, and the show was absolutely engineered to sustain it. But I think that emphasis sometimes obscures the more revealing part of the drama: how it turns entrepreneurship into a language for emotional need. The founders of Sandbox, the fictional incubator at the center of the story, aren’t just competing for investment; they’re competing for recognition. That’s why the series keeps cutting between boardrooms and memory. It wants us to see that in this world, a failed pitch can feel uncomfortably close to a failed childhood.
I kept thinking, while watching Start-Up, that the series understands something a lot of slick shows about young ambition miss: success doesn’t just arrive as money or status. It arrives as a change in posture. Shoulders square. Voice firms up. A person starts talking like they believe they deserve the room they’re in. That’s really what this 2020 Korean series is watching for, even when it dresses itself in startup jargon, pitch decks, and the bright, polished surfaces of Seoul’s tech world.
I should say up front that Start-Up is a familiar kind of drama in structure — a romance braided into an underdog workplace story — and it was also a very timed arrival. It landed in a moment when “startup culture” had already become a global fantasy machine: sleep-deprived brilliance, disruptive thinking, the myth that one app can reorganize your whole life. Korean dramas have been especially good at exposing the strain under these fantasies, and this one does it with a soft touch rather than a knife. Still, the show’s central question is clear enough. What happens when the dream of building something from nothing collides with the equally stubborn dream of being loved?
The series comes from creator Oh Choong-hwan, whose name carries real weight in melodrama land. If you’ve seen his earlier work — especially Hotel del Luna or While You Were Sleeping — you know he likes stories where genre pleasures and emotional injury sit right next to each other, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes beautifully. Start-Up fits that pattern. It’s glossy and caffeinated on the surface, but the best thing about it is that it keeps returning to humiliation: the things people say in interviews, the debts they can’t pay, the family wounds they try to turn into motivation. I’m not entirely sure the show always knows how to balance its tonal ingredients. At times it leans too hard on the inspirational beat, as if every setback must be polished into a lesson. But when it slows down and watches people fumble — especially in relation to money, family, and self-worth — it becomes much more interesting.
The conversation around the series, as it aired, was predictably about the love triangle. That was the watercooler hook, sure, and the show was absolutely engineered to sustain it. But I think that emphasis sometimes obscures the more revealing part of the drama: how it turns entrepreneurship into a language for emotional need. The founders of Sandbox, the fictional incubator at the center of the story, aren’t just competing for investment; they’re competing for recognition. That’s why the series keeps cutting between boardrooms and memory. It wants us to see that in this world, a failed pitch can feel uncomfortably close to a failed childhood.
Buzz & Rumors
Public reports AI-researched entertainment notes
The Unlikely Heartthrob: How Kim Seon-ho Stole the Show in Start-Up
Start-Up (2020) was marketed as a high-stakes K-drama about ambition, tech startups, and a love triangle between Suzy’s Seo Dal-mi, Nam Joo-hyuk’s Nam Do-san, and Kang Han-na’s Won In-jae. But for many viewers, the real draw wasn’t the Silicon Valley-esque dreams—it was Kim Seon-ho’s Han Ji-pyeong, the sharp-tongued, morally ambiguous investor with a tragic backstory. His performance didn’t just elevate the series; it turned him into one of K-drama’s breakout stars of 2020.
The Second Lead Who Outshone the Leads
From the first episode, Han Ji-pyeong was a scene-stealer. While Seo Dal-mi and Nam Do-san’s romance drove the central plot, Ji-pyeong’s dry wit, emotional depth, and chemistry with Suzy’s character made him a fan favorite. Critics and viewers alike noted how his storyline often felt more compelling than the main love triangle. One review called him “so charismatic that his narrative arc frequently overshadowed the leads,” praising Kim Seon-ho’s ability to balance ruthlessness with vulnerability 
.
The drama’s success catapulted Kim Seon-ho into the spotlight, paving the way for his later role in Hometown Cha-Cha-Cha (2021), which cemented his status as a leading man. But Start-Up was where it all began—where a supporting role became the reason many tuned in week after week.
Behind the Scenes: Suzy and Kim Seon-ho’s Reunion
Fast-forward to 2024, and the Start-Up co-stars are set to reunite in Delusional, a period fantasy horror drama based on a popular webtoon. The project, set in 1930s Gyeongseong and 1800s Shanghai, marks their first collaboration since Start-Up and has already generated buzz—especially after reports that the duo was cast to replace Han So-hee and Ryu Jun-yeol following their breakup .
While details about their dynamic in Delusional remain under wraps, fans are speculating whether their chemistry will match the electric tension of Start-Up. In the 2020 series, Ji-pyeong’s complicated relationship with Dal-mi—part mentor, part rival, part unrequited love—left a lasting impression. Whether Delusional will recapture that magic is anyone’s guess, but the reunion alone has reignited interest in their earlier work.
**What Made Start-Up Work (and What Didn’t)**
Start-Up wasn’t without its flaws. The 16-episode series (airing from October to December 2020) was criticized for its pacing and occasional tonal whiplash, with some viewers feeling the love triangle dragged on too long . Yet, its strengths—sharp writing for Ji-pyeong, Suzy’s spirited performance as the ambitious Dal-mi, and a surprisingly grounded take on the startup world—kept audiences engaged.
The drama also benefited from a strong supporting cast, including Kim Hae-sook as Dal-mi’s no-nonsense grandmother and Kim Won-hae as a seasoned investor. Their performances added depth to the story, balancing the younger cast’s idealism with hard-earned wisdom 
.
Legacy: A Launchpad for Its Stars
Beyond Kim Seon-ho’s breakout, Start-Up served as a career milestone for its leads. Suzy, already a K-pop idol-turned-actress, showcased her range as Dal-mi, a character who was both fiercely independent and emotionally vulnerable. Nam Joo-hyuk, meanwhile, leaned into Do-san’s awkward charm, proving his versatility beyond his usual romantic lead roles.
The series also marked a turning point for Korean dramas exploring tech and entrepreneurship, a theme that would later resurface in hits like Twenty-Five Twenty-One (2022). While Start-Up may not have been a perfect drama, its impact on its cast—and on K-drama storytelling—is undeniable.
Entertainment rumors and trivia aggregated from public reporting. Treat speculation as unverified unless a cited source confirms it.
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