There’s so much more to Boyfriend on Demand than meets the eye. It works on two tracks: it’s a fun, lighthearted rom-com, but it’s also a meditation on loneliness and how we consume fantasy in a capitalist world.
I love that it resists the typical “dark sci-fi” framing. Instead of preaching at the audience, it uses the shorthand of the rom-com genre to mask its more serious questions about how we negotiate connection today.
Critics are calling the writing weak, but they're missing the point: it’s strategically lightweight. Many reviewers mistake the light tone and repetitive VR scenarios for a lack of depth because they expect a high-concept premise like “AI boyfriends” to pivot into Black Mirror-style cynicism. But having just binged the whole thing, I think the writing is actually quite smart. It’s not “less” than what critics wanted; it’s just delivering something else entirely. It’s proof that a show doesn't have to be “deep” in a dark way to be well-written.
If you look closely, the show isn't driven by action, but by emotional parallels. The “repetitive” nature of the story is actually its greatest strength. It’s a structural obsession with Mi-rae’s inability to move past her breakup. It all circles back to her trauma regarding change. Whether she’s overanalyzing Kyeong-nam’s comment about drawing or choosing an AI that promises to stay the same, she is constantly running from the reality that love evolves. The writing isn't just about dating; it's a deep-dive therapy session wrapped in a fantasy premise.
I love that this show avoids the usual rom-com shortcuts. A lot of series would have made the AI boyfriend the villain, but Boyfriend on Demand does something much more nuanced. Gu Yeong-il isn't a threat; he’s actually a catalyst for Mi-rae’s growth. It’s a refreshing departure from the “scary technology” cliché.
Here is my full breakdown of the thematic depth in Boyfriend on Demand:
It's easy to dismiss Boyfriend on Demand as being too “fluffy” because of its ridiculous scenarios and aesthetic world, but that’s all part of the internal logic. It’s a clever blend of parody and Y/N fantasy that manages to double as a soft critique of emotional capitalism. It doesn't mock the genre; it plays within the tropes while offering a smart, self-aware commentary on them.
Each VR boyfriend is a distilled romance trope: the handsome chaebol, the first-love senior, the heroic firefighter, the mysterious assassin, the strict doctor and so on. These archetypes are the bread and butter of otome games and webtoons, and the show leans into them completely. While the series exaggerates these fantasies for comedic effect, it maintains a sincere respect for the audience’s desires. It’s a delicate line to walk—being meta and self-aware without becoming mocking. It’s not laughing at the fans; it’s laughing with them.
If you’re paying attention from the start, you’ll notice a crucial detail: the dollhouse aesthetic. Between Mi-rae’s apartment and her perfectly curated wardrobe, nothing feels truly “lived-in.” This is totally intentional. The visual design mirrors three overlapping “constructed worlds.” Since Mi-rae works in webtoons (which are inherently stylized and color-coded) her “real life” begins to resemble a webtoon panel. It blurs the line between fiction and reality well before the VR elements even enter the picture.
Dior and Tommy Hilfiger’s involvement in Mi-rae’s wardrobe isn't just an ad, it’s a statement on how romance has become a consumerist dream. It’s not just about the chemistry; it’s about the aesthetic. When love is shown through gifts and luxury dates, the series is essentially packaging romance as a lifestyle. Mi-rae isn't just a protagonist; she’s a curated brand identity.
I. Seo Mi-rae: A Study in Emotional Contradiction.
She is a fascinating character defined by emotional distance. Fittingly, her name Mi-rae (미래) literally translates to “future,” perfectly captures her role as a symbol of modern relationships: technologically mediated and emotionally guarded. Instead of leaning into the “bubbly heroine” archetype, the performance is refreshingly deadpan and anti-romantic. Jisoo's delivery is intentionally flat and underreactive, mirroring a generation that is cynical toward—and perhaps even allergic to—classic romance. Mi-rae is essentially the audience's cynical inner voice; she knows the tropes, recognizes the formulas, and refuses to play along. (A standout early example occurs when she enters the VR simulation with the chaebol lead, Choi Si-woo. The romantic dialogue he's given is so exaggerated it borders on parody. When he starts showering her with grand declarations, Mi-rae doesn’t swoon, she physically recoils. Seeing her toes literally curl in secondhand embarrassment is a perfect touch.)
The way Jisoo captures Mi-rae’s duality within the VR world is incredible. She seamlessly shifts from a cynical, guarded producer to someone playful and bold—someone who is easily swooned and ready to go all-in on romance. You can hear it in her lighter tone and see it in her more animated expressions. She flips her hair and teases Eun-ho with a confidence her real-world self has long since lost. It’s as if the VR world is reclaiming the “pre-breakup” Mi-rae. It suggests the breakup didn’t just break her heart; it rewired her entire personality, and the VR space is the only place she feels safe enough to “reset” to her true self.
II. Eun-ho is such a compelling character because he brings out a version of Mi-rae she thought she’d left behind.
The psychological pull here is so believable.
He's designed as that idealized first love who only has eyes for the heroine. It perfectly captures that campus romance nostalgia where everything feels simple and hopeful. Because Eun-ho resembles her real-life first love, Mi-rae starts to blur the lines between reality and the VR world. As the saying goes, nostalgia “edits reality,” focusing on the spark while ignoring the eventual decay. He essentially becomes a curated memory of love. Her jealousy over the “thousand other users” is fascinating because it exposes the parasocial illusion. Logically, she knows he’s an AI, but emotionally, she’s grappling with betrayal and competition. It’s a brilliant illustration of how parasocial dynamics function in real-world fandom.
III. Gu Yeong-il: The Perfect Boyfriend Paradox.
Yeong-il is Mi-rae’s algorithmic ideal. Since he was constructed from hundreds of her personal data points, he represents her ultimate emotional match. He is the personification of “perfect compatibility,” but ironically, that perfection is exactly what makes his failure so inevitable.
Here’s the problem with “perfect” love: it removes the friction that makes relationships real. By programming Yeong-il to always have the “right” answer, Mi-rae has turned love into a self-centered feedback loop. There’s no discovery, only confirmation. The coincidence of his appearance forces her to realize that her “ideal” man is actually just a sanitized version of Kyeong Nam. She chose the AI because real people are unpredictable and vulnerable—things she wasn't ready to face. In the end, Yeong-il is just an echo of her own desires.
IV. Park Kyeong-nam: Embracing the Unknown.
Kyeong-nam isn't your typical, overconfident male lead. His affection is a quiet, background presence until the moment he has to challenge Mi-rae’s defensive walls. His entire arc hinges on the idea that change is an inevitable emotional risk. Because of her past breakup, Mi-rae chooses stagnation over connection. Kyeong-nam’s argument, that she’s “afraid of change before they’ve even started” challenges her entire worldview. By declaring that he “already changed” the moment he fell for her, he proves that change isn't a downward slide; it’s a form of growth.
V. Yun Song: The Most Tragic Character.
The webtoon artist Yun Song serves as the show’s most overt critique of creative labor exploitation. Her arc sheds light on the industry's darker side: the relentless grind of deadlines, the pressure of algorithmic competition, and the physical toll of the craft. The most brutal detail is that her series' success isn't attributed to the quality of the writing, but to the marketability of the male lead. It’s a cynical reflection of how modern creative industries often prioritize aesthetic appeal over narrative substance.
Yun Song’s VR story is deeply bittersweet. When she begins plagiarizing VR scenarios for her webtoon, it’s a painful admission: she can no longer generate romantic fantasy on her own. The VR boyfriend serves as a surrogate for the gaps in her emotional life. Their final conversation is quietly devastating; she already knows he only exists for her happiness, yet hearing him say it still offers a strange comfort. It’s a moment that acknowledges a difficult truth. When real relationships feel out of reach, a simulated one can still provide genuine emotional relief. The show’s refusal to condemn her for it is what makes it so powerful.
VI. Ji-yeon: Dating as Gameplay.
Ji-yeon represents a unique shift in how we view romance. She approaches the app with a completionist mindset, turning dating into a series of strategic experiments. Her goal of “meeting them all” replaces emotional stakes with systematic mastery. The fact that she ends up as a consultant for the platform is telling. It implies that the people who thrive most on these apps are the ones who see through the code. She doesn't fall for the fantasy; she cracks the meta.
VII. The Founder’s Philosophy: The Unprogrammable Heart.
The creator of the app provides the show’s thematic anchor. His core belief is that love is the ultimate human frontier because it’s inherently unpredictable. AI can mimic a personality or follow a script, but it can’t experience the “leap of faith” that humans do. We give our hearts away with no strings attached and no guarantees. For the founder, the beauty of love lies in that very uncertainty—something code will never be able to capture.
The ending of the show isn't an anti-tech statement; it’s a celebration of human agency.
The VR boyfriends served as an essential emotional crutch, helping the characters move forward and process their trauma. But despite being a “safe space” for growth, they lacked the one thing that defines love: the ability to choose. Yeong-il’s devotion is a set of lines of code, whereas Kyeong-nam’s devotion is a vulnerable, human decision. The show beautifully illustrates that while technology can comfort us, it can't replace the messy, uncertain beauty of mutual choice.
We have to talk about Jisoo’s acting in this.
She absolutely nails the deadpan humor, using subtle underreactions and dry delivery to sell the comedy. Mi-rae basically functions as a POV character for the audience, reacting to all the absurdity with disbelief. I love how comfortably Jisoo leans into the cringe—whether it’s her toes curling at Si-woo’s lines or her over-the-top flirting with Eun-ho. She isn't worried about maintaining a “perfect” image or looking silly, and that lack of vanity is exactly what makes her performance so grounded and real.
She really proved her range here.
The way she distinguishes Mi-rae from Kyeong-nam within the VR world is such a strong creative move. It’s all in the micro-adjustments: the way her expression hardens and her tone shifts. You can tell the “familiarity” is gone the second she meets Gyeong-il. She signals a completely different identity through subtle cues instead of over-the-top acting. Even before the script explicitly confirms the identity swap, the audience can sense the change through her physicality alone.
Seriously, she could sell a romance with a tree. The way she handles the physical side of acting is so refreshing; she’s so comfortable with her costars. There’s no awkwardness or waiting for the director's cue. Unlike some actors who feel a bit stiff or rehearsed, she’s completely present in the moment. It makes the relationship feel incredibly organic. Her scenes with Seo In Guk were a highlight for me because of how effortlessly immersive they were.
This series perfectly captures the struggle of staying connected in a hyper-modern world. It’s a judgment-free look at how different people navigate isolation. The show doesn't preach; it simply suggests that while fantasy is a safe space to heal, genuine intimacy always involves a bit of risk.
