There's something very compelling about a murder mystery that tells the reader from the prologue the whos and hows; and then proceeds to try and convince that maybe, sometimes, murder is kinda ok.
None of the characters are likeable. They're pretentious, condescending and self-centered; and, whilst the narrator is clearly thorn between somewhat regret and resignation, not for one moment you're supposed to sympathize with their actions.
Within well-crafted and beautifully woven prose, The Secret History explores the awful morality of somewhat rich scholars with a superiority complex through naive and awestruck eyes, to the point that for half of the book I didn't even realize how manipulated our narrator was.
Enchanted by the concept of such picturesque narrative, one slowly realizes that the story could only meet it's end in unavoidable tragedy.