The Game Season 1 Review: Paranoia, Cops & Suburban Hell

TL;DR

A retired cop loses his mind over a dude next door and calls it justice. It’s gripping. It’s ridiculous. It’s very British.

The Game is a tense, uncomfortable, quietly savage little thriller about obsession masquerading as justice. It doesn’t glorify cops. It exposes them. Sometimes unintentionally, which is even better.

It’s smart. It’s creepy. It occasionally trips over its own seriousness. But when it works, it works like a vice tightening around your skull.

Watching The Game without the proper equipment is amateur hour.

Get a pair of binoculars, a hardcover notebook, and a ballpoint pen, so you too can stare at strangers and call it “instinct.”

Or: Retirement Is a Lie

The Game begins with a premise so British it practically apologises before stabbing you. A retired detective cannot let go of “the one that got away.” He moves to the suburbs, presumably to relax, but instead decides to ruin everyone’s life within a 200-meter radius.

Then a neighbour turns up. Says a phrase. A phrase. One. Single. Phrase. And suddenly our hero’s brain goes full corkscrew.

From a CRIMENET perspective? Delicious. This is not a story about justice. This is a story about obsession wearing a cardigan and calling itself “instinct.” The fantasy here isn’t catching criminals, it’s watching a man slowly justify stalking because he once owned a badge.

Four Episodes, Zero Chill

It’s a tight four-episode mini-series, which is a blessing because if this went on for eight episodes, someone would’ve needed to be tranquilised. The pacing is sharp. Almost too sharp. It moves like a man late for a train, fuelled by paranoia and lukewarm tea.

Every episode escalates the tension nicely, mostly by asking the same question louder each time:“Am I right… or am I insane?”

The answer is obviously “both,” but that’s half the fun.

Men Staring Intensely at Each Other

Jason Watkins plays the retired detective like a man whose internal monologue is permanently screaming. He’s excellent. Sweaty, twitchy, morally convinced. The sort of bloke who’d accuse a toaster of murder if it hummed suspiciously.

Robson Green as the neighbour is doing something far more interesting. He’s polite. Calm. Slightly too calm. The kind of man who smiles like he’s already rehearsed the police interview. Watching him exist is unsettling in the way a silent room is unsettling.

Their scenes together feel less like dialogue and more like two foxes circling the same bin.

Whispers, Threats, and British Restraint

Nobody yells. This is Britain. Yelling is for Americans and football referees.

Instead, the dialogue creeps. It insinuates. It lets silences do the heavy lifting. When someone finally snaps, it lands harder because you’ve spent an hour waiting for it.

That said, the writing occasionally leans a bit too hard on “trust me, I’m a cop” logic. Which is always adorable. Nothing says credibility like a man insisting he’s right because he used to carry a laminated card.

Suburbs Are Terrifying

This show understands one universal truth: Quiet streets are worse than dark alleys.

The setting is aggressively normal. Neighbours wave. Dogs bark. Everything is clean, polite, and absolutely crawling with suspicion. It’s the kind of place where curtains twitch harder than suspects under interrogation.

The atmosphere does most of the work. No explosions. No flashy nonsense. Just creeping dread and the feeling that someone is always watching, possibly the main character, possibly you.

Every great investigation needs a corkboard. Preferably covered in red string, push pins, and absolutely unhinged conclusions. Add a wall-mounted cork board and become unbearable at dinner parties.

No Flash, All Tension

The direction is restrained, confident, and refreshingly uninterested in showing off. No artsy nonsense. No “look at me, I went to film school” shots.

It trusts the performances. It trusts the silence. It trusts that watching two men psychologically disembowel each other over a garden fence is compelling enough.

And it is.

Anxiety, Lightly Seasoned

The music barely announces itself. It hums. It pulses. It waits patiently like a migraine forming behind your eyes.

Which is perfect. Anything louder would’ve felt like emotional cheating.

Who’s the Villain? Yes.

Here’s where The Game quietly shines: it refuses to give you a clean hero.

The cop isn’t noble. He’s obsessed. The suspect isn’t obviously evil. He’s just… wrong.

The show keeps asking whether intuition is insight or ego. And it never gives you the comfort of a clear answer. CRIMENET approves. Moral certainty is for people who clap when the plane lands.

One Night, One Spiral

This is prime one-night binge material. You’ll say “one more episode” four times and suddenly it’s 2 AM and you’re suspicious of your own neighbour’s recycling habits.

Rewatching? Less essential. This is about tension, not puzzles. Once the spiral’s done, the thrill fades. But the first ride is worth it.

Don’t Stretch It

As a contained mini-series, it works. As an ongoing franchise? Absolutely not.

Some stories are meant to end before they start repeating themselves. This is one of them. Drag it out and it turns from psychological thriller into suburban farce.

If you’re going to spiral, do it properly.

A men’s trench coat, instant coffee, and a stress ball, because nothing says ‘retired detective’ like caffeine jitters and unresolved trauma.

FAQ (For People Who Google Before Watching)

Is The Game worth watching in 2026? Yes, if you enjoy watching men implode politely.

Is this a pro-cop show? Only if you think obsession and paranoia are admirable leadership qualities.

Is it scary? Not jump-scary. The slow, uncomfortable kind. Like making eye contact too long.

How long is it? Four episodes. Short enough to binge, long enough to feel unwell.

Does it stick the landing? Mostly. It lands on its feet, then stares at you suspiciously.