The landscape of British television has long been defined by its mastery of the crime procedural and the psychological thriller. From the gritty realism of Prime Suspect to the breakneck tension of Line of Duty, the "UK Noir" subgenre has set a global gold standard for narrative complexity and character depth. However, the proliferation of streaming platforms and the insatiable demand for "limited series" content have led to an inevitable dilution of quality. Channel 5’s The Game—a four-part miniseries recently exported to North American audiences via BritBox—serves as a poignant case study in how a prestige cast and a classic "cat-and-mouse" premise can be utterly dismantled by structural narrative failures and a reliance on exhausted tropes.
At its inception, The Game presents a facade of competence. It leverages the formidable talents of Jason Watkins, an actor known for his ability to portray internalised fragility, and Robson Green, a veteran of the genre who here attempts a pivot toward the sinister. The premise is archetypal: Huw Miller (Watkins), a former detective inspector, is a man haunted by the "one that got away." Three years prior, his pursuit of a serial killer known as the Ripton Stalker ended in a psychological collapse and the wrongful conviction of an innocent man. Now retired and attempting to mend a fractured domestic life with his wife, Alice (Sunetra Sarker), and estranged daughter, Margot (Indy Lewis), Huw’s fragile peace is shattered when a charismatic repairman, Patrick Harbottle (Green), moves in across the street.
The inciting incident is handled with traditional suspense. Following a seemingly innocuous evening of drinks, Patrick bids Huw farewell with the phrase, "Catch you later"—the exact parting words uttered by the Ripton Stalker during a near-apprehension years earlier. This moment serves as the catalyst for a psychological spiral, as Huw becomes convinced that the killer has not only returned but has deliberately embedded himself in Huw’s immediate social circle to play a final, lethal game.
While the setup is theoretically sound, the execution rapidly descends into what can only be described as narrative incoherence. The primary failure lies in the characterisation of Huw Miller. In contemporary detective fiction, the "broken investigator" is a staple; we accept characters like Happy Valley’s Catherine Cawood or Luther’s John Luther because their brilliance is the counterweight to their dysfunction. The Game, however, asks the audience to believe that Huw is a "genius" detective while simultaneously depicting him as a man of staggering incompetence.
Early in the series, a scene in a pub attempts to establish Huw’s "Sherlockian" powers of observation—his ability to memorise every detail of a room without looking. Yet, this supposed intellectual prowess never manifests in the actual investigation. In a pivotal scene, Huw interviews the man wrongfully accused of being the Stalker. The man drops a glaringly obvious clue regarding the killer’s identity—a detail that any seasoned viewer (or even a casual observer) would flag immediately. Huw, however, misses this entirely, only "discovering" it much later while listening to a recording. This creates a fundamental disconnect: the narrative tells us the protagonist is brilliant, but the script shows us a "bumbling nincompoop." This isn’t a subversion of the trope; it is a failure of internal logic.
As the series progresses, Huw’s behavior shifts from merely incompetent to actively dangerous. In a desperate bid to validate his suspicions, he exploits Ruth Parker (Christina Bennington), a survivor of the Stalker whom he once saved. In an act of profound irresponsibility, Huw brings Ruth to Patrick’s workshop without warning, hoping for a spontaneous moment of recognition. This maneuver is not only ethically bankrupt but logically flawed, as it alerts the predator to the survivor’s location without providing her any protection. The predictable result—a tragic visit from the killer—is framed as a tragedy for Huw’s psyche, but for the audience, it serves as an indictment of his character. By the third episode, the protagonist is so thoroughly unlikable and reckless that the "cat-and-mouse" tension evaporates; one finds themselves less interested in the capture of the killer and more frustrated by the protagonist’s survival.
The antagonist, Patrick Harbottle, fares little better under critical scrutiny. The "super-intelligent serial killer" is a difficult archetype to sustain. For a villain to feel truly threatening, their successes must feel earned through superior strategy. In The Game, Patrick’s victories are almost entirely dependent on the convenient stupidity of those around him. He manages to frame Huw for the murder of his friend, Paul (Scott Karim), using a series of contrivances that defy the laws of forensic science and basic human behavior.
Patrick allegedly kills Paul in broad daylight, in a house with the door open to a busy street, using a knife stolen from Huw’s kitchen and a briefcase planted with incriminating evidence. He somehow predicts that Huw will be the one to find the body and that Huw will be foolish enough to contaminate the crime scene by getting Paul’s blood all over his face and clothes. The local police, portrayed here as a collection of cardboard cutouts, accept this evidence without question, ignoring the lack of motive or the physical impossibility of the timeline. This is "plot-driven" writing at its worst, where characters are forced to act against their own interests and common sense simply to shepherd the story toward a predetermined conclusion.
Furthermore, the series leans heavily on the "nagging wife" trope, a relic of 1990s television that feels increasingly out of place in the modern era. Alice Miller is relegated to the role of the domestic obstacle, her primary function being to berate Huw for his obsession and threaten to leave him. While the strain on a family caused by a partner’s mental health crisis is a valid theme, The Game treats it with zero nuance. Alice and Margot serve as plot devices rather than people, existing only to provide "teenage angst" or "marital friction" before inevitably realizing Huw was right all along. This lack of character development makes their eventual reconciliation feel hollow and unearned.
From an industry perspective, The Game represents a growing trend in the "miniseries glut." In the race to fill library shelves, networks often greenlight scripts that would have benefited from significant revision or perhaps should have remained as 90-minute standalone films. At four episodes, The Game feels both rushed and padded. The first two episodes build a moderate amount of atmospheric tension, but the final two are a chaotic scramble to tie up loose ends using increasingly preposterous methods.
The climax of the series is perhaps its most egregious failure. After escaping police custody, Patrick returns to the scene of his crimes almost immediately—a move that contradicts his supposed status as a patient, calculating mastermind. Huw, in turn, waits for him alone, without calling for backup or formulating a coherent plan. The ensuing confrontation results in Huw being stabbed in the chest. In a final scene that borders on the surreal, the police arrive and arrest Patrick, but then simply stand by as Huw bleeds out in his wife’s arms. No one administers first aid; no one calls for a medic; the characters simply engage in a calm, philosophical conversation as if the protagonist hasn’t just had a blade driven into his thoracic cavity. It is a sequence that prioritizes melodrama over the most basic requirements of procedural realism.
The future of the British thriller depends on a return to the fundamentals: rigorous plotting, consistent character logic, and a refusal to rely on the "idiot plot" (a narrative that only functions because every character is an idiot). Shows like Blue Lights and Happy Valley succeed because they respect the intelligence of their audience and the reality of their settings. They understand that a detective’s flaws should make the investigation harder, not make the detective incompetent at their job.
Ultimately, The Game is a cautionary tale for producers and writers alike. A talented cast can only do so much with a script that resembles Swiss cheese. When the protagonist is a liability, the antagonist is a phantom of convenience, and the supporting cast are mere archetypes, the "game" is lost before it even begins. For viewers looking for the high-caliber storytelling usually associated with UK drama, this particular entry is a rare but definitive "miss." The genre remains robust, but as The Game proves, even the most promising premise can be squandered when the writing fails to play by the rules of its own world.