Heist to meet you: the compulsive thieves of gaming

Phil Hartup asks what makes a heist game truly great.

Ever since the Bonanza Brothers sneaked onto my Megadrive in the early nineties, bought on budget rather than at release in the mistaken belief that a game in which the main characters look like dustbins couldn’t be great, I have been waiting for a perfect heist game. Bonanza Brothers was great, but some twenty years later and counting, it’s about time it was bettered. With Payday 2 rolling out this week maybe now is the finally the time for this to happen.

Theft occupies a curious place in the moral pantheon of video games in that it isn’t really considered wrong to steal in most games. Theft will get you into trouble in many games, no doubt about that, but for the majority of games, whether you’re playing as Mario in the Mushroom Kingdom, the Dragonborn in Skyrim, or the hero of a point and click adventure it is a given that if something is there, in the game world, and you can pick it up, you’re generally entitled, even encouraged to have it. In Skyrim maybe the guards will be called if you get caught, but you don’t see anybody getting thrown out on the street because you pinched the money in the chest to pay their rent, or starving to death because you munched all the food in their home like a cross between Beowulf and the Very Hungry Caterpillar.

That player characters are so often compulsive thieves, wolfing packets of snack food out of desk drawers as soon as look at them in the Bioshock series or walking up to any car like they own it in GTA, Saints Row or Sleeping Dogs, often makes game worlds feel a little strange and unrealistic. Is that what sets the hero apart from the masses, his willingness to steal everything that crosses his path? Some of my earliest gaming memories are of playing a text adventure called Juxtaposition: Barons of Ceti V on a venerable Dragon 32, I recall that if there was an item in a room I could have it, it was in fact important to success in the game that no object went un-stolen.

It is only the recent Fallout games that have really acknowledged that stealing is wrong by attaching a karma penalty to it. Steal enough from people and you are considered a rotter by all and sundry, at least until you’ve murdered a few outlaws to balance it out. The karma penalty applies even if you are not caught, which is fair enough, the characters presumably aware that wherever you go, scarcity and want are not far behind.

Perhaps the only other sin that games encourage within their worlds more than theft is imperialism, which is arguably just theft on a larger scale. Chances are if a game sets you up as being in charge of a country one of the first things they’ll want you to do with it is steal the land next door.

But if thievery is par for the course in gaming where does that leave the heist game? In a medium where every hero and his daughter is on the rob near constantly, is there a place for the game dedicated to the art of pinching things? Apparently yes.

There are specific elements that set a proper heist game apart from the casual larceny of ordinary games. First among these is the level design. Any given level in a heist game should be almost completely self-contained, you start on the map at the start, you exit the map at the end, and somewhere in the middle you steal something. Stealth games like the early Hitman, Tenchu, or Splinter Cell titles shared many qualities with the heist game in the early days, but lost their way over the years to become more linear and less thoughtful.

The second defining quality of the heist game is the freedom. A heist game is not defined by its point of view, nor it is played on rails like a traditional linear game, rather it is a small sandbox with a treasure in it. Monaco: What’s Yours Is Mine is as much as heist game as Thief: The Dark Project or Bonanza Brothers, regardless of perspective.

Lastly and most importantly a heist game must react to player decisions and actions. If you play it sneaky the game must respect that, if you go in guns blazing the game must deal with that. Not every approach is as valid as the next, there can be a right way and a wrong way, but the game should roll with it and react accordingly.

The original Payday game, Payday: The Heist attempted to modernise the heist game in an era where co-op shooters were really starting to show their potential. Left 4 Dead and the zombie mode from Call of Duty: World At War had proved that a team focussed game in which you tried to achieve objectives while under waves of attacks could be better than merely shooting your way through a linear level or a simple arena horde mode. By combining that proven game style with the inherent excitement of armed robberies and criminal escapes Overkill, the developers of Payday: The Heist, almost pulled off something amazing. Almost.

The problem with Payday: The Heist is that though you can take the zombies out of the zombie-game and replace them with cops, you can’t really take the zombie-game out of the zombie-game. The overriding impression with Payday is that you’re playing Left 4 Dead against the police. The various law enforcement officials stop short of demanding to eat your brains, but as they sweep down on you in their hordes it’s impossible to shake the feeling you’re caught up in the middle of a brilliant idea that really isn’t working, and not just because you tripped one of the alarms. You get to a point, right after you’ve killed your thirtieth SWAT team member in the midst of a hold up, that the sublime becomes the ridiculous.

Enter Payday 2, and it’s clear that we’re dealing with an entirely different, much more highly evolved animal. This is not a surprise; Starbreeze Studios who acquired the Overkill studios that made the original Payday have form for good co-op shooters. The eminently forgettable Syndicate remake might have lacked most of the character of the original games but what it did manage to provide is an excellent mission based co-op mode.

Even just playing the beta the improvements over the original Payday stand out, the visuals, sounds, animations, everything is a solid order of magnitude better. Mission design, even in the limited selection of the beta, is hugely improved. There is a certain amount of randomness to every mission too which improves longevity, safes will be moved, amounts of valuables and their locations will change, alleyways can be blocked off, drop off points moved, little things that ensure a shift in the challenge.

The most important difference in terms of how the game plays is that the police hordes are now much more sensible. Gone is the human wave of SWAT officers pouring across the map towards you, replaced by more reasonable numbers of enemies in more intelligent groups and patterns. Teams of officers will flank you, working together, stacking up to ambush you in rooms you thought were clear and generally being a menace to ordinary decent criminals at every turn.

The rush at the end of a heist, getting your team to the van, weighed down with loot, having to battle the temptation to go back for that one more bag of cash is immense. So often the game will tease you with the promise of greater riches, so that knowing when to say enough is enough becomes a survival skill.

Where Payday 2 is weakest however is with the characters and their development. The game offers an improved array of equipment customisation and skill diversity to the original, but it remains married to the surly mob of villains from the first game, with the only notable change being that token British villain Hoxton has been replaced with generic American villain with odd name Hoxton. None of the characters has any personality to speak of or any defining traits deeper than their skin colour or country of origin, and this only extends as far as one character being black and one character being Swedish. Nothing of value would have been lost by allowing players to build their own criminal characters from scratch. You don’t have to play the game long to really get into the spirit of it and it is perhaps one of the best examples of a game where extensive customisation would really feel apt.

It should also go without saying that for a bank robbery game not to feature a female character is a shocking omission. Did Bonnie Parker die for nothing?

The final point that feels off is the punishment for killing innocent bystanders. You shoot a civilian, you get a penalty on your eventual cut of the robbery. There is no explanation for this, there is no rationale why the life of an innocent patron of a bank or jewellery story should have a dollar value attached to it, in the context of a pitched battle where your characters are pretty much required to shoot dozens of policemen in the head. It feels like an attempt to give the bank robbers some sort of a heroic outlaw quality, but to be honest, if I was interested in a heroic outlaw character I wouldn’t be taking hostages in a savings and loan company to hide behind during a shootout. 

Such criticisms might feel churlish given that the actual business of storming into a bank, robbing the place and getting away with it in Payday 2 is such a great slice of gaming action, but there is more to advancing a creative medium than just doing the same thing as last time but better. Some more thought and some more freedom for the players and Payday 2 could be a real classic.

Even with these flaws the game is well worth a look for those who like their cooperative games zombie free, or those whose idea of a fun evening in is stealing money from banks and shooting lots of policemen.

Payday 2.

Phil Hartup is a freelance journalist with an interest in video gaming and culture

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Alan Bennett: “I hope I’m not being too old-gittish”

At 82, Alan Bennett has lost none of his wit or compassion – nor his anger at the “nastification” of Britain.

“The blond one will have to go,” declared the impresario Donald Albery in 1961, as he considered bringing Beyond the Fringe to the West End. Yet Alan Bennett, looking very much like the clergyman he once intended to be, did not go. In the half-century since, he has proved himself to be the most enduring of the four wits behind the comedy revue. Peter Cook and Dudley Moore died young: the former from alcoholism, the latter from progressive supranuclear palsy. Jonathan Miller, the great polymath, lives on in the revivals of his many theatrical productions but seems to have retreated into retirement.

Now 82 and still somehow boyish, Bennett is easily recognisable from his early photos, as he and his Oxbridge chums found fame in the revue that brought satire to the masses. He is a little slower and stiffer than he was the last time we met, and a touch deaf – Keeping On Keeping On, his new collection of diaries and writings, regales the reader with the inevitable mishearings. He has survived cancer and a stomach aneurysm and has had a couple of joints replaced, but his life seems to proceed largely unimpeded.

“You can’t sort out the symptoms of anything going round from the symptoms of just getting older,” he tells me. “I still go on my bike, because it’s easier to ride than it is to walk, and I try to do half an hour each day. There’s a niggardly bit in Regent’s Park that they allow people to cycle down . . . The canal I always find rather scary, because the rules of the road don’t seem to apply and other cyclists come along at such a rate.”

We are chatting in the lime-washed front room of the Victorian terrace house in Primrose Hill that has been his home for almost a decade, shared with his partner of 24 years, Rupert Thomas, the editor of the World of Interiors. Bennett tells me that the recent Paddington adaptation was filmed in one of the flashier, colourful houses opposite. The walls and shelves bear witness to the couple’s travels and interests – many of the paintings were bought by Thomas – and the effect is low-key and lived-in. Bennett is settled in a Carver chair by the window, beneath a portrait that looks like it’s of Thomas but isn’t. (“He wouldn’t be flattered!”)

This patch of NW1 has long been Bennett’s stamping ground. In the 1980s he lived on the same street as Miller, Claire Tomalin, Michael Frayn and Mary-Kay Wilmers (Bennett’s editor at the London Review of Books). It’s a literary cohort captured with comic detail by Nina Stibbe, who was then Wilmers’s nanny, in her collection of letters, Love, Nina. “She’s funny, is Nina,” Bennett concedes, “but the character in the book bears no relation to me as far as I can see, and I didn’t think he was very funny, either. The notion that I could mend a fridge is absurd. I think she just wished that on to me to make me more interesting as a character, which I understand because I’ve done the same thing myself.” He didn’t recognise himself in the TV dramatisation but, he says, “Mary-Kay was happy because she was played by Helena Bonham Carter, so she found that rather flattering.”

Bennett is as active as ever, writing new plays and having older ones transferred to the big screen, most recently last year’s The Lady in the Van – the third film of his work (after The Madness of King George and The History Boys) to be directed by Nicholas Hytner, whom he met while adapting The Wind in the Willows for the stage in 1989. He doesn’t regard himself as a particularly speedy writer but: “Gradually, it gets done. Nick Hytner, at the end of the talk we did at the National [Theatre in London] about The Habit of Art, said the plays were normally four years apart. He felt that was a bit long, and if the audience felt that, too, would they applaud? It was like applauding Tinker Bell in Peter Pan!” He did speed up a little: it was only three years before he was able to pop his next script through Hytner’s letter box. The extent of his work is impressive – more than a score of stage plays and a dozen films, not to mention TV, radio and books. He giggles: “It’s appalling, isn’t it!”

Born in Armley, Leeds, to Lilian and Walter, a butcher, Bennett learned Russian during his national service and then read history at Oxford. He began and then aborted a PhD in medieval history, supporting himself with teaching, at which he insists he was “very bad”. He joined the Oxford Revue, out of which Beyond the Fringe grew, and its success in Edinburgh, in the West End and on Broadway (where President Kennedy attended) changed the course of his life. His first stage play, Forty Years On (1968), was followed by acclaimed plays and television dramas and a series of poignant Talking Heads monologues in 1988. Since 1994, three bestselling volumes of memoirs and diaries, often first published in the London Review of Books, have raised the curtain on the Yorkshire boyhood that has shaped so much of his work.

In 2008, Bennett donated his papers to the Bodleian Library in Oxford – all the diaries, letters and multifarious drafts of his plays. “I can’t believe that minute changes are of interest to anyone at all . . . They made out I was doing them a favour but it was the other way round, really – they were taking them off my hands.” Bennett doesn’t approve of selling archives unless a writer needs the money. “The British Library trumpets the manuscripts it’s bought for such and such, implying it’s philanthropy on the part of the writers – and it isn’t at all.”

To read Keeping On Keeping On is to be in the company of an old friend, one who defies the maxim that we get more right-wing as we get older. At the core of both the man and his work – whether he is writing about the Queen or Mary Shepherd, the homeless woman who lived in a van parked on his driveway – are warmth and humanity. Although there may be something teddy-bearish about Bennett, he is never cosy: almost all of his work is quietly unsettling, raising uncomfortable questions about ourselves and about society.

Bennett is moral in the best sense of the word, preoccupied always with unfairness and injustice and thus perplexed by what Daily Mail readers find in his work. “Papers full of Charles Kennedy being, or having been, an alcoholic,” he wrote in his diaries on 6 January 2006, observing that Winston Churchill and Herbert Asquith weren’t ­exactly teetotal. “Less perilous, I would have thought, to have a leader intoxicated with whisky than one like Blair, intoxicated with himself.” Later that year, the news that the policeman who shot Jean Charles de Menezes was still in his post made him “ashamed to be English”.

An admirer of Gordon Brown, Bennett told me in 2008 that if David Cameron were elected, it would be “government by estate agent”. Things turned out worse than expected, and his discomfiture and anger are palpable throughout the diaries. “I blame it all on Mrs Thatcher,” he tells me several times during our conversation, regretting the end of consensus politics.

That the Liberal Democrats went into coalition was incomprehensible to him from the outset. “The Tories are not to be trusted. You knew they would just take advantage. When it was plain we weren’t going to get proportional representation, which might have saved the day, that was really the end of it . . . You look back and you think Macmillan was a liberal prime minister. He was prime minister of the whole country, despite the fact that he was aristocratic. [Thatcher] bequeathed the fact that they just govern in favour of a class.” While Blair was “hard to forgive”, Cameron was “contemptible”. As for Theresa May: “We’ll see.”

Shopping in Camden Town on the morning after Cameron’s 2015 victory, he felt a sense of “bereavement in the streets”. He wanted a Labour government so he could “stop thinking about politics, knowing that the nation’s affairs were in the hands of a party which, even if it was often foolish, was at least well intentioned”.

Were he a party member, he wrote last year, he would have voted for Jeremy Corbyn, “if only out of hope that the better part of salvation lies not in electoral calculation but in the aspirations of the people”. When I ask whether he would have done so this year, however, he equivocates. “I can’t say that, no. Let’s see how things turn out.”

Bennett was surprised by the Brexit vote, “but then so was everybody else. Little England – I hate the notion. The sense of helplessness is new. It seems there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m afraid my reaction is that I shan’t be here much longer.”

Education is the issue about which he is most passionate. That students are “saddled with these enormous debts is just monstrous”, he tells me. “I feel it’s a mockery.” It is, he believes, “the mark of a civilised society that you do not think: who’s going to pay for my education? Mine was paid either by Leeds City Council or by the state, so it didn’t cost my parents a penny from start to finish.”

Leeds Modern School, which Bennett attended from 1945, was “a grammar school, though I always thought of it as just a state school. The grammar was Leeds Grammar School, a really snobbish place, and still is.” He went to Oxford after winning a Senior City scholarship. Had he been required to take out a loan, he would not have gone to university. It is “a standing rebuke” that Scotland still provides free education. When he gained the Freedom of the City of Leeds in May 2006, he said in his acceptance speech, “I feel I was given the freedom of this city more than 50 years ago . . . I was given an education for life and a freedom for life that education gives you.”

“The other thing I’m old-fashioned about is public schools,” says Bennett, who believes that their charitable status should go (“Blair could have done it easily, with the majority he had”) and that public and state schools should be amalgamated at sixth-form level – which would immediately dispense with the “need” for grammar schools. “It wouldn’t be an enormous social up­heaval and, once you’ve merged them at one level, the others would gradually follow.”

The iniquities of private education were the subject of “Fair Play”, a sermon that Bennett delivered at King’s College Chapel, Cambridge, in 2014. “I can understand the Etonians saying they refuse to feel guilty about it, but it’s a waste, that’s what’s wrong with it,” he says. “People are wasted. They don’t reach their full capacities. And not to reach your full capacities because your parents are in the wrong position is dreadful.”

In the King’s College sermon, he suggested that if something isn’t fair, “then maybe it’s not Christian, either”. So is it possible to be Conservative and Christian? “If I said no, the shit would really hit the fan!” he answers, giggling. “I don’t know. I’m not competent to say that.”

Devoutly religious as a teenager, Bennett wrote in 1988 that he had “never managed to outgrow” his religious upbringing, and the diaries are full of references to hymns, readings, religious paintings and churches, about which he is knowledgeable “in a slapdash way”. With Thomas, he likes to visit “tiny churches in the middle of nowhere” – buildings that haven’t been “knocked about” by the Victorians.

There is a sense in which Bennett is an Everyman, quietly advocating for the confused, accused and misused and railing against the “nastification” of Britain. Compassion is evident everywhere in his plays and in his life, although typically he denies that offering Mary Shepherd of The Lady in a Van refuge on his driveway was altruism (she was less of a distraction there than when she was parked on the street, under constant attack from unkindly passers-by).

The diaries reflect his quiet fury at various ways in which standards have slipped. Abu Hamza’s opinions, he argues, are “reprehensible . . . But he is a British citizen and he should not be extradited to the United States.” Watching the Trooping the Colour ceremony, he notes that there are “no grieving mothers, of course, and the deaths that have been mentioned are all noble ones and not due to inadequate equipment”. Andrew Lansley’s NHS reforms leave him aghast.

He writes of “ideology masquerading as pragmatism”, as shown in the fate of the East Coast Main Line, which was sold back into private ownership despite turning a profit while publicly owned. Bennett is a frequent passenger and, he tells me, “The people on it, who tend not to change and are funny and eccentric, are its saving grace.”

The BBC, which has been the outlet for so much of Bennett’s work, is similarly short-termist in the way it operates. “It’s to do with the way the whole thing is financed,” he says: another black mark against Thatcher for the damage that she did to the corporation’s management and principles. He is irritated by “the form of the programmes now, where someone is sent home at the end and they’re lined up and told which one it is”. He occasionally watches The Great British Bake Off but The Big Allotment Challenge was a particular affront: “Allotments are co-operative enterprises, not competitive, except for marrows. That business of saying someone’s not as good as someone else – I just hate it.” He and Rupert watch the US sitcom The Big Bang Theory “to fill a gap. The rest is . . .” He trails off. “We don’t watch Scandinavian crime. Too gloomy.”

Bennett is wary of becoming a codger and feels that he should shut up. “I hope I’m saved from the worst of it by Rupert, who’s thirty years younger than I am. He pulls me up if I’m too old-gittish.”

“Keeping On Keeping On” by Alan Bennett is published by Profile Books and Faber & Faber

Liz Thomson edited, with Patrick Humphries, the revised and updated edition of Robert Shelton’s “No Direction Home: the Life and Music of Bob Dylan”

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood