I remember taking a sick day from my accounting job when GTA Online launched back in October 2013. Told my boss I had a migraine, which wasn’t entirely false since I’d been staring at gaming forums all morning getting hyped. Rushed home thinking I’d spend the afternoon building my criminal empire, only to spend four hours watching loading screens and getting kicked from servers. When I finally got in and created my character – went with this scowling Eastern European-looking guy who seemed perfect for a life of crime – some kid in a neon pink supercar ran me over within thirty seconds. I thought, “This is complete chaos.” Then I thought, “I absolutely love this.” My wife still thinks that sick day was the beginning of my midlife crisis.
Twelve years later, I’m still logging into Los Santos regularly. Still running heists with the same crew of guys I met through random matchmaking. Still buying ridiculous cars I don’t need with money I earned selling fake documents and stolen goods to NPCs. My teenage kids think it’s weird that I’m still playing a game older than some of their classmates, but honestly? GTA Online has become this weird constant in my life, like a favorite TV show that never got cancelled.
The evolution of this game has been absolutely wild to witness firsthand. Started as basic deathmatches and races, now it’s got businesses, nightclubs, casinos, submarines, flying cars – the works. I’ve lived through every major update, from the original bare-bones launch to Heists in 2015 (which felt revolutionary at the time), then Gunrunning, Doomsday, After Hours, Cayo Perico. Each expansion just piled more stuff onto the existing framework, creating this beautifully messy criminal playground. Sometimes I joke that I use my business degree more in Los Santos than I do at my actual job – managing supply chains for my counterfeit cash factory and coordinating staff for my nightclub warehouse.
My first apartment was this tiny place in East Los Santos with a two-car garage. Last week I hosted my crew in my casino penthouse before flying my rocket-powered car to my yacht. That progression took years of grinding, occasional questionable decisions involving shark cards (I’m not proud of dropping real money on fake money, but we’ve all been there), and more hours than my wife would prefer me to admit.
Money-making in this game has become almost scientific for me. Early days were brutal – robbing the same convenience stores over and over for chump change, running “Rooftop Rumble” mission probably fifty times because it paid slightly better than the alternatives. Now I’ve got this whole routine down: check my nightclub warehouse stock, run a bunker sale, prep for Cayo Perico heist, maybe squeeze in some auto shop deliveries if I have time. It’s embarrassingly similar to how I organize my actual workday, which probably says something uncomfortable about both me and modern capitalism.
The heists changed everything, though. I could write a manual on infiltrating that island fortress at this point – I’ve memorized every guard patrol, every camera location, every possible entry point. My regular crew has our roles locked down: Dave handles the hacking (he’s got steady hands and patience I lack), Mike takes point on combat situations, Sarah drives because she can weave through traffic at insane speeds without breaking a sweat, and I coordinate because someone has to be the planner. We’ve pulled off some genuinely impressive scores together.
Our crowning achievement was completing the original Pacific Standard heist without losing a single dollar of the take. Took us an entire Saturday, multiple failed attempts, several YouTube tutorials, and one argument that temporarily ended a friendship (sorry Mike, you were right about those motorcycles). When we finally nailed it, our celebration over voice chat was louder than when our local team made the playoffs. My wife came downstairs asking if something was wrong because we were all yelling. Try explaining that you just pulled off a fictional bank robbery to someone who thinks video games are a waste of time.
Dealing with griefers has been an ongoing education in human nature. Getting repeatedly blown up by some kid on a flying motorcycle while trying to deliver product from my MC businesses remains one of gaming’s most uniquely infuriating experiences. I developed this whole ritual for joining sessions – check the player count, scan for suspicious gamertags, watch the kill feed for signs of chaos. The option to run businesses in invite-only sessions was a godsend, even though it removed some of the risk that made successful sales feel genuinely rewarding. I’ve got a mental blacklist of players whose names make me immediately find a new session. Life’s too short to deal with that nonsense.
My car collection is frankly embarrassing if I think about the real-world value. Multiple garages packed with customized vehicles, each one connected to specific memories. There’s the Turismo I won in my first proper race, the armored Nightshark that’s survived more player encounters than I can count, the lowrider Voodoo I spent three hours customizing to match my uncle’s old car. These digital rides have become weird memory triggers – I see them and remember specific moments, friends I used to play with, even what was happening in my life when I bought them. My most treasured possession? A completely ordinary Karin Futo I stole off the street during my first week, now parked next to supercars worth millions. Some things you just can’t part with.
The gap between online and story mode has grown massive over the years. What started as multiplayer Grand Theft Auto has become this sci-fi crime simulator with orbital cannons, flying bikes, and laser weapons. Sometimes I miss the more grounded feel of the original single-player campaign, but then I activate my rocket boost and fly across the map instead of driving for twenty minutes, and I make peace with the trade-offs.
Playing solo has become increasingly viable, which suits my introverted nature perfectly. Probably 70% of my time is spent running businesses alone, taking on missions designed for single players, or just cruising around the map. There’s something oddly meditative about driving up the coast highway at sunset, even when you occasionally have to dodge a firefight between cops and players dressed as bananas wielding RPGs. The game’s become more accommodating to this playstyle, though the biggest money still requires teamwork.
The newer content updates follow a predictable pattern now – new business type, new properties to purchase, new vehicles to unlock, new modes that’ll be popular for two weeks then forgotten. I dutifully buy the new stuff and run the new missions anyway, like a sports fan who complains about their team but never misses a game. The formula works, even when it feels repetitive.
What keeps me coming back after all these years? Part of it’s pure habit – the driving and shooting mechanics still feel great, Los Santos remains one of gaming’s most impressive virtual cities. But mostly it’s the social connections and shared history. Dave and I met through random heist matchmaking years ago, and now we text about real-life stuff regularly. He lives in Scotland, I’m in Michigan, we’ve never met face-to-face, yet I consider him a genuine friend. When his dad passed last year, he disappeared from online for a few weeks. The day he came back, without discussion, the crew took him on the most ridiculously over-the-top rampage through the city – tanks, jets, everything. A digital funeral pyre that somehow felt like the right way to process grief together.
Public lobbies still generate my favorite random moments. Impromptu car meets that turn into demolition derbies. The weird player who followed me around honking a musical horn until I joined in. That time fifteen random people decided to hijack the train and ride it around the map for an hour, fighting off police. These unscripted moments of pure chaos are what keep the aging game feeling alive.
There’s comfort in returning to a virtual world that’s persisted this long. My character has survived multiple console generations, various phases of my actual life. The apartment I bought in 2013 still has the same view it did when I was living in my first post-college place. I’ve changed jobs three times, moved twice, got married, adopted cats – through all that, Los Santos stayed constant. My character got richer and acquired more ridiculous toys, but the city itself remains reassuringly unchanged.
I’m not blind to the game’s problems. Loading times that test human patience. Mission designs that feel stuck in 2013. Weaponized vehicle power creep that’s created balance issues they’ll never fully fix. Monetization that can be predatory for new players trying to catch up. Some of the satirical content hasn’t aged gracefully either.
But you’ve got to respect a game that’s maintained relevance for over a decade in an industry obsessed with the newest thing. It’s outlasted countless supposed “GTA killers” and survived its own publisher trying to shift focus elsewhere. In gaming years, it’s practically ancient, yet still regularly appears among the most-streamed games on Twitch.
With GTA VI somewhere on the horizon, I’ve been thinking about what it’ll mean to potentially leave Los Santos behind. Will the crew make the jump to whatever Vice City 2.0 looks like? Will all these hours of grinding feel wasted when the new hotness arrives? Honestly, I suspect I’ll keep returning to Los Santos regardless. Too many memories embedded in those digital streets to abandon them completely.
Besides, I still haven’t filled all the spots in my newest garage. And I heard there’s triple money on vehicle cargo this week. Some habits die hard, I guess. My wife’s given up trying to understand it, my kids think I’m having an extended midlife crisis, but after twelve years of criminal enterprise in Los Santos, I’m not ready to go straight just yet.
Samuel’s been gaming since the Atari 2600 and still thinks 16-bit was the golden age. Between accounting gigs and parenting teens, he keeps the CRTs humming in his Minneapolis basement, writing about cartridge quirks, console wars, and why pixel art never stopped being beautiful.
