This is the fourth entry in my ongoing series chronicling my mission to play every Kojima game, dubbed “Operation H.I.D.E.O.” You can read Part 3 here.
Metal Gear Solid was, essentially, a remake of its predecessor that pushed the envelope of what can be done within the medium. The game was certainly an incredible technical leap forward, but the gimmicky mechanics and emphasis on cinematic boss battles led to my feeling a bit shortchanged on the actual, you know, game.
And Metal Gear Solid’s reputation preceded it. Frequently occupying places on best-of articles and bucket-list recommendations, I began to worry. Was the Metal Gear series going to be more of this? Did I bite off more than I can chew by promising to play every Kojima game? Am I gonna hate this?
Apprehension (and procrastination) abounded in the weeks that led up to the next game on the docket: Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty. There were only two things I knew about the technical side of the game: it was designed for the Playstation 2, so there was a generational leap over the first game, and that you could flip the camera to first person when you wanted to fire a gun. Maybe this was enough to get me through the janky controls that plagued Metal Gear Solid.
The game’s prologue played exactly the way I expected. I could actually aim my gun and, what’s more, lock on! I could see finer details on screen! I wasn’t falling victim to seemingly unfair A.I! It felt like Metal Gear Solid 1.5. Better controls, fewer gimmicks, but nothing groundbreaking by way of appearance. Much like the first Solid game, it’s a dark, militarized setting full of patrolling guards and soldiers. This time we’re on a boat, instead of in a base, but it’s thematically similar, all things considered.
Then, things take a turn.
As the game moves past the opening credits and into the core game, I was struck by the stark visual change. No, I wasn’t surprised that I’d be playing the rest of the game as a new character, named Raiden; that I knew going in. What amazed me was the new location the game had me explore. It was an oil rig (kinda), so yeah, the industrial feeling was still there.
But it was daytime. It was full of warm colors and bright lights. The sound of seagulls in the distance welcomed me to the roof of the facility. It was a wholly unique location that was unlike anything I’d seen in the series thus far and it informed the gameplay for the rest of my playthrough.
Informing gameplay, of course, is perhaps the single most important aspect of any aesthetic decision. Sure, things can look cool, but if you can replace the entire visual component of your game and it still plays the exact same, then the art isn’t maximizing its thematic potential. In the case of a video game, everything exists to enhance the feelings evoked through gameplay. Full stop.
In the case of this oil rig, several mechanics are now justified: massive pipes that connect different locations on the map, chambers that can be flooded, maintenance walkways that float and rock with the tide, bird shit that you can slip on and look like a fool. All vital aspects of the experience!
The oil rig also provided the narrative (and, therefore, gameplay) with something necessary: a clear structure. This facility is two major hubs, each with six hexagons surrounding them. Bridges are at fixed intervals, the “rules” of the architecture are consistent, and you always know where you are and how to get where you need to be.
This, when compared to the sprawling complex that defines the game’s predecessor…underground caverns full of wolves, sweltering foundries tied tenuously to frozen meat lockers via exposition-laden elevators. Solid is scenic, sure, but a demanding task it is to merely “know where you’re going.”
Things get a little more nebulous when I stress the mere fact that here, in Solid 2, it is the daytime. Why does this score the visuals so many points? Aside from establishing a timeline of events for the game’s chronology, it does very little other than look pretty, right? Maybe it was to reject the conventions of your “normal” spy dramas. Maybe it was to assist players in reading the environment so that they may, in turn, become more immersed in the decision making process. Maybe it was because Kojima looked out the window one day, admired the sunset, and said “Yeah, that!” Who knows? What I do know, is that the constant daylight gave the game a feeling of urgency. This was not the long-gestating, thoroughly researched, planned to a T infiltration. This mission, my mission, had to happen right now. It couldn’t wait another minute and I had to move.
Yes, there was part of my brain that knew I could leave Raiden on that roof for months on end, racking up hours in my save file, and the world would not be erased. I could hold its fate in limbo, forever, so long as my feet remained firmly planted amidst the metal scaffolding. Manhattan would live on in the distance if I simply kept it there.
This is a glib train of thought, yes, and it’s about as true as saying “Alderaan will never be destroyed so long as I don’t ever watch Star Wars.” Implying I can alter the art by simply not engaging with it is a pointless thought experiment. I bring it up not to waste our collective time, but to underscore the following: I play the game differently because of this aesthetic influence.
It’s same reason I run quickly to escape the volcano in Paper Mario instead of taking my time and exploring; the lava will never actually kill me, lest I jump into it both deliberately and repeatedly. It’s the same reason I choose to respond kindly from a dialogue wheel that has no bearing outside of the next voice clip that’s played. The game is inviting me to role-play. Sons of Liberty has set a ticking clock and, though it only ticks when I make it tick, the slowly setting sun allows me to imbibe the environment around me and derive a self-imposed narrative pressure from it.
To say the game’s actual narrative, that is “the front-and-center plot,” is a masterpiece in storytelling would be false. There are countless moving pieces, each boasting an increasing degree of ridiculousness, and these elements coalesce into a dizzying kaleidoscope of “What the Fuck?”ery. That being said, I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing.
I don’t know, maybe Otacon is actually the best character ever created? Between the last entry’s notorious pontifications about love blooming on a battlefield and the current reveal that Otacon harbors guilt about (*checks notes*) sleeping with his stepmother, which resulted in his father committing suicide by drowning in their childhood pool in front of his stepsister…what else could I possibly ask for?
Those unacquainted with the series may question if I love the story, or if I love making fun of the story. While I am an infamous FMV skipper, I refuse to miss a single frame of a Metal Gear cutscene. If the writing is as off the wall bonkers as I say it is, then perhaps my motivation for playing these games is simply out of snarky schadenfreude.
I have lived in (or around) New York City since I graduated college. I’ve had three apartments in Long Island and Queens and, right up until last March, had been commuting in every day. Subway delays frequently plagued my commute. Oppressive heat has baked the sidewalk and, when the sanitation crew had yet to arrive outside my office, the smell of broiling trash often greeted me when I left the lobby. Tourists often congregate near my building for the lighting of Rockefeller Center’s thoroughly underwhelming Christmas Tree. Far-right protestors sometimes gather outside of Fox News HQ, a few blocks away, in order to warn passersby that left-leaning news outlets are all “run by Jews.” New York City has a lot to complain about.
And if a person who doesn’t live here takes a swing at my city, I’ll defend it to the death.
You can’t truly make light of something’s flaws unless you truly know that thing. Poking fun at quirks or mocking imperfections is a byproduct of a deep and understanding love. I love New York City. I love The Room and Neil Breen’s entire career. And I love Hideo Kojima’s writing.
I see the story and its extraneous narrative tchotchkes and appreciate and cherish them. If this were a game designed by committee, these beats would be gone. In their stead would be a milder, more milquetoast tale of cat and mouse; a run of the mill spy game that lacks artificial intelligence nanobots, love declaration via parrot, and tanks that, in addition to launching nukes, can roar.
So it is with full sincerity that I say: I love Metal Gear Solid 2’s story. I love it because it is bizarre and earnestly so. I love it because of the face my girlfriend makes when I try to explain to her what “La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo” means. And I love the grand culmination of the story: the realization that Hideo Kojima predicted the future.
Hugo Award-winning author Frederik Pohl once said: “A good science fiction story should be able to predict not the automobile but the traffic jam.” The epiphany that Metal Gear Solid 2 foretold, not simply the rise of social media, but the resulting spread of misinformation and social bubbles built out of confirmation bias…that’s your reward for paying attention all this time. As you diligently take mental notes of the who’s, what’s, when’s, and where’s the story, Metal Gear Solid 2 rewards you with a finale that forces you to reevaluate the world around you. It’s just as effective, if not more so, twenty years later.
This reveal, however, does far more than call into question our social media diets. It calls into question the very game we just played.
I haven’t broken down the controls of Metal Gear Solid 2 because, largely, they are simply “the same as the first game, but better.” The ability to flip to first-person makes evaluating your surroundings easier, sure, and the ability to lock on mitigates the otherwise imprecise gunplay. With the subtle improvements to movement and management, the mechanics draw little attention to themselves. You don’t think; you simply do.
You do as you’re told.
You infiltrate the Big Shell. You find the president. You eliminate mercenaries. You follow the orders of your commanding officer without question. What reason would you have to doubt The Colonel, after all? His word is as good as his name. But wait…what is his name?
Raiden has trained for this mission via virtual reality. He knows the rules and how to abide by them. He follows the parameters of the simulation; of the game. Raiden, the player character, and you, the player, are in this way inextricably linked. You are trusting that the designers of your simulation would not lead you astray. You eschew your agency because you trust the powers that be. Metal Gear Solid 2 is an artistic exercise in thought control.
That the game never draws attention to the freedoms you’re given speaks to the very nature of its themes. You, the player, can complete the entire mission without killing a single person. The game, however, does not tell you this. Those who need instruction on their own agency aren’t truly in control, are they? An in-depth guide on how to not kill would betray the game’s very premise. You are free to save the day however you see fit, but you need to push the boundaries yourself. You need to wrestle away control of the game from the game.
I put Metal Gear Solid 2’s single disk into my PlayStation 2 with trepidation. After having a lackluster experience with Solid, I feared that this project was going to tax my patience. I was questioning my decision. Hideo Kojima rewarded my skepticism. I removed the game’s disk having felt fulfilled. Sons of Liberty had made me a believer, not by telling me to do so, but by calling my doubt, and raising me distrust. I am now ready to advance, not as a blind devotee of Metal Gear’s gospel, but as a student meeting the critical standard it puts forward. I am prepared for the future.
Let’s eat some fucking snakes.
Kommentare