My history with the Metal Gear games is a short one (I was only introduced to the series about a year ago by a concerned friend), but nevertheless I consider them a critical part of my foundation as an artist. Which isn't to say I wouldn't consider myself an artist before I became fully aware of what these games are and mean -- sure I was, why not? -- but that they have taken such an important and outsized role in my artistic consciousness, they've basically supplanted dozens of other works.
I won't try to convince you that they're great, or even to play them. I could list hundreds of reasons why they're wonderful, and it would mean nothing. They are games, and must be played to be properly appreciated. And they surely aren't perfect. For most people, I suspect, the transcendental delight I've derived from the experiences in this series will remain utterly opaque, rendered inaccessible by some unfortunate combination of preconceptions, background, and stubbornness. I simply count myself lucky to have grown up with the correct context to draw the maximum benefit from these works.
I use the word 'works' deliberately, short for "literary works." I believe ardently in these games' literary value, not just as cultural artifacts, but as vehicles for plots and themes that strike at the core of many modern existential questions. If nothing else, you could rely on a Metal Gear Solid game to set aside some time for questioning even those norms which inform the most basic assumptions of our interpersonal interactions in a modern context. In a very real sense, these are games about feeling alone in a crowded room.
Until now.
MGSV takes a step back from all of that. It pays lip service to the idea of cohesive thematic storytelling, but in reality, it's a disjointed mess; the plot informs you at the outset that anything you witness might as well be a hallucination. The main character knows he's susceptible to hallucinations, but he lives in a world of outrageous possibilities come to life, and there's no easy way for him to discern the truth from fiction. He copes, it seems, by accepting all the noise as part of the signal. His response to a given situation is constant, and he faces battle against a towering metal monstrosity with the same grim determination as against a camp of common Russian soldiers.
I finished the game and, though it was very fun to play, it contained little-to-none of that classic Metal Gear Solid charm that had so animated me in my anticipation for this. In short, this game feels fundamentally unfinished. The closing sequences, in fact the entire second half of the plot, contain teasing references to words unspoken, and I find myself reaching, in vain, for closure that isn't there. Something is missing, and without it, I can't be whole. Its absence hurts, and nothing I do can fix it.
It's phantom pain. It would be well in character for the series' creator, Hideo Kojima, to embed his theme so fully into the weave of his creation that the experience of the game is indivisible from its theme. At night, I dream about the ending that could have been. But, on awaking, I recognize that I'm missing something that was never real, yearning to reunite with people who were no more than ghosts all along.
But could it still be? There are hints that the true game might have yet to be released, that we could be in store for the greatest creative upset of all time. And it could just as easily be untrue, and one of the most powerful art-induced emotional experiences of my life might be ending on a very sour note. I don't want to believe it, but I don't even know what there is to believe anymore. I have constructed the wrong reality too many times to put much stock in my own perceptions.
Roy: A Life Well Lived
No comments:
Post a Comment