With Solid Snake based on Escape From New York’s Snake Pliskin, Kojima’s love for cinema oozes through every pixel of Metal Gear Solid. Despite the controller in my hand, playing Metal Gear Solid seemed less like a video game, and more like starring in my very own interactive movie. From the grainy real-world military videos to the codec conversations ruminating on philosophy, its collage-like presentation felt like sensory overload. While I’d sunk many hours into JRPGs, this was something else entirely. With Snake on a one-man mission to take down a terrorist cell before they can launch a nuclear warhead, it’s the eerie music that really hammers home how perilous Snake’s mission is.Īs commanding officer Colonel Campbell finishes relaying intel to Snake via a hidden Codec communication device, the footsteps of patrolling guards reverberate around the water-logged base – and it’s impossible not to be sucked into Snake’s world. Throughout its ten-plus hour run time, Metal Gear Solid’s orchestral score is a masterclass in tension and spectacle, somehow feeling simultaneously grand, subtle, and consistently menacing. It wasn’t just the gravelly tones of Snake and his comrades that had me enthralled, though – the game’s soundtrack is an all-timer.
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Sure, some of the performances feel a bit am-dram now (we’re looking at you, Liquid Snake) but even in 2021, full voice acting isn’t a feat that every AAA game managed. Where most ‘90s games featured a smattering of sound effects and intermittent character noises, Metal Gear Solid’s seamless segues between 3D cutscenes and voiced codec conversations felt like pure magic. Released just two years after the entirely voiceless Final Fantasy VII, Metal Gear Solid’s fully-voiced dialogue felt like it had come from another planet. I clearly wasn’t the only one left spellbound by Metal Gear Solid Kojima’s PS1 debut launched to rave reviews across the board. For ten-year-old Tom, this wasn’t just another video game – this was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. As voice actor David Hayter grumbled intensely about something called nanomachines and talked solemnly about ‘the battlefield’, I strained closer and closer to the grainy CRT screen, completely and utterly entranced. In Metal Gear Solid’s opening ten minutes, I was sneaking past heavily-armed guards and avoiding military helicopters, enthralled by the gravelly tones of Solid “I eat cigarettes for breakfast” Snake. The second I popped that scuffed disc into my chunky grey PlayStation, my perception of video games changed forever.
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I had no idea what the hell was happening, but one thing was clear – I had to play this game.
Suddenly, break time was dominated by kids impersonating cyborg ninjas, shouting nonsensical sentences about something called ‘Foxdie’, and diving dramatically to the ground in imaginary gunfights. Until one day, whispers of a strange Japanese PlayStation game reached my ears. Wandering around my primary school at break time, The Matrix was the talk of the tarmac, eliciting excitable playground-shaking screams from the kids lucky enough to have seen it. Hitting UK shelves the same year as The Matrix (1999), being nine years old, Hideo Kojima’s masterpiece initially eluded me. In fact, after formative years spent obsessing over Pokémon, pummelling my cousins in Tekken and bullying sheep as Spyro, I thought I’d seen everything games had to offer. Back in 2001, I was no stranger to video games.
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