mgsv is a game about nothing. It is a game about everything. It’s a game about colonialism and nationalism and ethnic cleansing and proxy wars. It’s about language and culture and international illuminati superspy conspiracies. It’s NOT about zombies. It’s a game about psychic powers and brainwashing and hypnosis and clumsily-shoehorned authorial fetishes and female characters whose writing is massacred so badly it’s almost avant-garde. It’s a game about hubris and revenge and hallucinations and unsatisfying endings. It’s a game about feminization and infertility, whatever the hell the implication of THAT is, Kojima. It’s a game about the futility of war. It’s a game where hardly anybody talks in cutscenes and the majority of the story takes place in the seven hours’ worth of convoluted and bizarre radio drama that you gradually unlock as you complete the main campaign. It is a game about Robin Atkin Downes’ emotional range and about a guy named Skull Face who once assassinated Joseph Stalin. It is a game with a thousand fascinating setups and maybe two total payoffs. It’s a game whose budget went to soundtrack rights first and story second. It’s a game about lasers in the jungle somewhere, and staccato signals of constant information, and a loose affiliation of millionaires and billionaires. It’s a game about how everything you think you understand about reality is completely wrong, but it’s too late to do anything about it. It’s a game about Laura Branigan’s 1982 hit “Gloria,” and a game about You, the Player. It’s a bunch of ideas haphazardly slapped together by a guy with one foot out the door at his toxic workplace. It’s completely, utterly stupid. It’s the worst game of the Metal Gear series. It’s the best game in the entire universe. No I still have not beat it.
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