Imagine for a moment that you're Hideo Kojima, beloved creator of the Metal Gear Solid series. You've just left Konami, the publisher where you made your name, in a very public way. Then Sony hands you a blank check to make a game exclusively for PlayStation. Any game you want. What do you do? I'm sure you would have some brilliant ideas, but I'd be surprised if one of them was a post-apocalyptic delivery simulator starring The Walking Dead's Norman Reedus as a sad courier with a baby who can detect ghosts strapped to his chest. There's nothing quite like Death Stranding in video games, or any other medium for that matter, and it's amazing that something this bold, challenging, and downright weird even exists—particularly in the increasingly stale triple-A space.
Triple-A gaming has become almost entirely risk averse. Look at the next 12 months of high profile releases and it's all riffs on established genres, play-it-safe sequels, fan-pleasing remasters, or service games designed to keep people yanking the one-armed bandit for as long as possible. This makes sense from a business perspective, but it's boring. That's why a game like Death Stranding is so exciting. Kojima didn't make a slow-paced hiking simulator where you can scare ghosts away by throwing your own piss at them because there's a big market for it—he made it because he wanted to. It was born from a distinct, singular vision, not designed by committee, and that sets it apart from almost every other triple-A game.
It's usually a nightmare when a creator becomes so influential that people are scared to say no to their bad ideas. I mean, just look at George Lucas and the Star Wars prequels. But without a meddling publisher hovering over his shoulder, Kojima seems to thrive. I'm sure he had more freedom than most developers when he was at Konami, but in Death Stranding it really feels like his imagination is being set free. It's clearly an incredibly indulgent game, with overlong cutscenes and gratuitous cameos from his celebrity pals. But it's also loaded with clever, interconnected systems and simulation elements that would end up on the cutting room floor if an army of nervous executive producers was overseeing the project.
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Death Stranding is an expensive blockbuster game about walking. There are moments of action, and dramatic boss battles, but the bulk of the gameis spent moving from one place to another, across silent landscapes, trying to keep Sam on his feet. It has the feel of an experimental indie, but with the budget of a Call of Duty, and that's an extraordinary combination. A few hours into the game, after traversing a vast expanse of challenging, rugged terrain, Death Stranding asks you to go all the way back to where you started. In a world where triple-A publishers fear nothing more than people getting bored and going off to play something else, there's something wonderfully subversive and supremely confident about that.
You might think Death Stranding is a masterpiece. You might also think it's overrated, self-indulgent nonsense. Fair enough. The key thing is, you think something. Whatever side you're on, Death Stranding is a game that pokes, prods, and provokes in a way all good art should. It doesn't just wash over you like so many modern triple-A games. Kojima knew precisely what experience he wanted people to have, and he committed to it—knowing full well that some people would find it boring or off-putting. He had the luxury of his reputation to let him get away with it, so it's unfair to demand the same from other developers. But I would like to see some of Death Stranding's anarchic spirit bleed into the mainstream.