I have a friend who thinks Hideo Kojima is the greatest mind in gaming. Not ‘one of.’ The. He says it the way a cinephile would say it about Kubrick or Bong Joon-ho, like Kojima is a singular, visionary artist whose work transcends genre and medium.
I also have a friend who hates Kojima. Says his writing is bloated, self-important, and overhyped. He winces at words like ‘genius’ and thinksDeath Strandingis what happens when no one tells you “no” for ten years.
I, on the other hand, am somewhere in the middle. More accurately: on the outside looking in.
The Kojima-verse Is Unskippable
I’ve played some ofMetal Gearand watched a fewDeath Stranding 2cutscenes out of morbid curiosity, but I’m not well-versed in the Kojima-verse, and yet, as a video game fan, I can’t escape him. He’s inescapable. Not just because of the games, but because of the discourse. He’ll post a photo of a vinyl record or a cappuccino on Instagram, and within minutes, the replies are filled with people calling him the GOAT. On TikTok, his name trends regularly with reverent brainrot edits ofMetal Gear Solid 3spliced between his selfies.
At some point in the last decade, Kojima stopped being ‘the guy who made Metal Gear’ and became a cultural icon. I find that fascinating, not because I love or hate his games, but because I’ve never seen another developer who invites this kind of reaction, not Todd Howard, not even Miyamoto.
Genius Or Guy With A God Complex?
Kojima’s name alone generates headlines. Theories bloom around every teaser he drops, even when they amount to a blurry corridor and a cryptic phrase. What intrigues me most isn’t the work itself (though I’ll admit,a lot of it is visually stunning), it’s the sheer magnetism of his identity, how he draws such intense energy from people, and how polarizing that energy is.
Spend five minutes online and you’ll find devout Kojima stans who treatMetal Gear Solid 2like scripture. They call him a prophet, a genius ahead of his time, and hey, maybe he is. But you’ll also find just as many people accusing him of pretension, of overindulgence, of making games that are more about being Kojima than telling a coherent story. Some resent the way critics seem afraid to call out his misfires, others thinkhe’s coasting on reputation and nostalgia.
This tension, this push and pull, reminds me less of traditional fandom and more of the way we talk about celebrities. Kojima isn’t just the creator behind a franchise; he’s a character in the public consciousness. Maybe it’s a symptom of where games are now. We’ve reached a point where creators are as recognizable as their creations. Neil Druckmann, Cory Barlog, and Yoko Taro are not just names in credits; they’re figures with public personas, fan followings, and often, controversies.
But Kojima was arguably the prototype. He wanted you to know he made these games. His name’s on the box and the opening credits. “A Hideo Kojima Game” Multiple times. In one game, I’m told it shows up seven times before you hit the title screen. For better or worse, that level of ownership demands attention. You either buy into the mythos or rebel against it.
There’s No Easy Answer
Maybe that’s the real magic of it. Whether you love him, hate him, or, like me, just watch from a distance, Hideo Kojima has managed to turn himself into a kind of mirror. People project onto him whatever they want to see: genius, fraud, artist, edgelord. Maybe even all of the above.
I still don’t know exactly how I feel about him. But I do know this: in an industry full of faceless studios and recycled formulas, there’s something undeniably strange and strangely human about someone who makes games this personal, and whose presence is impossible to ignore. Even if I never quite get the hype, I can’t stop watching the conversation.
