Ryota Watanabe, a passionate college student and devoted gamer, has always had a special place in his heart for the Metal Gear series. Ever since he played Metal Gear and its sequel, Metal Gear 2, on the original ZEPS 1, he was hooked by its stealth mechanics, intricate story, and iconic protagonist, Solid Snake. So when ZEPS 2 launched a couple of years ago, Ryota was full of hope, eagerly anticipating a new installment in the series. But to his growing disappointment, no sequel ever materialized on ZEPS 2—even years into its life cycle.
He followed gaming magazines religiously, hoping for any sign of a new Metal Gear title. Each month passed with silence, and he slowly began to believe the series might have been abandoned. But then came the announcement that changed everything: ZEPS 3 was on the horizon—and among the first wave of release titles was none other than Metal Gear Solid. The moment he saw the teaser trailer, it was an instant must-buy for him. It had everything he dreamed of: cinematic action, stealth gameplay, and a continuation of Snake's legacy.
Unfortunately, Ryota wasn't able to grab the console and the game right away. As a student living on a tight budget, he needed to save up every yen. It was a frustrating wait as his friends whispered about the new hardware and the legendary game he had longed for. But Ryota was patient. He skipped meals, held off on outings, and worked extra part-time hours—anything to gather enough money.
And now, finally, the wait is over. With his hands trembling with excitement, Ryota holds the brand-new ZEPS 3 console and a fresh copy of Metal Gear Solid and others 13 release. After years of anticipation, he's ready to dive back into the world he loves, where shadows are weapons and secrets lie behind every corner.
But Ryota decided to save Metal Gear Solid for last. He wanted to build up the anticipation even more, savoring the moment before diving into the game he had waited so long to play. First, he explored the other titles in his collection. He played a few levels of Mario, appreciating its colorful charm and tight platforming. Then he moved on to Suikoden, immersing himself in its deep political storyline and expansive cast of characters. He even spent some time with Twisted Metal, laughing at the chaotic car battles and explosive action. All of them were great in their own ways, but Ryota knew they were just appetizers. Each session only heightened his hunger for what he truly wanted—Metal Gear Solid. After several days of teasing himself with the other games, he finally placed the disc in the console, took a deep breath, and pressed start.
For several days, Ryota played Metal Gear Solid non-stop in his room, completely absorbed in the experience. He was captivated by how vastly different the gameplay felt compared to the original Metal Gear titles—more advanced, more cinematic—but it still carried that distinct Metal Gear identity. The stealth, the tension, the atmosphere—it was all there, just enhanced in every way. And yes, you were still playing as Solid Snake, which made it feel even more authentic. Ryota was still unsure how the story of this game tied back to the events of Metal Gear 1 and 2 on ZEPS 1, but that mystery only added to the intrigue. He was hooked—not just on the gameplay, but on the gripping, complex narrative that was unfolding. Every cutscene pulled him deeper, and he couldn't stop thinking about what might come next. This was more than a game to him—it was an experience.
Metal Gear Solid no longer relied heavily on text to tell its story—it redefined what video game storytelling could be. Through powerful voice acting, dramatic cinematography, and carefully crafted camera movement, it often felt more like a movie than a game. The performances were top-notch, with each voice actor breathing life into their character. Despite the limitations of the hardware, the game delivered surprisingly expressive facial animations—even if the faces themselves were still somewhat blurry. Every scene felt deliberate, intense, and emotionally charged.
The core gameplay didn't change drastically at first glance, but the feel of Metal Gear Solid was vastly different and significantly more immersive. The game was designed around avoiding detection as its central pillar. It wasn't just an action game—it was a stealth simulation that rewarded patience, awareness, and creativity.
To move unnoticed, you had to make use of every tool at your disposal: radar to monitor enemy movement, shadows to stay hidden, footstep sounds to gauge your noise level, and line-of-sight mechanics that defined what guards could and couldn't see. The environment wasn't just a backdrop—it was your playground and your threat.
Enemies weren't dumb cannon fodder. They reacted to everything. If they heard a noise—a footstep, a knocked-over object—they'd investigate. If they saw footprints in the snow, they'd follow them. If you were bleeding, they could track you by your blood trail. You couldn't hide sloppily. Hiding in lockers, crawling through vents, or sneaking under trucks became nerve-wracking, strategic choices.
The enemy AI was a game-changer. Guards called for backup over radio when alerted. Their patrols weren't static—they changed based on your behavior, forcing you to stay sharp. And they weren't limited to just sight and sound—they could see, hear, and even smell Snake depending on environmental conditions. This gave the illusion of real awareness. The world felt alive, watching you, waiting for you to slip up.
For Ryota, it was mind-blowing. He had never played anything like this. Every room felt like a puzzle box. Every alert triggered real panic. It was intense, unpredictable, and unforgettable. Metal Gear Solid wasn't just advancing gameplay—it was redefining what stealth and immersion could be.
The codec communication system in the gameplay was a brilliant touch. Not only did it serve as a vital tool for conveying mission details and character interactions, but it also injected personality into the experience with unexpected jokes, quirky dialogue, and hidden easter eggs. One moment that stood out for Ryota was the hilarious Zabo-man easter egg. After collecting two Z Tokens and locating a specific area known as the Z Room, Ryota used the tokens—and suddenly, a cutscene began. Zabo-man descended dramatically from the sky, startling nearby enemies before sprinting away while shouting, "You are very cool!" It was a goofy, unexpected moment—a direct reference to Metal Gear 1 and 2's ZABO-man —and it made Ryota burst into laughter.
These kinds of surprises added another layer of charm to the game, reinforcing how deeply thought-out the world was. Beyond that, the interactable environments were another major standout. You could hide under vehicles, knock on walls to lure guards, or even use cigarettes to reveal hidden laser traps. It wasn't just immersive—it was smart, layered design that made stealth feel dynamic, personal, and endlessly creative.
Ryota continued playing, now facing one of the most bizarre and iconic bosses in the game—Psycho Mantis. The moment the encounter began, he was thrown off by how strange the character was. Mantis floated eerily in mid-air, his eyes glowing behind his gas mask, speaking in cryptic riddles. Not only could he fly, but he also demonstrated the terrifying ability to possess and control people's minds. In a shocking twist, he even took control of Snake's partner, Meryl, turning her against Snake in a tense and emotional moment. As the cutscene unfolded, Mantis began rambling with unsettling intensity, setting the stage for one of the most memorable boss fights Ryota had ever experienced.
"So, you play Mario?" Psycho Mantis sneered, his voice echoing from the TV speakers with unsettling precision. "You must be careless." His tone was mocking, dripping with condescension. Then, almost immediately, he followed up: "And you play Suikoden? Hm... very cautious. Strategic type, aren't you?"
Ryota blinked in disbelief. How did the game know that?
"You save often, Snake," Mantis continued, now speaking directly to both the character and the player. "I can read you like an open book."
Ryota sat frozen, controller in hand, heart racing. This wasn't just dialogue—it was personal. The game was looking into him.
"You don't believe me?" Mantis hissed. "I'll show you my psychotic power!"
Then came the strangest request Ryota had ever seen in a game: "Put your controller on the floor."
Ryota frowned, hesitated, then did it. Gently, he set his controller down.
"I will now move your controller... with the power of my mind!"
The controller vibrated violently—and to Ryota's astonishment, it actually scooted slightly across the floor. His eyes went wide.
"Holy MOLY!" he shouted. "What the hell?!" Ryota spooked
But Psycho Mantis wasn't finished. He began analyzing Ryota's memory card save data out loud again.
"You like RPGs... You've played Suikoden quite a bit, haven't you? Maybe too much?" he said with eerie confidence. "You also enjoy action, but you don't rush. You save frequently... playing it safe."
Ryota was stunned. No game had ever interacted with him like this. It wasn't just breaking the fourth wall—it was shattering it completely.
This wasn't just a cool gimmick. It was a moment of genius that blurred the boundary between player and game.ti was so immersive, so innovative, that it left him speechless—and more hooked than ever.
And then Ryota reached the Psycho Mantis boss fight—and was immediately thrown off when the enemy turned invisible right as the battle began.
"WHAT!? How can I see him!?" Ryota shouted, frantically dodging. His mind raced until it clicked: "Oh yeah—the Thermal Goggles!"
He quickly opened his inventory and equipped the goggles. Suddenly, through the thermal lens, the outline of Psycho Mantis emerged—glowing faintly against the dark backdrop.
"There you are!" Ryota said under his breath. He raised his weapon and fired—but Mantis dodged with unnatural speed, letting out a chilling, high-pitched laugh.
Even when Ryota switched to a sub-machine gun and sprayed bullets, Mantis zipped through the air, avoiding every shot with uncanny precision.
"Damn! Why can't I hit him!?" Ryota yelled, his hands gripping the controller tightly. It wasn't just that Mantis was invisible—he was playing with him, taunting him, staying just out of reach.
Each failed attempt only amped up the tension. Ryota tried changing weapons, repositioning, even baiting Mantis into attacking first. Nothing worked. The boss was designed to feel invincible.
This wasn't just a boss fight—it was a puzzle, a performance, and a psychological trap all rolled into one. And Ryota could feel it. He knew the solution wasn't about strength—it was about figuring out the game's twisted logic.
Then suddenly, the colonel called Snake via codec, his voice filled with urgency:
"Snake! He's reading your mind through your controller port! Change it to port 2!"
Ryota's eyes widened in disbelief. "Wait, what!? Change the controller port?" he gasped, momentarily stunned. He stared at the screen, then looked at his controller. No game had ever asked him to physically interact with the console like this. "Are they serious?" he whispered.
Curious and excited, Ryota paused the game, carefully unplugged his controller from port 1, and moved it to port 2. It felt like he was performing some kind of ritual—something out of a spy thriller. The second he resumed the game, everything changed.
Psycho Mantis let out a frustrated snarl.
"Ugh! I can't seem to read you now!" he cried, his arrogance cracking.
It worked. Suddenly, Mantis could be hit. His once-impossible reflexes were slowed, his attacks more predictable. Ryota couldn't stop grinning. The boss who had seemed untouchable was now vulnerable—and Ryota was loving every second of it.
He went all in, firing carefully timed shots and dodging with newfound confidence. Using everything he'd learned—thermal goggles, precise aiming, and timing—he chipped away at Mantis's health. The tide of the battle had completely turned.
And then, at last, it was over.
Psycho Mantis collapsed to the floor. A cutscene followed—slow, solemn, heavy. His mask cracked open, revealing a face marked by scars, pain, and exhaustion. He no longer looked like a monster—he looked human.
The entire tone of the game shifted. The eerie energy drained from the room, replaced by melancholy and reflection.
"You're just like the rest of them… I read people's minds, Snake… that's how I learned to despise humanity."
Psycho Mantis, once an unstoppable psychic force, now lay broken and vulnerable. His voice was no longer menacing—it was tired, heavy with sorrow. As he reflected on his tragic life, he spoke of the constant flood of thoughts he had endured: the hatred, the fear, the loneliness. All of it had poisoned his view of humanity.
But now, in his final moments, something had changed.
"This is the first time… I've ever used my powers… to help someone."
With the last of his strength, he activated a hidden mechanism, revealing a secret passage. The way forward was now open.
Meryl looked on in silence, and Snake stood still, acknowledging the weight of the moment. Ryota, holding his controller, was frozen with emotion. He hadn't expected to feel this from a boss fight. It wasn't just victory—it was something deeply human.
He paused the game, set the controller down, and leaned back.
"I need a moment," he muttered, letting the scene settle in.
He sat back, still thinking about the boss fight. "Damn… that was insane," Ryota muttered to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. "How do they even come up with something like that?"
A wide grin stretched across his face. The creativity, the gameplay twist, the emotional payoff—everything about it had blown his mind. Psycho Mantis wasn't just a boss; he was an experience Ryota would never forget.
Stomach growling, Ryota finally decided to take a break. "Alright, food first," he said, standing up reluctantly. "Then it's back to Metal Gear."
He glanced at the screen one more time as he walked away, a small laugh escaping. This wasn't just one of his favorite games anymore—Metal Gear Solid had officially become
his favorite game of all time.
To be continue
.