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Chapter 166: *Metal Gear* Artbook and Soundtrack
🕑 Added 2025-10-25 10:04:03 +0000 UTCAmid the whirlwind of work, May arrived. Two weeks after *Metal Gear*’s release, a detailed sales and feedback report landed on Takuya Nakayama’s desk. The numbers were solid, profitable, but lacked the explosive growth some in marketing had hoped for, falling short of a market-dominating storm. Compared to PC Engine’s vibrant, fast-paced action games, *Metal Gear* trailed slightly in raw sales.
In the office, staff exchanged worried glances, their unease subtle but palpable. Was its serious, innovative style too far ahead of its time? Takuya’s fingers tapped the report’s sleek cover, his expression calm. His gaze skipped the flashy sales curves, settling on two understated metrics: “average playtime” and “second-hand cartridge resale rate.” The former towered over peers, astonishingly high; the latter was strikingly low.
He looked up at his anxious team, a faint smile curving his lips. “This means buyers treat it like treasure, not fast food.”
As Takuya predicted, a player-driven “*Metal Gear* content exploration movement” was brewing in fan clubs and private circles. Beating the game was just the start. Players dove into unraveling Solid Snake and Big Boss’s cryptic dialogue, probing their backstory’s mysteries. The game’s nuclear deterrence and Cold War metaphors were dissected. A casual NPC’s radio quip sparked lore debates. Some studied Yoji Shinkawa’s promotional art like archaeologists, seeking clues in its bold, evocative strokes.
This near-academic fervor validated Takuya’s strategy: targeting mature players weary of “defeat the demon king” fairy tales. In the third week, a major game magazine’s cover featured Shinkawa’s resolute man, with a ten-page feature, “A Lonely Epic Beneath Steel: *Metal Gear*’s Narrative Decoded.” It wove player discoveries and editorial analysis into a weighty cultural critique.
Takuya, magazine in hand, headed for Hideo Kojima but paused at the break room. Kojima stood alone, back rigid, shoulders trembling slightly, clutching the same magazine, its cover creased from his grip. His eyes, red-rimmed, betrayed the weight of seeing his painstaking world understood so deeply by players. Takuya watched silently, not interrupting.
“Kojima-san,” he said softly, breaking the quiet. Kojima flinched, turning clumsily to hide his teary eyes, voice hoarse. “Mr. Nakayama—”
Takuya didn’t mention sales or congratulations. He handed over his pristine magazine, open to a detailed *Metal Gear* mech design analysis. “They’ve read your story,” he said, his calm words rippling like a stone in still water. “That’s worth more than any sales figure.”
Kojima’s gaze locked on the page, red arrows and notes marking details he’d buried deep. Speechless, he nodded heavily, eyes welling again. “Players’ passion is more precious than gold,” Takuya said, tracing Shinkawa’s art of Solid Snake’s weary eyes. “They’re hungry for more, to touch this world’s bones.” A plan crystallized. “Partner with this magazine for a reader poll in their next issue: ‘Do you want a *Metal Gear* artbook and OST tape?’”
Kojima’s breath caught. “If the response is strong, we’ll compile Shinkawa’s art, your designs, and the game’s music into a limited, numbered deluxe artbook with a soundtrack tape. Best paper, gold-foil cover—like a collector’s gem.” He paused, letting it sink in. “We’re not just selling games, Kojima-san. We’re making gaming worth studying, collecting. We’re creating a culture.”
Kojima’s tears dried, replaced by a blazing spark. He saw a new battlefield beyond the screen. His creator’s heart reignited. “Culture…” he murmured, fingers brushing Solid Snake’s image, resolve flaring. Publishing their behind-the-scenes work was the ultimate validation. Overwhelmed, he nodded rapidly, words jumbling, then rushed to the phone to contact the magazine himself.
