Hideo Kojima: Beyond code

Since the release of the acclaimed Metal Gear in 1987, Hideo Kojima has been more than just a game designer. Dubbed the father of the stealth genre and considered the first gaming auteur, his strange stylistic choices and in-depth storylines have consistently pushed the boundaries of an industry caught in a commercially-driven orbit.

In 2015, he broke away from the Konami Group to form Kojima Productions, giving us Death Stranding—a game that polarised, mesmerised, and is now being adapted for the screen by A24. Its sequel, Death Stranding 2: On the Beach, is set to drop later this year, and is already one of the most anticipated releases of the decade. Slow-paced, emotionally dense, and hauntingly designed, it’s everything Kojima is known for—allowing for the kind of deep thematic development that earned him the 2020 BAFTA Fellowship.

Fresh off Satellites, an installation at Fondazione Prada in collaboration with Danish director Nicolas Winding Refn, and ahead of what may be his most expansive year yet, we spoke with Kojima about GenAI, authorship, and the blurred line between the real and the rendered.

hube: One day, humans may lose the ability to distinguish between reality and illusion. Does this present more opportunities or dangers?

Hideo Kojima: Being able to simulate a variety of life experiences—regardless of physical disabilities, limitations, or individual health conditions—is a remarkable advancement. It allows people to have immersive and adventurous experiences without physical risk. This technology can also be applied to simulations, training, and education. Rejecting such advancements would set back human progress. Nevertheless, there must always be clear safeguards and rules to distinguish between reality and virtual reality. The human brain is highly adaptable: it can alter memories, turn imagination into perceived reality, and even reshape actual experiences. We must find ways to regulate this and ensure that individuals and society as a whole can differentiate between what is real and what is an illusion. If the necessary technologies and legal frameworks are not in place, then these advancements should not be made widely accessible.

h: In the world of video games, time follows its own unique rules. A player gains experience but can always start over. Is this something we will ever be able to replicate in real life? Do we truly learn from our mistakes in a game, or are we just learning to optimise our strategies and outcomes?

HK: In real life, there are no do-overs after death. This concept exists only within games. It originates from an old practice, dating back to arcade games half a century ago, where players were given a few minutes of playtime per coin. The “Game Over” and “Continue” mechanics were designed to keep players spending money within a limited time frame. In Death Stranding, Sam’s role as a repatriate was conceived as a kind of ironic take on this convention. 

The meaning of “Continue” in games changes depending on whether we see it as simply retrying after a failed choice or as learning through virtual training. For example, in command-based adventure games, a player’s failure is merely a wrong choice. Continuing allows the player to select a different option and then progress. However, since the game follows a predetermined path set by the designer, the experience gained here has little relevance to real life. 

In comparison, continuing in action games is similar to high jump in track and field. You attempt to clear a certain height, fail, and then try again. Through this process, the player gradually improves and eventually succeeds. Once they clear that height, a higher challenge appears. This is the structure of action games and their continue system. It is not simply a matter of retrying after failure, but rather a form of training and learning. 

h: With the rise of GenAI, the creation of self-evolving virtual worlds is becoming increasingly possible. How do you think this could impact the games industry?

HK: Humanity will not abandon AI as a tool. There are countless fields where AI has proven itself very effective: medicine, education, AI management, AI butlers, and AI counselling, to name a few. But what happens when it comes to art and creativity? AI requires an enormous database to make judgments. It can only process, refine, and organise what already exists. In terms of creative work, it’s what you’d call a “second brew” or a rehashing of creation. Things like formulaic Hollywood blockbusters, sequels, remakes, derivative works, or even mimicking the style of former works by someone who has passed away—these are within the realm of possibility for AI, but creating something that no one has ever imagined before, works for which no reference data exists, is something AI cannot achieve. At least, not yet. Perhaps 50 years from now, such capabilities will emerge. But for us, right now, our role is to compete with AI. To create things AI cannot think of, to accomplish what AI cannot do—that is the challenge humanity must take on for the future. Let AI handle what it does best. Just as labour was entrusted to machines during the Industrial Revolution, AI can assume its own tasks now. This principle applies to more than just creative work, it spans every field. Think of it as a mode in a racing game, where you compete against a “ghost” of your past performance data. That’s what this dynamic feels like. Humans must move ahead by recording data that AI doesn’t yet possess. Then, AI will inevitably absorb that data and follow in our tracks. Within this environment, humanity should continue to evolve. Even in medicine, AI can reference a vast database of patient information and predict the likelihood of illnesses by identifying probable diagnoses. Yet, as it stands, AI cannot treat those illnesses. Searching for what AI cannot do—that will become humanity’s purpose. 

h: A crucial part of your work is the creation of new aesthetic forms. How do you perceive your relationship with artistic traditions of the past? 

HK: The output of my creativity is produced using cutting-edge digital technology. However, traditional arts, culture, customs, and a variety of analogue forms of entertainment are what shaped me as a person. Films, novels, paintings, sculptures, contemporary art, theatre, music, history, comedy—all of these have shaped who I am. I watch one film every day. I read 150 novels a year. I listen to music daily. Every weekend, I visit art and history museums. I also go to live performances to see the bands I love. Whether it’s travelling or simply wandering, nearly all of my experiences are analogue. Growing up, there were no video games. So I’ve taken these experiences, these “memes” that I absorbed in the real world, and have converted them into digital expressions.

Today’s game creators absorb content that has already been converted into digital formats by someone else and then refine, develop, and improve upon it within themselves. That’s a generational difference. When analogue materials are compressed into digital formats by someone else, the brilliance and depth inherent to true art are diminished. Experiencing the genuine, unaltered form is essential. This is where creators of the game generation—those who grew up in an environment where games already existed—are at a disadvantage.

Famed Japanese manga artists (like Osamu Tezuka and Katsuhiro Otomo) revolutionised manga because they grew up watching films. They drew films in their manga. The same goes for anime director Mamoru Oshii—he grew up with European art films and created films within the medium of anime. However, the followers of Tezuka, Otomo, and Oshii inherited their memes exclusively from their works. If you create manga only from manga or create anime only from anime, your work will not give rise to anything truly new. As for myself, I create films and art within the medium of games. This is not a conscious choice, it is simply an inevitable result. 

h: When you place players inside your worlds and then return them to reality, do you think about making them better in some way? 

HK: At a minimum, games need to be so engaging that players lose track of time, so that while they play, they forget the struggles and frustrations of their daily lives. This sense of enjoyment can even serve as motivation to push through difficult days. Of course, this isn’t something exclusive to games, but I want to add something more to that experience. Games demand 50 or 60 hours of players’ precious time. That’s exactly why I want them to take away something meaningful, something that they can bring back into their reality. I want the game to add something positive to their lives. I want the experiences, decisions, and actions within the game to become tools they can utilise in the real world. The knowledge gained, the emotions felt, the exploration of social issues or historical events, the words or actions of the characters, or even elements like music or fashion, I want players to carry these elements over into their reality. After playing, I want players to see the world differently, interact with others in new ways, and expand their perspectives. That’s the kind of game I strive to create. These are things I’ve learned from film and literature—and yet, such games are exceedingly rare.

Many games are created without meaning, themes, or purpose: action games designed to simply pass the time or mobile apps driven by reflexes. Virtual worlds are populated with mythical creatures, cartoon characters, armies, and zombies. For some reason, no one questions this, and no one seems to grow tired of it. Even after half a century of gaming, it hasn’t changed. The methods of expression have advanced, but the content remains stagnant, and I find that disappointing. For the generation that may not watch movies, listen to music, read books, or engage with art, I want to provide something through games. 

h: Is true freedom something that can only be experienced through creativity? Or can virtual worlds offer a similar sense of liberation? 

HK: Even in highly open virtual spaces created by others, there are rules and constraints. Business systems work behind the scenes, too. True freedom in these spaces may not exist, but perhaps limited liberty does. In a way, to create something is to establish your own world and your own rules. That’s why creativity offers a sense of liberation like no other. Even in VR and open-world games with extremely high degrees of freedom, there are predefined rules and controlled systems at play. Players are still confined to the “limited cage” created by game designers.

That said, these experiences can offer a certain kind of freedom. But players who uncover the secret of the game might lose interest, realising that it’s ultimately a fabricated world. In that case, perhaps gamers themselves should create games, like building a Star Wars LEGO set according to the manual, and then disassembling it and reimagining something new with the same pieces. Today, even game engines are freely accessible on the internet. This era will see an increase in creators—anyone can create, and anyone can share what they’ve made. That being said, even current game engines have their own rules. Once a creator becomes aware of those, they may no longer call it true freedom. 

h: At first, video games seemed to draw inspiration from cinema, but now it appears that cinema is looking to video games for ideas. Do you think these two forms will eventually merge into a single art form? 

HK: Films are analogue and games are digital. Up until the late 20th century, the two had no common language. They were separate, like oil and water. Films run at 24 frames per second, while games typically run at 30 or 60. Even in something as simple as frame rate, there was no consensus between the two mediums. Now, both are created digitally. Their production methods are similar, they use the same equipment and technology. The only difference is in the final output: films have a controllable timeline, while games are interactive. In the age of streaming, they often share the same platforms for announcing release dates. Not only is the production process digital, so too is the medium for distribution. While their final forms remain fundamentally different, I believe the gap between them will steadily narrow. We’re no longer just talking about film-like games (such as my games) or game-like films. A new, digital form of entertainment—one that brings them closer—will emerge.

Many individuals from the world of film—directors, screenwriters, producers, actors, and artists—have grown up with games. They understand games. As children, their first introduction to means of transportation may have been a bicycle (games). I’m sure they learned the thrill and joy of travel. As adults now, that bike was replaced with a car (film), but they can still return to the bike if they choose, or perhaps even imagine entirely new modes of travel that are neither. In the same way, such people from the film industry should become involved. Film studios and production companies are increasingly forming gaming divisions, while game companies are beginning to invest in film. I’m excited for what’s to come. The environment needed for creating new art and entertainment is finally coming together.