Entramos al cuarto secreto con Hideo Kojima, pero no le preguntamos nada [BGS 2025]

On a Saturday in São Paulo, anticipation hung in the air like a storm cloud. I sat at the hotel breakfast, nerves tightening as I bit into my toast, while my fellow journalists exchanged glances and rehearsed the day’s schedule. All I could focus on was the original Japanese copy of Metal Gear Solid tucked safely in my backpack, a quiet relic awaiting its moment.

Word had reached us that a closed press briefing with Hideo Kojima was slated to take place, but the details were shrouded in secrecy. Only a handful of invited reporters, including ourselves, were aware of the arrangement, and even then we were kept in the dark about the exact agenda.

Before the event, we were required to submit two questions—subject to a lengthy list of conditions and restrictions—for review by Kojima Productions. If approved, the questions would be added to the master list that the moderator would read aloud, rather than being posed directly to Kojima. This procedural quirk left us in a peculiar position: we were technically part of the audience, yet our inquiries could still shape the conversation.

Despite the uncertainty, the prospect of hearing from Kojima himself was a thrilling prospect that kept us all on the edge of our seats.

We wandered through more corridors—this time a desert of empty hallways, save for a few security guards—until a small door opened into a hidden room. Inside, a banner emblazoned with Kojima Productions and Death Stranding hung over the backdrop, while the remaining seats sat empty. We squeezed into the farthest row, securing a comfortable second‑tier spot, and held our breath as the event unfolded.

No video footage, no individual photos after the press conference, and no autographs were permitted. I kept glancing at my backpack, thinking, “But my MGS?” It was a cold slap of reality. The only solace was the hope that my questions would be answered.

The hour of anticipation passed before someone finally clapped, we turned around, and there it was. The next hour was a whirlwind of excitement and confusion: the moderator asked questions in Portuguese, an interpreter translated them into Japanese, Kojima answered, and the interpreter rendered the responses back into Portuguese.

When I stepped into the press conference, my grasp of Portuguese was almost nonexistent, and Japanese was even more elusive. The session unfolded like a ritual: first, I listened intently to the questions, hoping someone would mention my name, then I watched as Hideo Kojima delivered his answers. It was a choreography of gestures and subtle body language, a dance where words mattered less than the emotions conveyed through movement.

Time slipped by, and the atmosphere grew tense, almost like an oral exam where the questioner is still deciding whether to call on you. The moderator’s pen hovered over the last question, the room held its breath, and the stakes felt like a high‑stakes gamble. Every passing minute seemed to shrink the window of opportunity.

Just as the moment vanished, Kojima remained poised, and the room began to stir. The event was about to culminate with a group photo, and the energy was electric. Everyone wanted to be in front, close to the legend, but the exact layout of the front row was still a mystery.

In a scene that felt almost cinematic, the crowd swirled around Kojima, who stood near the panel, uncertain of his place. The organizers, sensing the need for order, guided him toward a staircase, positioning him at the very front of the audience. The circle of reporters opened like the Red Sea, creating a clear path for the icon to step forward.