Metal Gear Solid Delta: Snake Eater Reignites A 20-Year Debate Over Ocelot

That especially goes for Ocelot, which is a shame, considering that his sexuality is one of the most complex and controversial aspects of the Metal Gear series. To be clear, I’m not interested in stating and defending a rote “canonical” explanation—to me, the text of the series offers enough proof that the series antagonist is queer.

I’m instead more interested in what it means for a character like Ocelot to be gay, and what “being gay” even means in a series like Metal Gear. How Hideo Kojima—along with writers Tomokazu Fukushima and Shuyo Murata—frames the flamboyant rival is more dynamic and complex than any “coming out” or heart-to-heart about sexuality could possibly be. He’s a queer character defined by his personality, not a character whose personality is defined by his queerness.

It is, however, a major part of him. Between the information provided in Snake Eater and Peace Walker, we learn Ocelot was born to soldiers The Joy and The Sorrow—American and Russian, respectively. He almost wasn’t born, as the pregnant Joy was almost killed and rendered comatose while on a mission. Despite surviving, however, The Joy was forced to give birth via cesarean section during the Allied invasion of Normandy. The infant is yanked away from his mother, a fresh wound cut deep into his unformed psyche.

Now, why would Kojima et al point out a snake-shaped scar in a series with a protagonist named Snake if the player is not meant to think about it? In aesthetic terms, it’s a return to the womb. To Ocelot, I think, the soldier embodies both eros and thanatos in Oedipal terms. Their rivalry arouses him as much as it infuriates him, and motivates him to do stupid, risky things in order to pursue it. When taken with the womb symbolism, it’s fair to speculate that this is part of Ocelot’s maternal scar—that on some level, to be locked in combat is to return to the battlefield on which he was born.

In that sense, to be with Snake is as close to his mother as Ocelot has felt since birth. There’s a tenderness to that dynamic, then, as it frames the grizzled protagonist in an almost feminine light. Further, it mirrors his own fraught relationship with The Boss, who betrayed him as both a soldier and as a lover in a relationship that’s inherently maternal. In Metal Gear, men are robbed of their mothers, and taught to love only in combat. Love can bloom on the battlefield, yes, but it can also bloom for the battlefield itself.

Beyond this symbolism, of course, Snake Eater also flat-out invites players to think about Ocelot’s sexuality. Volgin—another complex queer villain—mocks his officer on-base. As the colonel tortures and kills a man in front of him, the handsome blonde practically glows as he discusses Snake.

“He’s good,” Ocelot gushes.

“Fallen for him?” Volgin sneers.

Ocelot says nothing.

Snake Eater does not play this moment for humor. It’s left to marinate, unanswered, another conspiracy in a game rife with them. We’re never given confirmation one way or another, likely because—on some level—mid-‘00s norms could only be pushed so much. The script uses veiled language and insinuation to hint at queer subtext deeper than the plot may surface. This artful self-censorship puts the game in league with both Twelfth Night and ‘80s X-Men comics. Volgin’s queerness is less hidden because—simply—it was easier to pitch a gay guy as a villain than morally complicated in 2005.

We’re firmly out of the mainstream homophobia in ‘00s gaming, but we’re also out of the rainbow-washed respectability politics era when it comes to American queerness. There was a period, not too long ago, that gaming companies fell over themselves in a crass and cynical attempt to eke out our dollars in what was arguably big-money gaming’s worst era. The likes of Activision, EA, and Ubisoft aren’t so quick to trot out a marginalized demographic in their marquee titles when world governments are picking on us, turns out.

But Metal Gear Delta has, in a way, made me grateful for this. “This character is gay, so that’s good.” “This bad character is gay, and that’s bad.” “This character isn’t gay, and that’s homophobic.” This popular, neo-liberal understanding of queers tokenized our existences and—in many respects—teed the era of right-wing grievance up to bat. It also made complicated understandings of queerness nigh impossible to tackle, as negative portrayals of queer people were sometimes taken as stigma and discouraged en masse via social media.

Ocelot is a gay character too complex for this circa 2010s rhetoric on queerness in games. He’s manipulative and misogynistic, driven by vanity, ego, and one-sided fixation. It’s easy to see a reductive read getting applied to the character, sticking, and poisoning his reputation had Delta happened on the PS4. One or two abysmal but prominent takes can poison the pot for some subjects altogether.

(That said, the thriving Metal Gear shipping community would have fought this narrative tooth and nail.)

But a gay read of Ocelot is perfect for this era—an era where open queerness is met with public hostility, with a Justice Department that muses openly whether or not I’m mentally fit to own something my grandfather taught me to shoot. Ocelot being queer is more of a threat to the powers that be than an empath with an asymmetrical haircut, or a “cozy” dating sim with “progressive” options, or even a supporting role—never anything more—in a Ubisoft game.

This is because Ocelot does not ask for respect kindly, nor does he pretend to be a nice person. He takes what he wants, and if he’s denied it, he manufactures a situation where he comes out on top anyway.

This is also where he has a deep kinship with future comrade Snake, who himself is not entirely straight. I don’t think he’s gay, either—his sexuality is nebulous, honestly, impossible to just stick in a box and slap a flag on. Peace Walker outright confirms this, as the player is able to date male and female characters. But Delta’s attention to detail in shot composition and character expression teases out some subtle nuances to certain scenes that clue us into Snake’s psyche in a deeper capacity than canonical hook-ups might.

During his first rendezvous with EVA, Snake flat-out rebuffs the spy’s flirtations. He observes her like a voyeur, but when she throws herself at him, he resists and turns away. A few moments later, however, he’s given his first handgun. This is where he comes alive—grunting and grumbling as he lists off every customization of his M1911A1. Snake rattles off these details with a hunger in his voice as he strokes and fondles the piece. Hayter’s growl grows more excited, indicating a sort of arousal.

This segues into the next sequence, in which EVA and Snake are accosted by Ocelot for the first time. After EVA knocks the cocky GRU soldier down with her motorcycle, Snake holds him at gunpoint for verbal defenestration. He admonishes the young man, critiquing his choice of weapon and undressing his technique with glee. Ocelot squirms and groans as he’s unmanned, insulted but powerless to do anything about it.

When he breaks free, EVA almost shoots him in the back. Snake stops her—Ocelot’s just a kid, he says.

Why does Snake do this? Honor’s off the table—sneaking up and catching foes unawares is his bread and butter. I think it runs deeper than respect. It’s sexual. As captor and captive, Snake relishes watching the young officer squirm. He finds an eroticism, perhaps, in lording his power and experience over Ocelot as he renders him helpless. 

In that sense, there’s a bit of a classic Oniroku Dan dynamic in there—a type of sadistic arousal that can only be achieved by one party truly dominating the other and bringing them to heel. This is what Snake does to Ocelot, and in return, he gets to feel powerful in a situation where he’s otherwise disadvantaged.

That’s part of why he lets the man run free—to pursue this dynamic. Something about it excites him, because even though he knows he can end it at any point, the possibility of being challenged turns him on. It’s a cat and mouse game, a Tom & Jerry dynamic that plays out like a screwball with two six shooters and some tranquilizers. Two mismatched men on opposite sides, obsessed with each other against their better judgment.

When asked in an interview, Kojima offered an answer for the scene that supports this read.

“The two of them have been interested in each other since the first time they met, and it’s pure love,” he said.

In Metal Gear, the relationship between men during wartime is inherently romantic. Akin to long-running Japanese properties like Gundam or Legend of the Galactic Heroes, its narrative hinges on rivals fixated on each other’s every move. The appeal of these series lies not just in the obvious—giant robots and cool ships—but in the implicit homosocial tie between the male leads. They’re franchises driven by dramatic, impassioned dedications of loathing and rivalry between gorgeous men.

The relationship between these characters invites gay reads because of how overt their homosociality is. Eve Sedgwick defines this term in her piece, “Between Men”:

Homosocial is a word occasionally used in history and the social sciences, where it describes social bonds between persons of the same sex; it is a neologism, obviously formed by analogy with “homosexual,” and just as obviously meant to be distinguished from “homosexual.” In fact, it is applied to such activities as “male bonding,” which may, as in our society, be characterized by intense homophobia […] To draw the “homosocial” back into the orbit of “desire,” of the potentially erotic, then, is to hypothesize the potential unbrokenness of a continuum between homosocial and homosexual—a continuum whose visibility, for man, in our society, is radically disrupted.

Sedgewick frames homophobia as necessary under patriarchy. If men have no option but women, and if people have no choice than what’s on their birth certificate, then the structures in place hold. In a perfect patriarchal society, queerness would not exist, and women would be reared to submit to their father-husbands.

This, of course, cannot be. Women are too resilient, queer folk too committed to our right to dignity. As Snake Eater shows us, our nature—our true nature, not what we’re told it is—dictates the course of history. Think of the Cuban Missile Crisis, invoked at the outset of the game. As per its recounting in the 2003 documentary The Fog of War—a potential contemporary influence on Snake Eater—one man’s decision to not obey directed orders prevented a nuclear war. In a pivotal moment of crisis, being told to do the unthinkable, human conscience prevailed and calamity was averted.

Now, consider how different Snake’s climactic close-quarters showdown with Volgin might have been had Ocelot chosen not to not take a cheap shot and finish his rival off. The consequences of Snake dying, and Volgin prevailing, would be catastrophic. Here, Ocelot’s true nature—his homosocial desire to be locked in combat with Snake and to best him—decides the outcome.

This is the true value of Ocelot as a queer character. His own motive is paramount to all else. Whatever he wants is what he prioritizes, even if it means defying a direct order from his superior. Or, say, holding the world hostage with nuclear mechs to battle Solid Snake in Guns of the Patriots. It’s this precise instinct that keeps him alive for as long as it does; his craftiness is a product of his keen self-interest.

Which is precisely why Ocelot feels so vital, and so defiant of labels like “good representation” or “problematic.” When the queer collective is cast as a menace in the national spotlight, playing saints while we beg for mercy won’t save us. The reality of being queer—whether that be gay, trans, bi—is as complex and mundane as heterosexuality. There is nothing inherently virtuous in our existence, and to insist as much borders on vanity.

With the boot on our back, the best move is to think of what we want and how to take it. Right now, nobody is going to give it to us—and if anything, some will seize the moment to make things harder for us. But that should only make us fight harder, louder until there’s no choice for those on the sidelines but to choose a side. 

Yes, Ocelot is a villain. But to an entire contingent of the populace, so am I. You might be, too. And sometimes the only way for the villain to survive is not to play to forgiveness, but to fight harder for their liberty. 

Madeline Blondeau has been writing about games since 2010. She’s written for Paste, Anime Herald, Anime News Network, CGM, and Lock-On, among others. In addition, she has written, hosted, and recorded film criticism podcast Cinema Cauldron. Her published fiction debut is due out between 2026 and 2027. You can support her work on Patreon, and find her on BlueSky @mads.haus.