Kenzo Tange had already designed one Tokyo city hall. The previous Metropolitan Government Building, completed in 1957 in the Yurakucho district of Chiyoda, served the capital for three decades before the government decided it needed something grander. Tange, by then Japan's most celebrated architect and a Pritzker Prize laureate, was commissioned again. The result was not merely a replacement but a statement of intent. Where the old building was modernist and modest, the new complex spread across three entire city blocks in Shinjuku: the soaring No. 1 tower with its distinctive twin-fork silhouette, the 37-story No. 2 building, and the eight-story Metropolitan Assembly Building where Tokyo's elected legislators convene. Three underground levels add further depth. The old Yurakucho site was later transformed into the Tokyo International Forum, a glass-and-steel convention center -- meaning Tange's legacy occupies two major landmarks on opposite sides of central Tokyo.

The building's exterior is a study in controlled repetition. Thousands of identical window units march across the facade in tight geometric rows, deliberately evoking the patterned surface of a microchip. Tange intended the design as a commentary on Tokyo's identity as a technology capital -- the city's governing heart rendered in the visual language of the electronics industry. Yet the vertical lines also pull the eye upward in the manner of Gothic tracery, and the twin towers rising from a single base recall the facade of a great European cathedral. It is a building that speaks two languages at once: the spiritual verticality of medieval stone and the relentless precision of postwar Japanese engineering. The overall effect, seen from the streets of West Shinjuku's skyscraper district, is imposing rather than beautiful -- a deliberate projection of governmental authority scaled to match the ambitions of the world's largest metropolitan area.

Each of the twin towers houses a public observation deck on its 45th floor, approximately 202 meters above street level. Both are free of charge -- a striking fact for a city where commercial observation decks charge premium admission. The north and south observatories operate on different schedules -- the south deck stays open until 9:30 in the evening, while the north deck closes earlier, and each contains gift shops and small cafes where visitors can drink coffee while watching the city lights ignite at dusk. On clear days, the view extends to Mount Fuji, its snowcapped profile floating above the western horizon. On hazy afternoons, the Tokyo sprawl dissolves into an endless gray shimmer that makes the city look infinite. The decks draw both tourists and locals, offering one of the few elevated vantage points in Shinjuku that does not require a ticket or a reservation -- democracy of observation, fitting for a building dedicated to public governance.

The decision to relocate Tokyo's government from the historic Chiyoda area to Shinjuku was controversial. Critics called the building an extravagant monument to bureaucratic vanity, particularly given its one-billion-dollar price tag during Japan's bubble economy years. Shinjuku's west side had been developing as a secondary business center since the 1970s, but the Metropolitan Government Building cemented its transformation. The complex brought thousands of government workers into the neighborhood daily, fueling demand for restaurants, shops, and transit connections. Tochomae Station on the Toei Oedo subway line takes its name directly from the building. The gamble paid off: West Shinjuku is now one of Tokyo's most recognizable skylines, a cluster of towers anchored by Tocho's distinctive forked profile. The building has also become a projection canvas -- in February 2024, a massive projection mapping show on its facade was declared the world's largest, with five daily screenings drawing crowds to the plaza below.