[Note - story spoilers right at the end.]

There is somewhat of a split among people who have played The Last Guardian as to whether the griffin is the most buggy video game animal ever, or the most realistic video game animal ever.

I don't own a PS4, although I do own a bird, which is basically half a real griffin already, but I will probably never weigh in regarding this particularly expensive tamagotchi that makes you cry. I can, though, definitely say that the fauna in Rain World tickles a certain little nostalgic part of my lizard brain. Like the first time at a zoo, or digging around in leaf litter for bugs, or finding a lizard under a rock, Rain World satisfies a little part of me that only got off last while watching Planet Earth.

Screenshots do not do it justice. The procedural animation, coupled with insanely detailed, multi-layered sprite dioramas, create an intoxicating virtual ant farm in which the slugcat's ordeal takes place. The game is also hard, though. It is more than hard; it is that nasty sort of hard that isn't cool in a climate where a certain game has met with enough critical and financial success to spawn a slew of... soulless... knockoffs. Rain World is unfair. And if, like me, you beat it and read through all the journal entries on the wiki because you found literally zero of them in-game, it turns out it's more than a little smug about how unfair it is. A smugness that I feel is somewhat earned, as even though it is just a video game (the lowest form of art meant only for male teenagers) it's bold and subtle in how it weaves the statements it makes about life and frustration into your experience of playing. I'm definitely going to champion this game as GotY when that eventual slinging starts.

Rain World is a game about nature.

Bull ants are a particularly nasty and aggressive species of ant whose bite hurts about as bad as a wasp sting. I stopped by a nest with a few friends on the walk home from high school once. One of my friends was swearing and slapping at his ankle, and he made sure to remind us that 'this really fucking hurts' every two minutes for the rest of the walk. I put my foot in front of the path of one of the ants to see what happened. It didn't turn away, so, obviously, I slid my foot back to avoid the same fate as my friend. The ant turned to follow it. I could take small shuffling steps to lead it around in a circle near the nest, so long as my feet remained within view. A genuine intent behind the jerky, zig-zagging, erratic movements of this tiny bug. You think you're just imagining it following you at first, and it's a kind of delayed shock when you realize that no, this weird little alien has just been wanting to bite me this whole time.

Rain World features various sizes of giant centipede, animated at an unnerving level of fidelity. The small ones are food. I assumed the large ones were passive, as they didn't seem to actively seek me out. About 18 hours in, I encountered one in an open space. I sort of hop on top of it as it scuttles the other way underneath me - no big deal. It's head curls around to face me. It moves with the same uneven gait as a real insect. Step-step-step stop. Step, stop. Step-step-step... I chalk its head-turning up to coincidence. The lizards routinely find themselves stuck in corners, chasing their own tails, after all. I climb up a nearby pole. It's head follows me again; no eyes, no mouth, just four antennae, bobbing slightly with inertia. Step-step-step it follows me up the pole. I hop off as little alarm bells go off in my brain. It slides forwards again as I get close, and slugcat jerks to a halt, caught by god knows what at the end of its head. One of the things that always unnerved me about insects as a kid was I could never read them like you would a dog or cat. They're just sort of there until they lash out. Going out in the yard as a kid, you catch a bee, looks cool, just hanging out. Nope. Now your hand stings like hell and your parents are rolling their eyes at you.

There's a high pitched whining noise, a blue flash and spark of electricity, and slugcat goes limp, before being pulled into a nearby burrow.