The way the protagonist swings on a rope, or the way he bends to drag a bear trap, or the way he leaps between almost impossible gaps fills him with believable humanity. These things alone combine for an atmospheric experience, but the game’s animation brings a whole new level of beauty to the proceedings. The grainy black and white of its visuals and the eerie, music-less sound design make it simultaneously charming and uneasy. That Limbo is able to create such discomfort with a single spider (ok, so it is a pretty massive spider) is testament to its grimness. I’ve recently played Skyrim and Spelunky – games which are themselves heavy on the spider action – and neither made me even bat an eyelid. Limbo’s creators – Playdead games – must be either arachnophobes themselves or a bunch of maniacal sadists, as they have provided the single most grim spider based experience gaming has to offer. I say that, but having just replayed Limbo’s opening ten minutes I suddenly feel compelled to sew my mouth shut before bed every night. Fine, I may eat a thousand of the little blighters each week as they crawl into my gaping, snoring mouth but as long as it happens while I’m unconscious I couldn’t care less. I won’t bother them if they don’t bother me. My own position on spiders is one of indifference. And so I gather some modicum of understanding of how awful it must have been for one of my true childhood friends to feel eight legged betrayal dumped onto his bonce. When I think of my own phobias – inappropriate apostrophe use, adverts, housework – the thought of being confronted with them at such close proximity covers my body in goosebumps. He went flippin’ mental, and quite rightly so. In younger days, a group of other mean spirited friends and I trapped a rather large house spider in a glass and then dropped it on his head.
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