I'm not sure I've ever played a game more disgusting than How Fish Is Made, a short, swimmy, PS1-style narrative game from the people who made this year's Mouthwashing. Set in the guts of some kind of giant, biomechanical apparatus, you play a helpless, useless fish as they slap their way along it.
Cold and oily, you leave one long wet streak along the sheet metal as you proceed unstoppably to your ending, the journey only interrupted by the interjections of other fish. There's the one raving in the grip of a religious epiphany, the other who has embraced rank scientism, the one who has intertwined with a six-pack ring and decided it's a throne. On and on they go, all rooted in place, cooking up half-baked ideologies to cover their dread at an existence in the heart of a hideous and unfathomable machine.
