Pete's Expert Summary
My human has acquired a noisy, light-up slab they call 'Snake Attack,' a device that seems designed to test their disappointingly slow reflexes. The premise involves them frantically mashing buttons to intercept glowing digital serpents that wiggle across a small screen. While the flashing lights hold a certain primal allure, and the escalating panic in my human's voice as the 'snakes' get 'trickier' provides some minor amusement, this is ultimately a second-hand experience. I can't stalk it, I can't pounce on it, and it offers none of the tactile satisfaction of a proper feather wand. It's a spectacle, not a sport, and may only prove useful as a distraction for the biped, freeing up a prime napping spot on their lap.
Key Features
- BEAT THE SNAKES. Eliminate all the snakes before time runs out! To eliminate a snake, you must hit it on the head by pressing your button when the snake’s head is aligned with your corresponding color tile. Play it safe and hit its body! Lose a life if you’re too slow or too quick! Lose 3 lives and you’re out.
- LEVEL UP. There are 36 levels to beat! Watch out! The snakes show no mercy! They use tricks to trip you up and wear you down as you level up! The longer you last, the trickier it gets. See the snake move faster, get shorter, change directions, or even duplicate itself. Be warned: the snakes may use more than one trick at a time!
- 3 GAMEPLAY MODES. In Solo Mode, eliminate snakes to move through the levels and win extra lives. In Pass 'n' Play, collaborate as a team to achieve a new high score together. In Multiplayer Mode, play with up to 4 players and the last player standing wins!
- PORTABLE, ON-THE-GO FUN. Take Snake Attack with you wherever you go; it requires no pieces or parts, keeping you occupied for hours. Its easy portability ensures endless hours of entertainment.
- 1- 4 Players, Ages 8+
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The new object was an offense to the quiet dignity of my afternoon. It was a plastic rectangle that screamed with the voice of a dying starling every time my human’s thumb twitched. I observed from my perch atop the sofa, my gray-and-white form a portrait of regal disapproval. The human was utterly absorbed, staring into the device as little lights slithered across it. It was, I deduced, a pathetic substitute for hunting, a way for a clumsy primate to feel the thrill of the chase without the bother of, say, actually chasing something with fur. My initial assessment was simple: rubbish. Utterly worthless. But then, a curious thing happened. My human, deep in what they likely called "the zone," began to move their free hand in a strange, rhythmic pattern beside them on the cushion. It would bob, weave, and tense in perfect synchronicity with the frantic button-mashing of the other hand. The hand was a nervous bird, unaware of the predator watching from the arm of the sofa. The beeping plastic was not the game. The *hand* was the game. I began my stalk. With each of my human’s triumphant yelps, I crept closer, a silent, tuxedoed shadow against the upholstery. The electronic snakes on the screen got faster, they duplicated, they changed direction—and with each new challenge, the target hand grew more agitated, more unpredictable, more delightfully prey-like. I waited for the perfect moment, a lull in the digital carnage when the hand rested, foolishly complacent, upon the soft terrain of the cushion. With a surge of pure predatory instinct, I pounced. My attack was flawless—a soft-pawed, no-claws-extended strike that pinned the twitching fingers to the fabric. My human yelped, a sound of genuine surprise this time, fumbling the plastic noisemaker. It clattered to the floor, its lights flashing a final "GAME OVER" into the carpet. I looked up at my human, blinked slowly, and began to purr. The plastic rectangle itself is a bore, but as a tool for enlivening an otherwise boring hand, it is an accessory of the highest quality. It may stay.
