Grow Into the Sun

A capsule fell out of the sky. Whatever was inside survived, and now it drifts in a roadside pond — the size of a speck of dust, and very hungry.

One rule: eat anything smaller than you. Every bite makes you bigger, and once you outgrow your world, the world itself changes: a drop of water, the grass underfoot, a backyard, a street, a city, a planet, open space. The Sun is last on the menu.

You are not the only thing growing. At every jump the creature mutates, and nobody shows you the rules: your shape depends on HOW you ate — whether you chased living prey or scavenged debris, gorged or grazed. That branches into 27 creatures, from toothed maws to something that swallows stars whole. Everything you unlock goes into the bestiary.

The world is not harmless. Anything bigger eats you. A car or a hurricane will not eat you — it runs you over. Soldiers and tanks shoot from range, and being big is no protection. A dash saves you, but it costs mass.