I still remember the buzz when Stray pounced onto the scene in 2022. Everyone—and I mean everyone—was talking about this cyberpunk cat game. I rushed to play it on my shiny PS5, fully expecting to be immersed in feline antics. But instead, I found a sleek, cinematic adventure that happened to feature a cat rather than a game fundamentally about being a cat. Fast forward to 2026, and I recently gave Little Kitty, Big City a try on a lazy Sunday. It’s funny how two games with almost identical setups can deliver such wildly different experiences.
In Little Kitty, Big City, you play as a black cat who tumbles out of an apartment window and into a bustling Japanese city. The goal? Find your way back home. Sound familiar? That’s because Stray started with an orange tabby separated from its friends and thrust into a robot metropolis. Same premise, but while Stray leaned hard into its sci-fi narrative, Little Kitty, Big City puts the spotlight squarely on the animal itself. Let me tell you, it’s a night-and-day difference.
Stray always felt like a PlayStation-first experience—polished, moody, and cinematic. It was a timed exclusive that oozed AAA production values, and honestly, it fit right in with Sony’s lineup of narrative-driven spectacles. But the more I played, the more I realized that you could swap the cat for any other small creature without changing a thing about the game’s linear structure or puzzle design. It was a gorgeous cyberpunk tale where the protagonist just happened to purr.
On the other hand, Little Kitty, Big City wears its indie heart on its fluffy sleeve. The art style is cartoony and charmingly janky at times—I couldn’t help but chuckle when my cat’s tail clipped through a wall or when the camera got stuck behind a lamppost. The climbing mechanics can be finicky, too; I once leaped backward off a building three times in a row because I pressed jump while too close to a ledge. Frustrating? A little. But also kind of endearing, like a scrappy little game that’s doing its best.
What really won me over, though, was how deeply Little Kitty, Big City understands cat-ness. This game gamifies all the tiny, silly, quintessentially feline behaviors we’ve laughed at in YouTube videos for years. You can rub up against pedestrians until they bend down to pet you, or trip them up and snatch their snacks. There’s a chaotic joy in spotting a row of potted plants and systematically knocking every single one to the ground. Birds? Pounce on them. Empty cardboard boxes? Hop in and curl up. A sunny patch on the sidewalk? Lie there, stretch out, and soak up the warmth. Even the rules of engagement feel cat-true: water and dogs are impassable barriers (because of course they are), you regain stamina by eating fish, and after every fall you land gracefully on your feet.
The world itself is a semi-grounded playground—semi because there’s a raccoon with an extradimensional fast travel network lurking in the sewers. That absurdity works perfectly, because it’s the only real concession to fantasy in an otherwise relatable urban setting. By sticking close to reality, the game gives you endless opportunities to interact with everyday objects and people, making the fantasy of being a cat feel alive. It’s not just a linear story with a cat skin; it’s a sandbox of cat mischief.
I can’t help but compare this to Stray, which removed most humans from the equation and placed us in a futuristic world of robots. That choice sacrificed those meaningful little interactions—like a human shooing you away or laughing at your antics—that define what it means to be a cat in our world. Little Kitty, Big City instead says, “What if you were just a cat, lost in the city?” and it runs with that idea in the most delightful, affectionate way.
So, which game is better? That’s not really the point. Stray is a beautiful, melancholic journey through a dying robot world, and I’m glad I played it. But if you’re looking for a game that truly lets you live nine lives as a mischievous feline, Little Kitty, Big City is the one that purrs the loudest. It’s a love letter to cats—from the tip of its twitchy ears to the end of its occasionally glitchy tail. And even now, in 2026, I find myself booting it up just to knock a few more flower pots over. Some things never get old.