Everything you've read about Journey is true. It's a gorgeous, startlingly fresh, three-hour adventure that packs an incredible emotional punch without at any point using death rays to vaporise children. It's also two fistfuls of sand thrown in the face of Roger Ebert and the rest of the games can't be art crowd. If you own a PS3, you really owe it to yourself to play it.
However, for those of you who've already played it, and happened to cross paths with me in the desert this weekend, all I can say is: I'm so sorry.
Sorry that I probably spoiled the most artsy, cathartic gaming experience of this generation by buggering off to make a bacon sandwich halfway through. Sorry that when you fell off that massive viaduct I left you running around on the dunes below, chirping frantically, while I looked down sympathetically, chirped once, and then wandered into the next area. Sorry that my bladder control is so bad (laugh it up - I'm 35, it'll happen to you too) that I had to dash off during a vital sequence to take a leak. Sorry that I kept stopping to check my Twitter account.
It's my fault, not the game's - which is brilliant and moving and all that stuff. The internet has ruined me. I'm just not built for doing anything that takes a three-hour single sitting anymore. I faff about on my iPad while watching films. I text and tweet during football matches. I have no attention span, and almost uniquely Journey demands total attention for a comparatively large chunk of time.
The need to concentrate is compounded by the possible presence of another player. Whenever another cloaked explorer turned up I felt an initial thrill of discovery, swiftly followed by the sinking fear that I was bound to let them down, most likely with my inept swooshing around skills. It's just as well there's no voice communication, as I can only imagine how exasperated my floaty mentors would have sounded while trying to baby me up to the next ledge only to see me drift down like a soggy chip wrapper.