Book Review: Ernest Cline - Ready Player One

I almost could not even make it through the first chapter of this book-length "Only 80s kids will remember this!" listicle that Cline has unleashed upon the world, and at many points I cursed the culture that allowed a novel like this to be written at all. At various points it showed promise of becoming self-aware, and, cynical jerk that I am, I hoped it would reveal itself as a sarcastic commentary on the mindset of its target audience, but no such luck: it always takes the easy way out and sincerely flatters you for being brilliant enough to know what a John Hughes movie is, or that was once such a thing as the Atari 2600, or that Rush lyrics sound like sci-fi novels. Nothing new or even technically creative happens within the book, unless you get into the "is a remix a new work?" debate, and the constant stream of references is actually distracting since every stray detail is yelling at you to track it down. It's a book of Wikipedia lists (which fortunately is still around in the dystopia of 2044 where corporations have debt slaves). Originality isn't really the point here though; the point is pages and pages of fanfiction for Reagan-era childhood delivered via lengthy infodumps until the protagonist works hard and collects enough plot tokens beat the evil megacorp, to get the girl, and grab the powerup and win the game, which, if you think about it, is much like life itself. Could it be a metaphor...?

As usual, The Onion warned us this was coming: "U.S. Dept. Of Retro Warns: 'We May Be Running Out Of Past'". The term "Millennials" has always sounded to me more like members of a religious cult than a birth cohort, and as us individuals of a certain age begin our gradual transmogrification into adulthood, our wistful memories of a halcyon youth are becoming ever more profitable. Cline has wisely decided to go all-in on my Millennial market segment, and honestly good for him. Someone should be making money off our collective yearning to retreat into adolescence, and it might as well be someone who actually enjoys it. I do find it vaguely depressing that this Ouroboros of retro adulation is so popular, but I don't blame Cline for nerding out about the things he loves, I don't blame the publishers, editors, or marketers for helping birth this money-printing nostalgia vampire, and honestly, I don't even blame the people giving this top marks. This is probably the greatest novel about playing video games ever written and the specific obsessive mindset it takes to get really good at them (see the documentary The King of Kong for a hilarious look at what these people are like in real life). His passion is unmistakable, and that in itself is worth something. Besides, you could certainly pick worse things to worship than old video games and pop culture. Everyone is a fan of something, and I'm hardly immune to the lure of recapitulating my childhood for the right price or geeking out in general. Let he who is without sin, etc. A big theme of the book is to do what you love, believe in yourself, and fuck the haters. That's as true here as it is anywhere; it's a timeless message that not even GameFAQs-level writing can ruin.

However, this is inarguably poorly-written, an unapologetic Mary Sue with painful dialogue, zero-dimensional characters, a plot with at least one eye-roll per chapter (just try to count the jams the protagonist gets out of by having been brilliant offscreen), and seemingly endless stretches of fetishized nerd-wankery. It's Fifty Shades of Gray for people who bought a Nintendo Classic. This economium to dorkitude is to literature as putting a Zelda bumper sticker on your car is to being able to get it out of first gear. But, Cline's love letter to the 80s, gaming, and fandom has made roughly a zillion dollars (sorry - has made Scrooge McDuck-tier money), and Spielberg himself directed the film adaptation, so I'm clearly wrong about its merits. If you want homages crammed with references stuffed with in-jokes, you basically can't do better than this; it's "Remember Alf? He's back, in Pog form!": The Novel, and thus I give it five Breakfast Club protagonists out of five.