It's not a novel observation that Ernest Cline is a poor writer. His unending Wikipedia lists of exposition are broken up only by completely embarrassing stereotyped-to-shit teenagers and the torturous "This thing really looks like the thing from Thing" gimmick. This book is awful, no doubt. But it's a very fascinating autopsy of Cline as a storyteller. This sci-fi setting is so overdesigned that, despite himself, Cline continues to stumble into elements of serious intrigue he is too deeply incurious to unpack.
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