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On August 16, 2011, Ernest Cline published the novel Ready Player One. Cline, whose previous writing credits included the screenplay for the 2009 film Fanboys, wrote what was essentially a love letter to ‘80s pop culture. The book tells the tale of a future 2040s, where pollution, climate change and overpopulation have only exacerbated, but the presence of the virtual reality simulator OASIS has given people an escape from reality. James Halliday, co-creator of the OASIS, has died and in his will announced a contest for his vast fortune and control of the OASIS. The story follows Wade Watts, an Oklahoma teenager living in poverty who, thanks to his vast array of pop culture knowledge, gains the lead and eventually wins the contest, wins the heart of the gamer girl Art3mis, and topples the sinister IOI corporation.

The book was highly praised upon initial release, winning an Alex and Prometheus Award (don’t worry if you don’t know what those are. Neither do I.) It was seen as a fun popcorn book, called “The grown-ups Harry Potter” and “Willy Wonka meets the Matrix.” In 2018, a film adaptation would be released, directed by Steven Spielberg, a fitting choice given the book’s love of ‘80s sci-fi. The film itself would go on to critical acclaim, getting a 72% score on Rotten Tomatoes and winning a Saturn Award, while also raking in $582 million on a $175 million budget. The resulting success would push Cline to write a sequel book, Ready Player Two, which would be published in 2020.

However, the book would go on in later years to build up a steady backlash, regarded as an adolescent power fantasy for young boys with an unpleasant air of misogyny around it, tediously pandering in its references and…

Well, it’s bad. Like, I know I’m not exactly an iconoclast here in striking down a decade old book, but I really just need to get all of this off my chest. I need to talk about this book in excessive, unrelenting detail because it annoys me. Its presence as a piece of literary fiction irks me to my very core and I want to just wring my hands around its non-neck and strangle it with mean words until all the anger seeps from my pores and I attain some form of serenity after all of this.

But since I don’t have the time, money, tech, ability or energy to release a massive, Quinton Reviews-style deep dive and because Mike Nelson already podcasted about this in his 372 Pages We’ll Never Get Back, I decided that the best way for me to subject you all to the horrors of me overthinking about a crap potboiler from the early 2010s was to make a whole-ass blog.

So, welcome one and all to Ready Player None, a chapter-by-chapter rundown and analysis (emphasis on the anal) of Ready Player One and Ready Player Two. I’m hoping to keep this going on a weekly release schedule, but if events in real life get in the way, don’t be surprised if I miss an update or two. But for now, let’s throw in a few quarters and hit that start button.