Some Short Thoughts on Ready Player One

I love audiobooks. I mean, I really like ’em. My audible library tells me I’ve read close to sixty of them in the past year or two, which actually kind of terrifies me. Where did the time go? That’s hour after hour of spoken word. Dang. And the thing is, I’ve finished almost every single one of those books. I mean, I’m still working through the 62+ hour compendium of Sherlock Holmes stories, but I’ve almost finished everything.

Except for one book in particular, one book that pissed me off so much I had to put it down after only a few hours because I could barely contain myself… Ready Player One.

If you like this book, don’t read further, because I’m about to insult the shit out of you.

I’m giving you one last chance to leave.

Seriously, shoo. There’s nothing here for you.

Is that guy gone? Thank God. I hate that dude. Anyway, this is not a review. This is an obituary.

Ready Player One is the swansong of aging man-children from the 80s. What Ernest Cline has done with this book is stoke the coals of the world’s biggest circlejerk. Thousands of sweaty nerds join hands around the globe, muttering and chanting the names of their favorite Autobots and Decepticons while patting each other on the back, in commiseration, because mom really didn’t understand, and they were so right to like the things that they liked as teenagers. Aging virgins that live in their mom’s basement eating Quisp and Sugar Smacks shed tears of joy that someone finally acknowledged their struggle in movie format.

You see, Ernest Cline didn’t write a book – he wrote a religious pamphlet.

“Come and see,” he says, “come and see the GLORY of this particular ten year span, arbitrarily chosen, in history! Come and see the WONDERS and the AMAZING THINGS that will never be seen again, such as Video Games, TV Shows, and Being A Nerd. You will never see these without my help. Come, and see, and I will be your guide.”

I did sincerely try to make it through this book. I honestly thought it would be a good time, when I picked it up. In fact, the core concept is pretty silly, and in my opinion, would have made a pretty fun comedy. “One man with ridiculous knowledge of 80’s pop culture saves the world” or something like that. Kind of fun. However, imagine reading that novel while some sweaty nerd moans and rubs his filthy crotch in your face every time the main character mentions the 80’s.

Yeah, suddenly not so much fun.

The reason I can’t stand this book is the same reason I can’t stand The Big Bang Theory: There are no jokes, only references. Sheldon says “Nintendo 64” and the audience goes wild. Cline writes “Apple II Computer” and readers whoop in delight. “Hey,” they say, “someone in a piece of media that I am consuming said the name of a thing I enjoyed when I was 12! Incredible! Bazinga!”

Imagine, thirty years from now, some millennial decides to write a book about his generation, and how it was actually the best generation, because he had fidget spinners, Runescape, Emojis and Reddit. Clearly, because of these random bits of pop culture, he is a superior person, the American ubermensch, for with his knowledge of these amazing things he transcends time and space to become, not a loser re-watching The Amazing World of Gumball for the 40th time, but the Most Important Man On Earth.

I can’t do a full review, of course. I only got so far in the book, after all. Which is a shame, you know – I’ll never get to know if this complete loser living in a trailer park gets the money, fame, and love he years for and deserves for knowing so much about the 80s.

I hate this book. Everyone should hate this book. It’s the written equivalent of auto fellatio. In conclusion, I am mad about books, and mad about the 80s. Please don’t give this man your money.