ready player two - ernest cline

Ernest Cline’s 2011 novel Ready Player One was, at heart, a high-concept, carbonated and artificially sweetened sci-fi/fantasy romp fizzing over with sudsy, geek-pop enthusiasm… which, for whatever reason, inspired an increasingly razor-edged, laced-with-lemon-juice backlash. The rancor wasn’t entirely surprising. After all, the book, in many ways, encapsulated everything people loathe about the modern pop cultural discourse - the soulless worship of nostalgia purely for nostalgia’s sake (a criticism, for the record, that’s also frequently directed towards Funko Pop figures - not that I agree), the discomforting weaponization of fandom and its malignant undercurrents of gatekeeping (with gamers these days basically waging holy wars over their plastic console of choice), the parroted regurgitation of quotes and references in lieu of actual critical engagement. As Slate’s Laura Hudson wrote, in regards to Cline’s work, “Do we want to tell stories that make sense of the things we used to love, that help us remember the reasons we were so drawn to them, and create new works that inspire that level of devotion? Or do we simply want to hear the litany of our childhood repeated back to us like an endless lullaby for the rest of our lives?” (or - put more succinctly - refer to the Member Berries on South Park (“Member Dagobah? That’s where Yoda lives! Member Yoda?”))

Like a video game that’s had a multiplayer component grafted in extraneously, Cline’s follow-up effort Ready Player Two feels overly calculated while straining to justify its own cynical reality. The novel, after all, would seem to have no compelling need to exist, beyond the fact that its predecessor was adapted into a Steven Spielberg blockbuster… and franchise opportunities in this IP-dominated age are meant to be seized rather than spurned (likewise, one can’t shake the notion that the lukewarm reception for Cline’s prior book, Armada (a fairly straightforward cross between Ender’s Game and The Last Starfighter), made it that much easier to retreat to the comfortable embrace of his original moneymaker). Not to be blunt, but this might just be the most market-driven sequel since Michael Crichton crapped out The Lost World for the sole purpose of being turned into summer cineplex fodder.

Just to recap - Ready Player One took place in a polluted and overcrowded Earth of 2044, where the majority of the populace seeks refuge in the virtual utopia known as the OASIS - an immersive simulation in which you can indulge your wildest pop culture fantasies (such as jamming on-stage with Axl and Slash, reenacting The Lord of the Rings, or, in my case, heading to “Planet Bloodsport” to fight in the Kumite alongside Jean-Claude Van Damme). When James Halliday, the eccentric creator of the OASIS, leaves behind a posthumous treasure hunt to determine the heir to his incalculable fortune, teenage hacker Wade Watts manages to crack the first clue and embarks on a fantastical, nostalgia-slathered adventure alongside his friends in order to keep the ruthless telecommunications conglomerate IOI from assuming authority over the simulation and yukking everyone’s yum. The end result was undeniably silly - perhaps even jejune - and yet, however misguided the tenor of its pop cultural worship, the book still had a snappy bubblegum quality that kept you chewing jauntily from the first page to the last. It was - dare I say it - even quite fun.  

But for those who found a satisfying poignance in the book’s ending - in which Wade learns the value of disconnecting from the OASIS and embracing life in the real world with his girlfriend Samantha (aka Art3mis) - well… too bad. Ready Player Two is one of those aggravating sequels that basically pops the entire arc of the original into the microwave and hits “reheat.” We soon discover that Wade and Sam, in fact, barely lasted a week together… thanks to a fundamental disagreement over a fresh technological advancement called an ONI headset, which provides an unprecedented level of immersion within the OASIS (and enables users to upload memories for public consumption, not unlike the SQUID clips in Strange Days). Wade also finds himself tasked with an additional riddle-based quest - designed exclusively for Halliday’s heir and referred to as the “Seven Shards of the Siren’s Soul” - that alludes to a cryptic prize at the end of the figurative rainbow.

Up to this point, the novel manages a certain surface-level intrigue (if not a great deal of originality). But once the “big bad” reveals himself and seizes control of the OASIS, demanding that Wade and his friends collect all seven shards in just twelve hours, the story begins to falter. At first, the compressed timeframe promises a more propulsive narrative thrust… but the relentless plot churn of shard hunting soon grows tedious. Half a billion souls supposedly hang in the balance, but as the characters traipse about “Planet Shermer” on a John Hughes-themed quest (rubbing shoulders with characters from Weird Science and Pretty in Pink), the stakes couldn’t feel more frivolous. Likewise, a world dedicated entirely to the musical legacy of Prince (a point of expertise for Wade’s best friend Aech) devolves into a mechanical exercise in rote fan service (“First we need to obtain the raspberry beret… then we need the little red corvette… then we need the guitar from Purple Rain…”) - something the first novel was frequently accused of, but tended to handle in a savvier, more clever fashion.​

Not surprisingly, Wade’s relationship with Art3mis once again serves as the story’s emotional core… which is thorny territory, given how that particular aspect of Ready Player One evolved into a strange Rorschach test of sorts, which people were quick to imprint their own emotional baggage onto (cute, coming-of-age romance or toxic distillation of Gamergate? You decide). One of the book’s better additions is the character of L0hengrin… not so much the clumsy virtue signaling over her being trans, but rather the way in which she and her tight-knit gamer clan essentially function as the junior varsity version of Wade and his friends. But Cline never does figure out a way to integrate them organically, beyond L0hengrin helping Wade obtain the initial shard. There’s no “old school” and “new school” working hand-in-hand to save the day - it’s a wasted opportunity. But then by the final third, you can almost feel Cline’s enthusiasm draining from the pages as he tries to barrel towards his conclusion, posthaste… as if a needle drop of Stan Bush’s The Touch or John Parr’s Man in Motion will gloss over how hastily and crudely the climax is stapled together (the fate of original baddie Nolan Sorrento is so perfunctory, one wonders why Cline even bothered to incorporate him at all). The end result is indifference, more than anything. It’s not even “Game Over.” It’s just… plain over.