• Dungeon Crawler Carl and the Problem of Not Caring

    I flew through the first 1/3 of the novel because I love the video game RPG genre and this was my first experience reading about how LitRPG turns them into a linear adventure. But my opinion changed when I read two scenes that came quite close together.

    Now, for the next three or four paragraphs, there are spoilers: Carl, up to this point, has been killing non-human characters to survive; it’s been very much attack-or-die. As a reader, I haven’t really expected him to have been deeply reflecting on the horror of the situation

    But there were two scenes where Carl wasn’t immediately attacked and had a chance to interact rather than react to the ‘baddies’.

    *** There are spoilers in the next two paragraphs ***

    In one, a mutated human speaks Spanish, which shows his opponent is scared and confused. Carl doesn’t understand Spanish, and a translation isn’t provided to the reader. But he still acts with violence, despite the doubts he expresses about facing an almost-human character.

    Matt doesn’t pause the action here; Carl moves on. He meets a group of goblins who don’t kill him on sight because they recognise his tattoo, which he received as a ‘bonus’ for killing another goblin group earlier. He doesn’t explain this. Instead, he uses it to gain access to their inner sanctum. They treat him with kindness, and he repays that by carrying out a mass killing.

    I thought that it would set the tone for the rest of the book – kill indiscriminately, get loot, and level up.

    But without the author exploring the emotional impact, it felt like it would be reductive and ultimately a hollow experience. I need to at least feel there is a point to the story, even if it makes me feel uncomfortable.

    And when I reached this thought earlier last week, I closed the book, fully intending to DNF it.

    I shared my disappointment on Bluesky, hoping someone would tell me I was wrong.

    Ummm, at 1/3 in, I’m not sure that I like Carl or the cat in Dungeon Crawler Carl.

    And I’m grateful to Somhairle Kelly for situating Dungeon Crawler Carl within the system-apocalypse microgenre.

    The thing that hit me from the thread was:

    Some are grimdark for the sake of grimdark. Characters often lament never getting planes, the internet, mobile phones, etc. again, but they don’t contemplate the sheer horror.

    It made me wonder if my reaction was the problem. Carl wasn’t supposed to care, and that was intentional and an expected trope because the genre as a whole focuses on the macro rather than the individual’s emotional impact.

    I’ve previously said, way back in 2023, in the context of The Poppy War Trilogy:

    I don’t plan on going back to grimdark consciously, at least not for a while, unless I read a series that is grimdark but I don’t realise it is.

    And it seemed that reading Matt or the Clarke Award had ‘fooled’ me into reading it.

    But both Somhairle’s framing and the fact that it’s up for a Clarke Award have me intrigued. I’m wondering if I can continue, knowing this will be the pattern from here on out.

    The replies in the thread imply that Carl doesn’t suddenly become empathetic as the series goes on. Growth may kick in about book 4 or 5.

    And the creator has said that it’s not what it first seems:

    Every war, every social movement has multiple battlefields, and not every battlefield has to be the front line. I want people with different points of view to enjoy these books at face value. If I then manage to drill through their thick skulls and make them think about the broader themes and maybe grow an empathetic spark, all the better.

    The above is a larger extract from a Reddit post, ‘We are not talking current event politics here, and every deliberately political post will be deleted. Repeat violators will be banned. This is why’

    So, maybe I am having the reaction that the author is expecting. I went out of my way to translate the Spanish dialogue in that first scene, and I think that’s perhaps what led me to project a negative association between Carl and his creator.

    I think the problem is that I don’t feel that I need the lesson.

    Killing anything should come with awareness.

    And I wonder if my curiosity would drive me to read through my own discomfort and dissociation, to complete my reading of the rest of the books. Given that I can’t even force myself to read the next book in the series that I LOVE, I highly doubt it.

    By the way, I love how the RPG elements are integrated; it’s just the lack of empathy for the ‘Non-Playable Characters’ even if that makes readers think about the choices that Carl is and isn’t making.

    And because of Kelly’s framing, I do want to go back to DCC with both the author’s intent and the type of genre it is.

    I now want to read The Transcendent Green by Mati Ocha (https://matiocha.com) as it was recommended by Somhairle Kelly, as they described it as ‘respectful, authentically Gaelic, and depicts the horrors without callousness or apocalypse porn. And fundamentally hopepunk

    I understand what DCC is trying to do, and I don’t think finishing it will change that—but maybe I’ll come to like it. Should I continue, or is this just not for me?

  • Can I Read the Hugo and Clarke Shortlists Before the Winners Are Announced?

    Nick Hubble reminded me on Bluesky that this year’s Hugo Award nominees are out.

    Keeping a track of these write-ups for reasons. Also nice to see myself quoted if not named.

    Nick Hubble (@thehubble101.bsky.social) 2026-06-26T18:17:34.639Z

    In July last year, I gave myself two reading challenges:

    1. Read the  British Fantasy Awards 2025 shortlist for Best Anthology
    2. Read the World Fantasy Awards 2025 shortlist for Best Novella

    I managed the novellas, but burnt out on the anthologies.

    So I have form, if not an entirely successful track record, with reviewing award shortlists. It does help me focus — giving me a deadline to aim for and pushing me to read books that might otherwise sit on the ever‑growing TBR pile.

    I also did a ‘live’ reading of Annie Bot by Sierra Greer (at Dan’s request), which went on to win the Clarke Award.

    That pushed me to read it more closely and think about it more deeply — and I think I saw some of what the Clarke judges did in it. A worthy winner.

    So I’m wondering whether to set myself a new challenge: read the Hugo and Clarke shortlists before the winners are announced.

    Despite having somehow forgotten, checking the list reminded me that they are all books I’m interested in.

    Best Novel

    • A Drop of Corruption by Robert Jackson Bennett (Del Rey; Hodderscape)
    • Death of the Author by Nnedi Okorafor (William Morrow; Gollancz)
    • Shroud by Adrian Tchaikovsky (Tor UK; Orbit US)
    • The Everlasting by Alix E. Harrow (Tor US; Tor UK)
    • The Incandescent by Emily Tesh (Tor US; Orbit UK)
    • The Raven Scholar by Antonia Hodgson (Orbit US; Hodderscape)

    I’ve only read one (The Incandescent), which isn’t a great start — especially as it’s currently at the bottom of the list, sorry. In theory, I have plenty of time to catch up on the other five before the winner is announced on Sunday, 30 August 2026, at 8:00pm Pacific (4am?!).

    The good news is that I already have all of them, including special editions of Death of the Author and The Everlasting. I enjoyed Robert Jackson Bennett’s previous series, and The Raven Scholar has enough hype that it seems to be living up to it.

    If that feels ambitious, I’ve checked the other categories, and the Best Novella looks much more manageable and should give me an easy and early win.

    Best Novella

    • Automatic Noodle by Annalee Newitz (Tordotcom)
    • Cinder House by Freya Marske (Tordotcom; Tor UK)
    • Murder by Memory by Olivia Waite (Tordotcom)
    • The River Has Roots by Amal El-Mohtar (Tordotcom; Arcadia UK)
    • The Summer War by Naomi Novik (Del Rey US; Del Rey UK)
    • What Stalks the Deep by T. Kingfisher (Nightfire; Titan UK)

    I’ve read half of them — Automatic Noodle, Murder by Memory and What Stalks the Deep — all worth reading. I owe reviews of two of them. But if I had to rank them, I’d go Noodle, Deep, then Memory. I’m curious how that would change.

    The Arthur C. Clarke Award shortlist this year is:

    • Dungeon Crawler Carl – Matt Dinniman (Michael Joseph)
    • The Dream Hotel – Laila Lalami (Bloomsbury Circus)
    • Luminous – Silvia Park (Magpie)
    • There Is No Antimemetics Division – Qntm (Del Rey)
    • When There Are Wolves Again – E.J. Swift (Arcadia)
    • The Salt Oracle – Lorraine Wilson (Solaris)

    I bought The Dream Hotel and Dungeon Crawler Carl especially to read for this, so I’m committed in terms of TBR. The Arthur C. Clarke and Hugos always have a lot of debate, and I want to avoid FOMO and join in.

    The winner of the Arthur C. Clarke Award will be announced on 12 August 2026, putting it just over two weeks before the Hugos. In order to meet both deadlines, I’d need to read 10⅔ novels plus three novellas in just over two months.

    Should I commit to it? Would you do it? Have you read any? Who would you vote to win?

    PS

    The British Fantasy Awards 2026 Shortlists are also out, including the Best Anthology Award:

    • Lesbians In Space: Where No Man Has Gone Before, edited by J S Fields, William C Tracy, Heather Tracy (Space Wizard Science Fantasy)
    • Blood in the Bricks, edited by Neil Williamson, NewCon Press
    • This Way Lies Madness, edited Dave Jeffery, Lee Murray, Flame Tree Press
    • Silk and Sinew: A Collection of Folk Horror from the Asian Diaspora, Kristy Park Kulski (Bad Hand Books)

    And while I’m not reading the anthologies this year, I’m curious about them. Have you read any? What should I pick up?

  • Reflective Review: Everything Not Saved by NMJ Coveney [2025]

    Originally Read: Prior to its Sept 25 Publication
    Spoilers: None
    Rating: Loved
    Format Read: Draft Manuscript
    Disclosure: I have beta-read drafts of this.

    I have a copy of Everything Not Saved on my desk (in fact, I have two), and I keep meaning to review it. I’ve settled on being comfortable with writing reflective reviews of books I’ve previously read but haven’t yet reviewed. Since it’s Pride Month in the UK and we’re sharing queer reads, here is my review of a book I’m really proud to own. I know how much went into making this happen, and I’m really glad it’s out in the world. It also means I can take it off my desk and avoid the feels I get when I see it.

    Should you review books that you’ve seen in draft and given feedback on? Probably not, as it will be seen as biased almost immediately. So let’s get that out of the way. I’m 100% biased here. 

    What I expected going in was a really sweet coming-of-age tale with video game references. What actually happened was that I became way too emotionally invested to be an analytical reader – it took me too long to read because of the feelings it brought up – and I definitely fed that back. With that out of the way, let’s get on with the review.   

    The opening scenes show M (Mikey) arriving, with his mum and older brother, in the ‘vibes are definitely off’ village of Pytt End. His welcome to his new school is less than stellar. Luckily, a joint passion for video games means he finds a friend, K (Kris).

    Everything Not Saved is told from M & K’s alternating viewpoints, which not only gives the reader insight into both teenagers and their perspectives on their friendship, but also what is happening when they’re not in each other’s company. 

    In this type of tale, you’d think it would be repetitive, but Coveney keeps the momentum going when the chapters switch. 

    What is really strong is the complexity of families and how school, especially, affects them (because teenagers who need education lack the autonomy that adults have, such as being able to move to a new school if they don’t like their current one).

    Coveney manages to make you protective of our teen protagonists, so that at certain moments your heart stops or you want to shout at them, ‘But don’t trust her.’ He’s also not shy of exploring the darker sides of life. It made me cry at least twice, in part because it made me think of how I felt growing up. And if I’m not careful, writing this review will make me cry again. 

    The other major thread is video games, and Everything Not Saved captures the 1990s atmosphere in which video games were played offline, physically with friends, and studying to play them was as much a part of, if not a major part of, playing them. 

    The reason it’s stuck with me is my emotional connection to it, but I can’t be the only gay man who’s going to have that reaction. In the sense that literature shows you the lives of people, this does exactly that. I’m not saying it’s the author’s lived experience, but Coveney’s managed to capture what it’s like to grow up in a small village, be gay, and be geeky.

    Looking back, I’m not ready to re-read it yet, but I envy anyone who has felt those feelings and is ready to feel them all again. 

    My verdict is that it captures the creepy village vibe, invokes video game nostalgia, and is an emotional roller coaster of a coming-of-age tale about two teenage boys. The ending lands, and all the set-ups come together. Though given the dark events, do they get a happy ever after? Or do they just leave readers, this reader, feeling haunted? I highly recommend you read it and find out.

    To repeat, I feel very proud of my copies of Everything Not Saved. I can’t wait to read (on publication or earlier) what NMJ Coveney writes next. 

  • Review: The Tinder Box by M.R. Carey [2026]

    Spoilers: Mild (themes and setup only
    Genre: Fantasy
    Format: e-ARC
    Source: NetGalley (in exchange for an unbiased review)
    Rating: Liked

    This is Carey’s take on a short story by Hans Christian Andersen, unsurprisingly also called The Tinderbox. He tells the tale of a soldier and a witch whose existence has been put at risk by the deeds of their rulers.

    If you’re wanting an action/adventure you’re not getting that. What you do get is a slower examination of good, bad, wicked and truly evil.

    Set in a small Eastern European country of Allesheim, where there is a seemingly endless war with its neighbours, Ehrlich and Pozhka, though it’s unclear what they are truly fighting about.

    It’s implied that whoever wins this fight for control will ultimately make no difference to the lives of the citizens of each country. And while the rulers squabble, their citizens are starving and dying for the sake of a war that has no end in sight.

    The tone of the book is set by Mag Tresti, as he describes his honourable medical discharge being conducted alongside the execution of his condemned comrades, who have been branded as faithless cowards and are to be executed in batches. Both events are carried out on behalf of, and in the presence of, the king.

    The soldier notes that, despite the pending deaths and general unhappiness of the gathering soldiers being honoured, a semblance of approval has been conjured up for the king’s speech where there was none. This hints at the power of the adviser, which is both magical and political.

    Mag, the now ex-soldier, is shunned by those he comes across on his search for new employment, but eventually finds himself asking a reclusive widow, Jannae Mirchella, for work. Surprisingly but brusquely, she agrees, initially with terms acceptable to both.

    But the terms offered—payment on completion of work—are not fulfilled, as she is always finding work to be done. This doesn’t seem to matter until Mag is doing a dangerous task and comes into possession of a Tinder Box.

    This event soon coincides with him leaving the widow’s employ; formerly a man without power, he now seems to possess something powerful, though he doesn’t know at the time that it contains three devils.

    The widow, however, is a witch. One who has been waiting for some unspecified right moment to go back into the world. This is not the moment she was waiting for, but recovering the box is overwhelming.

    While travelling she starts to remember her past, and becomes haunted by a key moment, forced to look back at this and other decisions her circumstances forced her to take. She examines the most important one—taking her revenge—and why she’s been putting it off.

    We start with Mag’s narration, but the story demands we see into the heart of Jannae, so it is then told from her perspective. And we get to understand what she’s willing to sacrifice, and are challenged to believe that there might be some good in her cold heart.

    We switch between the two as one hunts the other down.

    We even get to see the world through the king’s adviser, though we see nothing redeeming through his eyes.

    The limits of choice are a theme that cuts across our three main characters, and we get to see the world from each of them, which may be a bit disappointing to those who were enjoying the ex-soldier’s narration and were happy to see the world from his point of view.

    Told from multiple points of view, this allows Carey to provide better commentary and insight. The slower nature of the story gives space for this. He examines women in this society, who are not well thought of; the role of soldiers, seen as replicable; the ambivalence of those who hold power, though it is really the people who hold it; how people can be oh so very petty, where telling tales really doesn’t have consequences; and overall the value of a life, which becomes about living in the moment.

    Ultimately, it is the story of how life doesn’t like people who want to live outside the boxes that society puts them into, making sure they toe the line, which is literal in the case of the three devils.

    The skill of Carey’s storytelling is shown in scenes where Mag tries to befriend the inhabitants of the Tinder Box – like Aladdin’s genie, they can seemingly grant any wish, but they are prisoners bound to the commands of their possessor, and unlike the genie they have no end to their sentence. Does he win them over? Are they actually wicked or have they also found themselves on the wrong side of an ambivalent ruler?

    There are reflections from both the living, the meta-living, and the dead.

    On what happens to the living after death, one of the prisoners of the box says:

    ‘That knowledge Elohim has not shared with any. I have always assumed that there is a mill where old souls are washed and made new, but if there is I’ve never seen it. Perhaps they only fade. Or perhaps there is another place somewhere in which they enjoy a different existence. In any event, their persistence on this plane is short’

    It doesn’t matter to the god of this world (Elohim); like the King, both treat the world as if there will always be more people, and more souls, to do their bidding, and that’s how they inevitably become worthless.

    Carey makes you feel that everyone is worthy, well maybe not the evil King or his court. But everyone else—yes, there is a cost, but aren’t things of real value worth the price?

    I am trying not to say too much, because it’s not packed with events; it’s more thoughtful and meditative. I think this will frustrate some readers, which would be a shame.

    But if they stick with it, it’s a story of making the best of things, with some unrequited love—or perhaps lust—woven in.

    Overall, it’s a fairytale stretched into a novel, spending that extra time exploring the meaning of life and what can be achieved if you truly live.

    Note: I rate on a four-tier scale: Loved (4.5–5★), Liked (3.75–4.25★), Mixed (2.75–3.5★), and Not for me (1–2.5★).

  • Review: Floodlines by Saleem Haddad [2026]

    Spoilers: None
    Genre: Literary Fiction
    Format read: Print
    Disclosure: None [this book was purchased by me]
    Loved (4.5–5★)

    This is Haddad’s second novel. His first, Guapa, won the Polari First Book Prize and was set over 24 hours during the Arab Spring. Floodlines starts in July 2014 and ends in November 2014, but it documents events that happened decades earlier, and they ripple through its pages.

    Haddad shows us that dreams play a significant role in the trajectory of our lives. He presents us with characters who are happier when the past is forgotten and buried in the sand, and contrasts them with those whose childhood nostalgia is so powerful it demands their shared past be uncovered. A past cleaned up and carried aloft with pride, like a tarnished family heirloom of uncertain value.

    As the story progresses, some of the characters’ imagined pasts are shown to be untethered from reality. These conflicting memories explosively converge by the end of the novel. They often take the form of a waking dream, in which past events in Iraq intrude on the reality of their English country-cottage family home. Hopes for the future—a future where those displaced by the wars in Iraq are able to go home and re-find their identities—are harshly exposed as fantasy. But the reality is that a swept-away past has been left to fester.

    On its surface, this is a story of three sisters who are arguing over how to honour or preserve their father’s artistic legacy. Their father was a hero in Iraq, still revered as a great artist, and is remembered for the impact he had. But the plan to track down his art and exhibit it unravels the past that has been tightly bound and hidden away.

    There is an early email exchange in which Zainab states to Mediha, “I am copying in Ishtar because all three of us, as Hayder’s daughters, should be involved in these discussions.” However, this exchange later boils over with the reply, “Your concern for Baba’s legacy is laughable. What is driving all this sudden love and adoration?”

    Haddad weaves a tapestry using the points of view of a son (Nizar, a war journalist turned sex worker), his mother (Zainab), her two sisters (Ishtar, the middle sister, and Mediha, the youngest and carer to their mother), and their mother (Bridget). Each point of view is a loose thread that the characters and the story tug on, as the lies their lives were built on unravel.

    Art does not heal the trauma, and exposing the realities through factual reporting doesn’t either. The act of creation and observation does, however, expose the inner self. For example, Zainab collects objects and creates handicrafts and is seen as a lesser artist, while Ishtar has turned her art into political protest but is now beating a drum that only she can hear.

    Lies sit at the heart of the novel because they are used to sweep away the truth. It is a story of dreams and quests, but also of the realities of displacement, and of how setting the past aside in favour of the present does not remove its burdens.

    Though the story opens with Nizar, it is ultimately a family story. Haddad centres each of them, and some of the most powerful moments come when Bridget’s past and present merge. In these skilfully described scenes, you wonder if you are in a country home in the UK or standing in a house in Iraq. By the end, you know their mother has moulded them, but their history, and the desert heat, have fired them.

    Floodlines asks: What does their father’s art reveal? And is that knowledge worth it?

    The answer challenges taboos and conformity, exposing the lies we tell others and ourselves to feel safe. Ultimately, it serves as a warning that art is the heart revealed.