Ready Player Two by Ernest Cline

My rating: 2 of 5 stars


If ever a novel didn’t need a sequel, it’s Ready Player One. That story came to a full and satisfying ending, leaving no loose threads needing to be tied. It was with a measure of foreboding and reluctance that I read the sequel.
The sense of foreboding was well justified. Where the first book is fresh and fun and original and exciting, the sequel is forced and turgid and contrived and so, so disappointing. Oh, and the protagonist is now a complete jerk.
I forced myself to slog through it, never caring about the characters or the outcome of their struggles, though perhaps ‘struggles’ is overstating it a little—I never felt they were in any jeopardy that a handy deus ex machina wouldn’t get them out of.




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