Alan Wake is one of a few titles whose seemingly-universal acclaim left an impression on me that survived an entire decade without gaming. Like Mirror’s Edge, I knew only just enough to sustain a hazy, idealized anticipation. “I’m going to love that some day,” my subconscious predicted, “whatever it is.” Having just completed the game along with its two “special features” and subsequent spin-off, I’m satisfied to find my hunch was correct, though I’m also surprised by how flawed the works are.

Modern crime TV shows like The Ozarks and Animal Kingdom always get under my skin. It’s been hard to reconcile that aversion with my appreciation for classic noir–how is it that I enjoy the dark, violent, and even cynical aspects in some works but not others? The Fade Out has an answer. Brubaker and Phillips bring many of the elements which keep Criminal and Incognito on my bookshelf after every cull.

I forgot a lot during the decade that I wasn’t watching anime. Naoki Urasawa’s Monster reminded me of the emotional heights that Japanese animation can reach. A few months later, 2021’s Belle reminded me that it doesn’t necessarily take some 24 hours of storytelling to get there. 2017’s Erased1 reminded me that not every series has such lofty goals, and it taught me that my interests have changed. These days, I’m less excited by sci-fi gimmicks and more interested in artistic range and emotional depth.

The Internet Con is a book about subverting corporate overreach. More practically speaking, it’s about standards and interoperability, but even I recognize that you can’t lead with that. Whether author Cory Doctorow uses the term “adversarial interoperability” or “competitive compatibility,” he’s describing a set of practices which would deny private firms the technological advantage they currently enjoy over the rest of us. Doctorow writes with relatable explanations, plentiful anecdotes, and approachable prose, doing justice to a cause that’s near-and-dear to my heart.

Crestfallen over the passing of Dr. Paul Farmer, I asked my physician for any professional anecdotes about the man. She had only limited personal experience to speak to, so she instead prescribed the biography of Jim O’Connell, another hero of hers. O’Connell bears a striking resemblance to Farmer in both his career and demeanor. Both Boston-based medical doctors, they found their calling for service to marginalized groups, starting a program from scratch and even fighting some of the same ailments (namely multidrug-resistant tuberculosis).

If “God is Change,” as the fictitious religion of Earthseed intones, then Parable of the Talents is a divine sequel. Its evolution is more drastic even that of The Fall of Hyperion (now, only the second-most distinctive sequel I’ve ever read). From the very first page, it’s clear that at least the narrative context is more complex. The same woman’s journal entries tell both stories, but where Parable of the Sower is presented simply as her diary, Talents introduces a new character who curates the subsequent entries, inserts writing from others, and provides commentary of her own.

I really wanted to like Twelve Minutes. As a genre, the point-and-click adventure is near-and-dear to my heart, and the game’s “Groundhog Day”-inspired story adds some novelty (like a time limit and a protagonist with a persistent memory). The stakes were higher than my increasingly-routine “grown up gamer” diversions because my Mom was playing alongside me; I don’t mind slogging through the occasional dud on my own, but it’s harder to admit that you’ve invited someone to a lackluster party.

The Dispossessed tells the story of Shevek, a scientist from an anarchy who emigrates to a capitalistic society with hopes to complete his life’s work. Along the way, author Ursula LeGuin touches on many of the themes you might expect from such a story. There’s criticism of capitalism, centralization, and war; there’s also reflection on the value of mutual aid and social contracts. Although much of this is explicit, plenty comes from more nuanced exploration of the fictional cultures, e.

David McCullough knows how to tell a good story. I say this not just because I loved John Adams and not just because I loved Truman but also because I loved these lengthy books despite my ineptitude with studying history. You might argue that Adams makes it easy; his story is almost inherently good. I’ll skip the book report and instead substantiate that with a short list. Adams was: a lawyer who defended the British (“facts are stubborn things”) a husband who cherished an authentic partnership with his wife (“The times are critical and dangerous, and I must have you here to assist me,”) a diplomat who secured loans for the revolution (“a new scene for which I fear I am very ill qualified”) a parent who instilled values of education and public service (“the end of study is to make you a good man and a useful citizen”) a scholar who wrote the one of the world’s oldest constitutions (“a sub-sub committee of one”) a Vice President who supported his President ("[Washington] seeks information from all quarters and judges more independently than any man I ever saw") a President who campaigned for peace (“Always disposed and ready to embrace every plausible appearance of probability of preserving or restoring tranquility,”) a father who raised a President (“with a character so perfectly fair and a good humor so universally acknowledged, it is impossible for you to fail.

From the very first installment, the Silent Hill franchise established a distinctive brand of horror–grotesque yet fundamentally psychological. That intimidated me years before I would start playing myself. I still remember reading about the industry preview of the first game at E3, with audience members leaving the Konami booth in disgust. I jumped on at Silent Hill 2 and found a game which remains one of my favorites to this day.