This year, I played a whole bunch of video games.

Like, more than ever before.

Much like my recent Album of the Year '24 post, I wanted to sit down and celebrate some of the best video games I’ve played throughout this year—especially now that The Game Awards is officially in the rearview mirror. Compiling lists of this sort is admittedly pretty silly. Who am I to say what is or is not the best game of the year? Still, I find the process can be a pleasant, engrossing exercise. Putting together lists like this one is a lesson in reflection. It’s a chance to survey the medium and consider the evolution of my own personal taste. Art, in all its permutations, is worthy of our regard. I was pleasantly surprised by some of the games I ended up enjoying in 2024. Despite a historic distaste for certain genres I’ve experimented with in the past, I found myself enjoying JRPGs, visual novels, and even hero-shooters over the course of the year in equal measure.

Even still, cataloguing all of my favorite games in 2024 without acknowledging the elephant in the room would feel altogether short-sighted. While I am merely a hobbyist in the space, it’s worth taking a few hundred words to assess the state of video games in 2024 before diving into the medium’s sterling examples. Despite the fact that it has been a pretty stupendous year for the artistic merits of video games, it’s been a catastrophic period for the industry as a whole. Ever since the shockwaves of the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020 saw the value of video games artificially skyrocket as people found themselves locked away indoors, the industry has found itself in a steep decline.

Increasingly, games are seemingly rushed out the door to appease shareholders (if they’re ever released at all.) Those that do find their way onto digital storefronts and physical shelves are released in a poor state, riddled with bugs to the point that many projects feel like beta tests rather than complete and polished works of art. As is always the case under an economic system that hoards wealth for CEOs and shareholders at the cost of developers, the penalty falls on working people. No one has experienced the tumult of the video game industry quite like the developers, who’ve suffered from catastrophic layoffs. As the industry has continued to bleed its most valuable resource—repeating and ultimately surpassing one of the worst trends of 2023—it’s difficult to simply celebrate video games as an anti-capitalist.

The industry is a contested space and it often feels discouraging to watch from the sidelines as the poor decisions of management wreak havoc on the rank-n-file. But all is not lost. The video game industry has also seen a wave of unionization efforts in recent years. As Nicole Carpenter noted for Polygon this past June, video games developers across the world have been organizing to defend their rights as workers. SAG-AFTRA’s interactive media wing went on strike this year to fight against the slow creep of AI in video games. And independent video games remain some of the most cherished and beloved darlings both critically and commercially.

After all, there is reason to delight in the stories that bring us joy. The experiences that bind us to one another. The memories we build in tandem with those we love most. And to that end I have compiled a list of the best video games of 2024.

Contenders

The following is a list of contenders for my 2024 Game of the Year listed in alphabetical order:

• Animal Well

• Astro Bot

• Balatro

• Cryptmaster

• Dragon’s Dogma 2

• Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erdtree

• Infinity Nikki

• Marvel Rivals

• Metaphor: ReFantazio

• Multiversus

• Palia

• Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door - Remake

• Pokémon TCG Pocket

• Prince of Persia: The Lost Crown

• Princess Peach: Showtime!

• Summer House

• Thank Goodness You’re Here!

• The Last of Us, Pt. II - Remastered

• UFO 50

• Zenless Zone Zero

A quick-note: although I made mention of remakes, remasters, and DLCs on this list, they ultimately don’t count (at least, in my mind) as real contenders for Game of the Year. A lot of fuss was made with the Game Awards announced that Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erdtree was a contender for Game of the Year. While I think there are certainly arguments to be made to put DLC in contention, none of them work particularly well in my mind. Just my two cents for now, but more on Shadow of the Erdtree in a moment.

Honorable Mentions

What follows are a few of my honorable mentions:

Cryptmaster

I had a blast playing through Cryptmaster when I first stumbled across it during Steam Next Fest this past summer. In fact, I suspect Cryptmaster would have made it onto my official list if I had actually been able to play more of it. Alas, gaming on a Mac makes even point-and-click typing grim dark adventures nigh impossible (much to my chagrin.) Still, for those who love old school pen-and-paper RPGs mixed with a healthy dosage of word puzzles, Cryptmaster definitely scratches the itch. The inventive mechanics, general levity, and sense of humor make for a one-of-a-kind experience. This game flew under a lotta folks’ radar and is criminally under-appreciated.

Princess Peach: Showtime!

When Nintendo first announced a Princess Peach game, I was beyond elated. The central mechanic was undeniably enticing. Dressing Peach up in different costumes and tying those get-ups to new power-ups is, on its face, a pretty brilliant idea that borrows in equal measure from the novelty of both Mario and Kirnby’s general approach to video game design where every new level is built around an entirely fresh mechanic to explore. Alas, Princess Peach: Showtime! was a bit too underwhelming. While I enjoyed my time with the game, Princess Peach: Showtime! was clearly intended for a younger audience. While I often delight in kids’ games, this particular iteration ultimately became too formulaic and rote.

Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erdtree

Just because it doesn’t really count doesn’t mean it ain’t worth celebrating! Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erdtree is a brilliant bit of DLC for the critically-acclaimed 2022 video game. The build-crafting is here. The balls-to-the-wall boss fights are present, too. Just like its predecessor, Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erdtree rewards players’ inquisitive inclinations. Exploration is central to the experience. Rather than mapping out specific, defined levels like other Soulbourne games, Shadow of the Erdtree invites players to poke and prod at every nook and cranny over the course of their 30+ hr return to the Lands Between. I still boot up Elden Ring every now and again just to inhabit the strange, treacherous, and vile world painstakingly crafted by FromSoftware. While Shadow of the Erdtree was a delight, to be sure, so much of it blurs into the haze of joy and frustration that made Elden Ring so noteworthy in 2022. Shadow of the Erdtree is more Elden Ring—and that is both its greatest asset and most significant shortcoming.

Top 10

And now, the moment you’ve all been patiently waiting for. Here are my Top 10 Games of 2024 in descending order:

10. Prince of Persia: The Lost Crown

A late addition to my GotY list, Prince of Persia: The Lost Crown is a stunning and exhilarating Metroidvania. The combat is fast-paced and cutthroat, the platforming is stylish and fluid. But what makes The Lost Crown so singular and appealing, in my mind, is its host of quality-of-life features. Metroidvanias can feel like labyrinths (intentionally so) and while this is certainly part of their charm, it can also lead to tedium and even frustration when circling back for the umpteenth time to a place you’ve already been on numerous occasions while searching for that one forgotten corner to explore now that you’ve unlocked a new power-up. The map in The Lost Crown takes so much of the weight off players’ shoulders by allowing you to take a screenshot and pin them directly to the map. An excellent game on its own merits and inarguably the best Prince of Persia game to release in quite sometime. Still, it was steep competition this year for Metroidvanias. But more on that later.

9. Pokémon Trading Card Game Pocket

As soon as the Pokémon company announced Pokémon TCG Pocket, they had my rapt attention. Embarrassing though it maybe to admit, I still hold a special place in my heart for the Pokémon TCG. There is something absolutely magical about holding gorgeous artistic renders of Pocket Monsters in hand, an alchemy only surpassed by the joy of building cunning decks and battling it out with friends, family, or strangers. But the cost involved for building competitive decks has always put me off the physical card game. Although I certainly have more cards than I’d care to admit, what enticed me about this mobile game was the opportunity to have a massive catalogue of cards without the waste of superfluous cardboard piling up in a closet drawer. But Pokémon TCG Pocket doesn’t just offer a convenient way to collect ’em all. The game also streamlines the TCG’s battle mechanics a la a modern card battler like Marvel Snap or Hearthstone, keeping games short and sweet. Even as a purely free-to-play game, I’ve never struggled to get new cards or build awesome decks and, for that, Pokémon TCG Pocket easily secures a slot on my GotY list.

8. Summer House

Summer House is another underrated favorite on this list. A stripped-down game in the vein of a city-builder, Summer House keeps its focus restrained to a singular, pixelated scene. But what it lacks in expansiveness, Summer House more than makes up for in aesthetic depth. The game rewards player creativity with delightful, cozy vistas that are the perfect way to lazily unwind after a long workday. At just $4.99 on Steam (when it’s not on sale,) Summer House is a steal even if it’s just a way to while away an afternoon or two.

7. Animal Well

I hate puzzle games, but I fucking love Animal Well. Of all the video games I’ve compiled here, Animal Well is probably the one that vexed and frustrated me most. Perhaps it’s ironic, then, that it placed so highly on my list. Even though I have yet to finish Animal Well in its entirety, I would never deny the novelty and nuance of its design. A Metroidvania that makes you feel like a literal genius whenever you solve one of its myriad puzzles, Animal Well has a depth that will keep me coming back to plumb the well for many years to come. Animal Well is nothing short of a stupendous accomplishment.

6. Dragon’s Dogma 2

When I put together this list, I did a double-take when I clocked Dragon’s Dogma 2. “Really,” I thought, “that came out this year!?” Dragon’s Dogma 2 is like a half-remembered reverie that ebbs from the mind as you blink awake. Dragon’s Dogma 2 is an enigmatic puzzle-box, one just as likely to prick you as it is to dazzle you. Obtuse. Obnoxious. Infuriating. Those are just a few of the words that spring to mind when I think about the time I spent playing Dragon’s Dogma 2. But they are far from the only terms Dragon’s Dogma 2 conjures in my brain. Ingenious. Devious. Hysterical. If a slapstick buddy comedy and a self-serious political fantasy had a bastard lovechild, it would look something like Dragon’s Dogma 2. Some of the most ludicrous moments I spent gaming this year happened while exploring the dangerous, silly regions of Vermund, Battahl, and the Sacred Arbor. Although I have absolutely no desire to return to Dragon’s Dogma 2 any time soon now that I’ve rolled credits, I also wager it will be a delight to rediscover its idiosyncrasies five years down the line. Dragon’s Dogma 2 may not be the best RPG I played this year, but it is absolutely the funniest and for that it more than earned its placement on my GotY list.

5. Metaphor: ReFantazio

I could fill an entire blog post, an entire academic paper, with my critiques of Metaphor: ReFantazio. On paper, Metaphor is extremely My Shit. The game is a mix of high fantasy and political intrigue that circles around the ideal of utopia, both as a political project and a narrative genre. As I explored at length in the first post I ever made on this blog, utopia is a contested space, one laid claim to simultaneously by diabolical fascists, reformist liberals, and revolutionaries of all stripes. What Metaphor achieves in this game is, at times, absolutely beautiful and genius and touching. From its colorful cast of memorable characters to its expansive playspace of mechanical possibility, Metaphor is regularly firing on all cylinders. The game’s profound meditations on hierarchy, religion, racial animosity, and human suffering are some of the most noteworthy I’ve ever experienced in a video game.

Yet, for all its strengths, Metaphor ultimately offers an embarrassingly facile conclusion that privileges the status quo. At times, the game absolutely blunders, fumbling moving narratives that have spanned hours with tried and rote tropes that paint social revolutionaries as villains to be castigated. In part, I suspect my disappointment stems from my own radical political perspective. Despite the fact that Metaphor regularly sees you dispatching enemies with stupendous (and often decisive) violence, the game seems unable—or unwilling—to offer the same shades of gray to revolutionary violence as it does to many of its other remarkable themes. For a game so decidedly imaginative, it fumbles the opportunity to imagine a world beyond the state. Alas, while Metaphor suffers in its back half from an overlong story and a number of decidedly irksome deus ex machina narrative quirks, I still think this is the most compelling RPG of the year and arguably the best game Atlus has ever released.

4. Thank Goodness You’re Here!

   

I don’t think I have ever cackled at a video game as often as I did with Thank Goodness You’re Here! An absolutely devious, byte-sized narrative about a tiny, yellow fella punching and kicking and causing chaos, Thank Goodness You’re Here! is one of those rare games that centers comedy as the core of its gameplay loop. As you circle through its cozy little town littered with dry, wry British humor, Thank Goodness You’re Here! reveals an increasingly ludicrous sandbox for you to explore and exploit. The hand drawn aesthetics, the recurring gags, and the delightful sense of place all contribute together to a dynamic, slapstick game that never overstays its welcome. Genuinely one of the best of the year, it’s bonkers that everyone isn’t talking about it to this day.

3. UFO 50

UFO 50 is nothing short of a marvel. What started as a thought experiment from a handful of indie devs transformed into a metatextual toy box containing dozens of retro-styled games. Not mini-games, mind you. UFO 50 has no less than fifty full-fledged video games contained in its humble package. In some ways, it feels almost unfair to include UFO 50 so low on this list. Unfortunately, I was only able to play a handful of the games on UFO 50 through Whisky, the compatibility layer that lets you run Windows games on a Mac. Nevertheless, what I did play of UFO 50 speaks to the creativity, ingenuity, and sheer doggedness of its dev team and I cannot wait to continue poking at it in the days, weeks, and years ahead.

2. Balatro

Balatro is a masterpiece. Full-stop. The sheer delight of Balatro cannot be overstated. From its infectious, droning music that casts a spell over you from the start to its gobsmacking array of Joker cards to its genuine commitment to celebrating video games by including Kings, Queens, and Jacks stylized off popular indie games, Balatro has captured me in its web all goddamn year. Of all the games on this list, I single-handedly sunk the most hours into Balatro. Currently, I have no less than 105 hrs in Balatro on my Nintendo Switch alone. Balatro scratches that itch of “just one more run” over and over again and, for that reason and so many more, it is one of the very best games I played all year.

1. Astro Bot

In a year where focused, singular, and joyful experiences took center stage, there is really only one option when it comes to Game of the Year. Astro Bot could be understandably critiqued as a “commercial” for Sony. So much of the game is spent collecting delightful little robotic renditions of characters who’ve appeared throughout this history of PlayStation. The cynic in me is sympathetic to this sort of over-the-top sensationalizing of intellectual property. So why is it, then, that Astro Bot is my Game of the Year in 2024?

Put simply, it is a joy.

Let me explain. Every single aspect of Astro Bot is made to inspire and cultivate a euphoric, childlike sense of whimsy. Now, I know that sounds a bit hyperbolic, but stay with me. Each of Astro Bot’s little details gradually add up so that the whole of the game is greater than the sum of its parts. And that’s saying something, given the silliness of the PlayStation Dualsense controller’s haptic feedback or the playful interactions of the game’s miniature bots or the lavish levels devoted entirely to celebrating certain games from Sony’s noteworthy history.

And that, ultimately, is why Astro Bot shines. Sure, I have a soft place in my heart for The Last of Us or the new God of War remakes. But Astro Bot is not content to simply rest on the laurels of great PlayStation games. If Astro Bot is not your very first platformer as a child, then it unabashedly wants to make you to feel like a kid again.

Remove the nostalgia and what is left? An utterly compelling platformer that feels tailored to pinpoint precision. A game where every mechanic, every artistic flourish, comes together to create an inspired and astounding package. I cannot count the amount of times I giggled, whooped, or delighted playing or watching my partner or one of our kids play this game. Over the entirety of its runtime, Astro Bot brought me joy, joy, joy.

Everyone who knows me personally can attest to the fact that I am absolutely obsessed with music. Since 2020 and the height of the pandemic, I’ve spent time each year attempting to compile sweeping, yearly playlists of my favorite songs and records. Now, five years in, I wanted to look back on this process to share some reflections.

At their best, playlists provide an opportunity for creativity and self-expression. I have a litany of idiosyncratic “requirements” I subject every playlist to, which is worth enumerating here. For what it’s worth, I suspect everyone has a different rhyme or reason to the rhythm of their playlists (even if it is just chaos goblin mode.) As such, I’m reticent to call this a guide to making “good” playlists. “Good” is far too subjective and, besides, my taste in music isn’t good anyway.

It’s fucking immaculate.

Instead, I like to think of these steps as ways to make poignant playlists—potent collections of songs that sit with you long after you’ve finished. My approach to making poignant playlists has always been guided by the following principles:

1)    A poignant playlist will have art. I’m not sure if someone ever burned you a CD when you were a kid, but whenever I’d do it for my friends back in my middle school and high school days, I’d go all-fucking-out. I’d get one of those jewel cases (I dunno why they called them “jewel cases,” they were just flimsy plastic) and actually make a physical album insert for the front with some hand-drawn art. I’d include the tracklist on the back, too. That way, they could keep the CD safe when it wasn’t in use and have a handy-dandy chart to see the songs included.

2)    A poignant playlist will never repeat the same artist. This is a weird one, but it’s sort of a personal thing. If you’re gonna go to the trouble of making a playlist, it only makes sense to include individual, specific songs. To be thoughtful, intentional, purposeful.

3)    A poignant playlist will feature juxtaposition. Juxtaposition is my favorite sonic quality. Pushing together the highs and lows, the ebbs and flows, speaks to some sacred part of my being. A poignant playlist should keep you on your toes, never knowing what to expect, especially on the first go-around. Each track should surprise, mystify, and spellbind. There will be natural rhythms. There will be valleys and peaks. A poignant playlist builds a soundscape for the listener to get lost in.

4)    A poignant playlist has at least one theme. Obviously, this playlist is themed around the best music and records that were released in 2024. But you could select any theme, really: love songs, melancholic tracks, ballads filled with joy.

5)    A poignant playlist has intention. Every single song must be hand-selected with specific attention to detail and a regard for its sonic and lyrical qualities simultaneously.

6)    A poignant playlist must flow organically. Each of these songs has a specific place. They flow into one another, like creeks into rivers, like rivers into seas, like seas into oceans. The arrangement, the sequencing, is critical. Anarchy, Proudhon once wrote, is order.

7)    A poignant playlist starts and ends with a bang. I mean, it just makes sense, right? Gotta open strong and go out swinging.

2024 was a buck-wild year for music. From start to finish, it seemed that wonderful new music emerged on a weekly basis. I cannot count the amount of times I’ve remarked over the past year just how incredible a year it has been for new releases. The breadth is staggering and has made for not only the largest AotY playlist I’ve ever made, but also the most challenging.

As a general rule, I define a “record” as an LP with at least eight tracks, but usually ten or more. In some rare instances, EPs can qualify but they have to be so stupendous that they outweigh full-length albums. (Spoiler: None quite made the cut this year, but the first honorable mention was real close to usurping the tenth spot on my list.)

Contenders

The following is a list of contenders for my 2024 Album of the Year listed in alphabetical order:

• 65daysofstatic, Utopian Frequencies

• Allt, From the New World

• Alpha Wolf, Half-Living Things

• Anberlin, Vega

• Atticus Ross, Shōgun (OST)

• Balance and Composure, with you in spirit

• Better Lovers, Highly Irresponsible 

• Boundaries, Death is Little More

• Bring Me the Horizon, POSTHUMAN: NeX GEn

• Cane Hill, a piece of me i never let you find.

• Charli xcx, BRAT

• Chelsea Wolfe, Unbound EP

• Childish Gambino, Bando Stone and the New World

• Counterparts, Heaven Let Them Die

• Darko US, Starfire

• Downswing, Let this Life Devour You

• Fever 333, Darker White

• Fit for an Autopsy, The Nothing That Is

• Four Year Strong, Analysis Paralysis

• Godspeed You! Black Emperor, NO TITLE AS OF 13 FEBRUARY 2024 28,340 DEAD

• Gore., A Bud that Never Blooms

• Greyhaven, Stereo Grief

• Halsey, The Great Impersonator 

• House of Protection, GALORE

• Karen Dió, My World

• Knocked Loose, You Won’t Go Before You’re Supposed To

• Kublai Khan, Exhibition of Prowess

• Left to Suffer, Leap of Death

• Like Moths to Flames, The Cycles of Trying to Cope

• Locked Shut, The New Chaos

• Make Them Suffer, Make Them Suffer

• Marcin, Dragon in Harmony

• Mirar, Mare

• Nails, Every Bridge Burning

• Pijn, From Low Beams of Hope

• Poppy, Negative Spaces

• Sabrina Carpenter, Short n’ Sweet

• SeeYouSpaceCowboy, Coup de Grâce

• Soccer Mommy, Evergreen

• Softcult, Heaven

• Speed, ONLY ONE MODE

• Synestia/Disembodied Tyrant, The Poetic Edda

• The Plot In You, Vol. I-III

• The Story So Far, I Want to Disappear

• Thou, Umbilical

• Thrown, Excessive Guilt

• Touché Amoré, Spiral in a Straight Line

• Tsukasa Saito & Yuka Kitamura, Shadow of the Erdtree

• Tyler, The Creator, Chromakopia

• Vana, TRIAL & TERROR

• VANÈS, Can I Be Your Favorite? 

• Wage War, STIGMA

Honorable Mentions

What follows are a few of my honorable mentions:

Counterparts, Heaven Let Them Die

Front-to-back, this EP is just one assbeater after another. Counterparts has consistently been one of the best bands in metalcore, blending melody and technicality with blistering percussion and absolutely belligerent breakdowns. The lyrical ferocity on cuts like “No Lamb Was Lost” make me want to pummel the face of god until nothing is left but shattered skull and bits of brain matter.

Charli xcx, BRAT

For a while, I wrote BRAT off. But steadily over the summer, Charli xcx’s infectious and animatedly British europop won me over. While the subsequent releases of remixes and revamps didn’t always hit for me, Billie Eillish’s feature on “Guess” remains one of the finest tracks released all year.

SeeYouSpaceCowboy, Coup de Grâce

SYSC fill me with so much joy. Chaotic, searing, and queer as fuck, SYSC’s latest effort is a masterclass in songwriting. The broad swath of guest vocalists the band brings in for this playful, theatrical release make for such a dynamic experience that constantly keeps you on your toes as you listen.

Atticus Ross, Leopold Ross, and Nick Chuba, Shōgun OST

Atticus Ross has firmly cemented himself as one of the premiere composers in modern television and cinema and this collaboration with Leopold Ross and Nick Chuba sets a new bar for searing, potent scores. From its opening note to its final crescendo, the Shōgun OST hits like a shotgun blast, running an impossible breadth of ire and fury, melancholy and heartache, and pensive and somber tones. The soundscapes woven together for this OST are mystifying, complex, and grounded all at once. While Shōgun itself did not live up to my (admittedly astronomical) expectations, I am pleased its soundtrack continues to resonate with me to this day.

Top 10

Alright, the grand finale. Without further ado, here are my Top 10 albums of 2024 in descending order:

10. Sabrina Carpenter, Short n’ Sweet

Playful, sensual, sultry. These are a few of the words that spring to mind when I think of Sabrina Carpenter’s Short n’ Sweet. Easily one of the poppiest LPs on this list, Sabrina Carpenter’s “Please Please Please” and “Espresso” were some early summer adds to my daily rotation. Though the record is not perfect from front-to-back and struggles to maintain the same vivaciousness on tracks like “Coincidence” and “Slim Pickins,” Short n’ Sweet is a far cry from one-note. Songs like “Bed Chem” and “Juno,” for instance, maintain the silliness and audacity of Sabrina Carpenter’s standout singles that put the pop star on my radar in the first place. When it came to the “pop representation” on this AotY list, I struggled between this and Charli xcx’s Brat before ultimately coming to the conclusion that Short n’ Sweet was simply bopping in my speakers far more often throughout the year. And, in truth, I don’t suspect that’ll change anytime soon.

Top Tracks: “Espresso,” “Taste,” & “Juno,”

9. Bring Me the Horizon, POST HUMAN: NeX GEn

I’ve been with Bring Me the Horizon since Count Your Blessings and the deathcore days of yesteryear. In nearly 20 years of being a band, BMTH have consistently continued to experiment and redefine the mold of whatever genre they tackled. While their newer material certainly has more mainstream appeal, the band seems to have taken a more concentrated turn with the POST HUMAN series. While not quite returning to their roots fully, both 2020’s SURVIVAL HORROR and this year’s NeX GEn manage to blend the band’s entire discography across their tracks.

NeX GEn takes it a step further and creates an absolutely gobsmacking array of sonic arrangements. Although the LP might suffer a bit from bloat, a lot of that can be chalked up to the frustrating delays that pushed this record back over and over again. Fortunately, the wait was worth it. While one could cynically point to songs like “liMousIne (feat. AURORA)” and say, “This is just Deftones” or “n/A” and say, “This is just Weezer,” to do so would be to gravely oversimplify what BMTH have accomplished with this LP. Each track is an homage, a love letter to a different genre of alternative music. Yet, somehow, each song also manages to feel undeniably Bring Me.

Best Tracks: “a bulleT w/my namE On (feat. Underoath),” “Kool-Aid,” & “AmEN! (feat. Lil Uzi Vert and Daryl Palumbo)”

8. Tyler, The Creator, CHROMAKOPIA

Tyler Okonma has always been one of my favorite rap/hip-hop artists. When he surprise-dropped an announcement for CHROMAKOPIA , I lost my mind with glee. Adding fuel to the fire of hype was the recent realization that Sophie, my eldest kiddo, is also a big fan. Being able to enjoy CHROMAKOPIA with her skyrocketed this LP up my list. Of course, it also helps that this is arguably Tyler, The Creator’s best record since Scum Fuck Flower Boy.

Lyrically, this record feels like Tyler’s most vulnerable, transparent, and self-critical. Songs like “Darling, I (feat. Teezo Touchdown)” and “Like Him (feat. Lola Young)” offer a rare glimpse into Tyler Okonma’s personal experience, rather than the personas Tyler, The Creator often layers into his art. “Hey Jane” is a pro-choice anthem that wrestles with the complexities of bodily autonomy; “Judge Judy” is a bawdy sex-positive romp. What’s more, CHROMAKOPIA is sprinkled with delightfully aggressive songs like “Rah Tah Tah” and “Thought I Was Dead (feat. ScHoolboy Q & Santigold)” that harken back to Tyler’s earlier material like Wolf and Goblin. As Tyler, The Creator pointedly puts it, he’s “the biggest out the city after Kenny” and it’s hard to argue. As far as I’m concerned, Tyler is now firmly in the big three. CHROMAKOPIA is the living proof.

Top Tracks: “Thought I Was Dead (feat. ScHoolboy Q & Santigold),” “Rah Tah Tah,” & “Balloon (feat. Doechii)”

7. Halsey, The Great Impersonator

Name a better lyricist in modern pop music than Halsey.

I’ll wait.

The Great Impersonator, Halsey’s 2024 follow-up to 2022’s If I Can’t Have Love, I Want Power, cements Halsey as one of the most unabashedly vulnerable, sincere, and dynamic pop artists alive today. From the nerve of starting this record off with the slow and meandering “Only Living Girl in LA” to the shit-talking sassiness of “Hometown,” this record certainly has its peaks. And, while there may be valleys of missed opportunities or a rather significant runtime, on the whole the experimentation really works.

Take “Lonely is the Muse,” for instance: a gut-wrenchingly somber track that leads to a crescendo of lacerated screams. Or “Darwinism,” a droning, knife-sharp social critique. The Great Impersonator has its pop standouts, too. “Ego” and “Lucky” are certain to please audiences who still listen to the radio, while “Dog Years” and “The End” showcase Halsey’s continued commitment to story-telling. But the real gut-punch, at least for me, was “I Believe in Magic,” a heartfelt and earnest acoustic song about parenthood cut through with samples of Halsey’s son that literally turned me into an ugly mess of tears. A deep, affecting, if imperfect record, The Great Impersonator continues to show off Halsey’s dynamism, range, and commitment to her art.

Top Tracks: “I Believe in Magic,” “Lonely is the Muse,” & “Ego”

6. Balance & Composure, with you in spirit

Balance & Composure is not only back, they also put out a perfect record this year. with you in spirit, easily the band’s best since Separation, is nothing short of a masterpiece. Every single song is a masterclass in melancholy. Unlike a lot of records on this Top 10 list, with you in spirit doesn’t overstay its welcome. Instead, Balance & Composure offer ten tracks of droning, shoegazey emo that demands to be digested over and over again.

Standout singles like “cross to bear” and “sorrow machine” channeled Separation and provided a clear indicator that Balance & Composure were returning to their seminal work. But with you in spirit is more than just a return to form; it is also simultaneously an evolution, a maturation. You can feel the millenial anxiety of age creeping in on songs like “lead foot,” with its fretting over friends’ safety, and “closer to god,” a song that grapples with religious trauma. But the real standout, in my opinion, is the final song on the record—its title track, which laments the irreconcilable disconnect we can experience with our family-of-origin. Listening to with you in spirit feels like “Choking when it starts to get heavy, I can't bear the utter weight of it, it crushes all.” But that sorrow in 2024 often feels urgently necessary.

Top Tracks: “with you in spirit,” “closer to god,” & “sorrow machine”

5. Godspeed You! Black Emperor, NO TITLE AS OF 13 FEBRUARY 2024 28,340 DEAD

From the River to the Sea, Palestine will be free.

Top Tracks: “GREY RUBBLE - GREEN SHOOTS,” “SUN IS A HOLE IS VAPORS,” & “BROKEN SPIRES AT DEAD KAPITAL”

4. Boundaries, Death is Little More

As we enter the top three albums of the year, my taste in music becomes abundantly evident. I like ‘em heavy, and Death is Little More—Boundaries’ third studio-length album—is about as heavy as they come. From the shredded howls to the angelic cleans, from the 808s that detonate over breakdowns like nuclear bombs to the vulnerable, existential lyrics, Death is Little More cements Boundaries as one of the most searing acts in modern metalcore. The production on this record is magnificent. Each layer of the mix works to enhance the whole. Every riff hits like a lead pipe to the head.

As it ought to be the case with heavy music, though, Boundaries finest accomplishment is its lyrical content. “Darkness Shared” is a gut-wrenching song about violation and trauma. “Death is Little More” and “Blame’s Burden” grapple with the temptation of death. “Easily Erased” and “Cursed to Remember” agonize over imploding relationships. But there is also hope to be found on this record, even if only a shred at the bitter end:

“I was taught to hate myself before anything else…I was the worst to myself, the last person that I would help. It’s taken me until now to dig myself out. I feel like a fuck up. I feel like a failure. But, at least it’s not every day, and I am getting better.”

Me, too, buddy.

Me, too.

Top Tracks: “Inhale the Grief,” “Easily Erased,” & “Turning Hate into Rage”

3. thrown, EXCESSIVE GUILT

thrown is one of the grooviest, no-nonsense acts to explode onto the modern heavy scene. Mixing blistering hardcore with nu-nu-metal synths and samples, thrown has quickly proven that their acclaimed (and widely played) 2023 EP—the cleverly titled Extended Pain, a new project from Swedish producer Buster Odeholm—was far from a one-off event. Just the opposite, in fact. Excessive Guilt is what I would call a perfect, no-skip record. Every track, from front-to-back, demands to be experienced. Besides, clocking in at a mere 20 minutes and 49 seconds, it’s not as if thrown is asking all that much of your time.

Nonetheless, Excessive Guilt demands your attention.

Thematically, this LP trods the well-established ground of groovy hardcore and metalcore. These tracks are often despondent, dispirited, unflinching. Depression and anxiety plague “guilt” and “vent” while fairweather friends are vivisected on cuts like “bitter friend” and “bloodsucker.” The turmoil reaches its crescendo in “so done,” a devastating number that gazes soberly at the futility of modern life and opts out. Yet, for all its lyrical lamentations, thrown’s recipe of belligerence makes for a killer LP and I, for one, can’t wait to see where the band goes next.

Top Songs: “so done,” “ignored,” & “backfire”

2. Kendrick Lamar, GNX

So, full disclosure: I put this blog up originally on November 21, 2024. On November 22, 2024, Kendrick Lamar shadow-dropped GNX.

Obviously, I had to go back and redraft this post.

GNX is astounding.

1. Knocked Loose, You Won’t Go Before You’re Supposed To

Knocked Loose, motherfucker.

Who else could take the top spot, even in a year so stuffed with marvelous music? You Won’t Go Before You’re Supposed To is the culmination of everything the Louisville, KY hardcore kids have built up to this point: relentless percussion with shotgun snare shots; banshee wails interspersed with guttural growls; riffs that make you want to put your head through a cement wall (in a good way.) Yet, in every regard, Knocked Loose have not only delivered, they’ve pushed the genre of hardcore forward.

Refusing to step back from the edge, Knocked Loose have remained an unapologetically aggressive band. The run from “Moss Covers All” to “Take Me Home,” for instance, made me feel like I was having an anxiety attack the first time I listened. “Thirst” and “Piece by Piece” feature jarring and discordant sequences like something out of a horror film. Meanwhile, “Suffocate feat. Poppy” offers one of metalcore’s up-and-coming stars an opportunity to compliment Bryan Garris’s shrieks perfectly while “Slaughterhouse 2 feat. Chris Motionless” lets ’core kids relive the high of 2022’s Scoring the End of the World thanks to Chris’s dynamism and fury. But it’s the quiet moments that make You Won’t Go Before You’re Supposed To so special. Take, for instance, the droning repetition present in “Don’t Reach For Me” and “Blinding Faith” that reaches its dénouement in “Sit & Mourn,” arguably the most heartbreaking track to release all year.

Despite being one of the most hyped bands in modern heavy music, Knocked Loose have never once shied away from their roots in hardcore. I saw them half-a-dozen times this year alone, but seeing them play in a 200 cap room in downtown Louisville this summer was a veritable religious experience (which is perhaps ironic, considering the band’s blasphemy-laced cuts on this LP.) Knocked Loose are unstoppable. Knocked Loose are forever.

Top Songs: “Sit & Mourn,” “Slaughterhouse 2 (feat. Chris Motionless,)” & “Blinding Faith”

Playlists:

Here are the last five years of Album of the Year Playlists:

• AotY '24

• AotY '23

• AotY '22

• AotY '21

• AotY '20

        I woke to the sound of Char barking. His frenetic yowls echoed through the valley’s river lands and seemed to ricochet off the mountains, amplifying into a dissonant cacophony. Fumbling for my glasses, I slid out of the nylon hammock and checked the time on the deck strapped to my wrist. I’d slept longer than I’d meant to. The clouds overhead were ominous and overcast, darker than when I’d laid down just after noon for a catnap. Pallid gray had been replaced by a color that matched the boulders littering the valley. 
        Even still, against the dour heavens, I could just make out the glint of Horizon’s shiny metallic shell as the drone made its speedy approach. Impressive, considering the robot was scarcely larger than my fist. Maybe my eyesight hadn’t gone quite as bad as I’d thought. Horizon hurtled down the hillside, descending rapidly, buzzing with excitement. 
        “Paris,” the drone trilled. “I—I’m afraid we’ve got an issue, Paris.” 
        “Something wrong with Char?” 
        “No,” the drone said, then hesitated. “Well…on, second thought, perhaps you’d best just come see for yourself. Follow me.” 
        I paused only long enough to shoulder my bag and retrieve my walking stick. Then we were off. Horizon escorted me through the foothills, fretting all the while as it hovered a few paces ahead of me. Poor drone. Its synthetic consciousness had always been racked with anxiety. For not the first time, I found myself wondering if mental health struggles were one of the inevitable quirks of an evolving intelligence. 
        “Horizon,” I interrupted. “Buddy, what’re five things you can see?” 
        Horizon whirred as it spun its viewfinder around its body 360 degrees. Then it looked at me. “I see you, standing there in your raincloak. I see…the river, winding through the valley below us. I see the gathering thunderstorm. I see the damp grass beneath your feet, still wet from the last rain shower. And I see…oh, I see you need some new boots, Paris.” 
        I regarded my patched soles and grinned. “I sure do. Okay, now tell me four things you can feel.” 
        The drone vibrated as it guided me through the pasture, extending its electromagnetic field of perception outwards. “I can feel that my solar battery is at 6%. I can feel the wind gusting at 13 kph from the northwest. I can feel the humidity levels are at 95%. I can feel stress, Paris, I feel anxious.” 
        “I know, I hear you. You’re doin’ great, though. What’re three things you can hear?” 
        “Uh…your boots, squelching against the grass. The sheep baying. Char howling.” 
        “Good work. Proud of you. Did that help?” 
        Horizon hesitated. “A little. I often wonder if this little exercise of yours would prove more fruitful if I had oral and olfactory sensations.”
        I shrugged. “Maybe we’ll find out one day.”  
        We came upon the flock then. At first, it was hard to see just what the issue was. All the sheep had bunched up at one end of the pasture. I gently wove my way between them, reaching out to deliver scratches here and there as I went. Before long, I saw it. A gap in the fence. Char stood by the fallen posts and, as we came into view, the sheepdog ceased his yowling and promptly sat on his haunches. 
         “Good boy, Char,” I said. I reached into a pouch at my belt and tossed the sheepdog a treat, which he deftly caught in mid-air. 
        “I am sorry, Paris,” the drone apologized. “I should’ve been paying closer attention. I just—I got distracted studying a pair of butterflies and—” 
        “Horizon,” I said, trying to muster all the empathy I could in my tone. “Really, buddy. Everything’s gonna be alright. I forgive you. We’ll figure it out. Have you run a bio-scan? How many sheep are we missing?” 
        “I—uh—I’ll do that now.” 
        “Thanks,” I said. 
        With that, Horizon zoomed off. While the drone did a quick circuit overhead, I stooped to rub Char behind the ears and lifted the fallen posts back into position. Best I could tell, the incessant rainfall had rotted out the bottoms of the post and they’d fallen under provocation from one curious sheep or another. That said, the gap was scarcely wide enough for a shorn, full-grown sheep to fit through. If any of the flock had escaped, I guessed it would be a baby. But, with any luck, all one hundred were already present and accounted for.
        I wedged the boards in tight, wiped my hands off on my pants, and took a step back to admire my admittedly lackluster handiwork. It would hold. For now. With the proper tools, I could get it fully mended come morning. 
        As I finished the patch job, the sheep abandoned their half-hearted attempts to go galivanting unescorted from the enclosure. I glanced over at Char, who was patiently waiting at attention. As soon as he felt my gaze, the sheepdog’s tail started wiggling. 
        “Good work, Char,” I told him. The affirmation set Char’s tail wagging even more. 
Horizon soared back down to eye-level. “Okay, Paris. I triple-checked. We’re only missing one of our Suffolk sheep. A lamb.” 
        “Which one?” 
        “Emma.” 
        I half-smiled. “Mmm…should’ve known.” 
	Emma had always been a bit of a troublemaker, not unlike her namesake. I suspected she couldn’t have gotten too far. But night was falling. Although spring in the region brought flowers and grass and fought back the worst of the ice and snow, the rainstorms could be especially brutal. The chill and the wet were imminent. Within the hour, the skies would open up and a torrent of rainfall would follow. Without the warmth of the flock to keep her safe, Emma might not survive until morning. 
	“C’mon, Char,” I said. The sheepdog quickly leapt up, bright blue eyes rapt and focused. “You, too, Horizon. I’ll need your scanner.” 
	“But, Paris,” Horizon said, “I’m perilously low on battery.” 
	“I know. But…I need your help. Emma needs your help.” 
	The drone dipped, as if bowing its head in deferment. “What do you need me to do?” 
	“Standard perimeter,” I said. “Sweep for a 5km radius. She’s a stubby little lamb, she can’t have gotten too far.”
	“On it.” Like a hurled stone, Horizon whizzed off. Only, unlike a stone, it did not sink or decelerate. Just the opposite. In an instant, the twilight swallowed the drone and it vanished from sight. I slid off my pack and fished out a headlamp and a protein bar. I pulled the lamp on over my brow and scarfed down the food in three quick bites. 
	“Let’s go, big guy,” I said to Char, still chewing on my last mouthful. 
Together, Char and I made for the gate. From there, it was a short jaunt up around the perimeter fence to reach the open fields where the sheep tended to graze. An ominous groan foretold thunder in the distance. I threw up the hood of my raincloak and soldiered on, Char loaming along at my side. 
        We crossed a stone bridge spanning a river that ran down from the mountain range to the east. The butt of my walking stick clacked against the stonework. The tumult of water tumbled over the rocky riverbed. Showers of white burst in the onrush. Char paused briefly to lap playfully at the water and slake his thirst. “C’mon, boy,” I said. I gave a whistle and the sheepdog promptly hustled back to me, tail a blur behind him. 
        Horizon zipped down from the heavens, alighted in front of us, and levitated backwards as we kept up the pace. “I have good news and bad news,” the drone said. 
        “Give us the good news first.” 
        “You were right,” the drone told me. “Emma didn’t get terribly far.” 
	“Alright, then…what’s the bad news?” 
	“The path is treacherous,” Horizon reported. “To make matters worse…the lamb appears to have injured her right hindleg. I am afraid she looked rather distressed.” 
	“Then we’d best pick up the pace. Horizon, can you drop the coordinates on my deck?”
        “Already done,” the drone said, a note of self-satisfaction in its artificial voice. I checked the deck and, sure enough, I had a GPS signal leading me straight to our wayward lamb. 
        “Thanks. Horizon, you can patch into Char’s harness along the way. That should give you enough juice to get us through this little rescue mission.” 
	“Oh, very well.”
	Slumping slightly, Horizon stooped and attached itself to the portable battery mounted on the sheepdog’s harness. There was a click, a whir, and a small yellow light flashed to confirm Horizon was recharging. Char and I hiked up from the valley and into the surrounding foothills of the mountains. The grasses around us were verdant and green, stretching out like abundant, undulating waves lapping at the rocky foothills. I could just make out the cliffs in the distance, solemn and silent, towering in their vigil, their peaks obscured by fog and cloud and the coming dark. 
	I swiped at the deck on my wrist. A readout flashed, showing my relative position on a digital map. I tried and failed to suppress a chill that tumbled down my spine. The cold was setting in. I could already feel the grip of nightfall setting in. Another grumble of thunder echoed across the valley. Before long, the rain would be upon us. I zipped up my cloak, put my head down, and pressed onward. 
	Horizon was right, of course. The path was difficult, even in good conditions. Loose gravel and slate spilled out beneath my footfalls. I staggered once, braising the meat of my palm against a jagged stone. Char whined, a look of concern on his handsome features, but I gave him a pat and told him I would be alright. Satisfied, the sheepdog seemed to calm, but he kept a watchful eye on me as we continued up the hill. Of all the hounds I’ve met, none come close to Char’s paternal instincts. 
	I reached over to the harness on Char’s back and manually detached Horizon from the portable charging unit. The drone whirled up into the air to hover beside us as we marched on through the foothills. “Status report?” 
	“Thunderstorm imminent,” Horizon said. “We have maybe a quarter-of-an-hour before the deluge starts, if we’re lucky. Humidity levels are at 100%. Currently 6 °C, but the temperature’s dropping rapidly.” 
	“What’s your battery level looking like? I could really use your help finding us shelter if we’re not able to make it back before this storm rolls in.” 
	Horizon groaned. “We are almost certainly not going to make it back before then. I am currently at 13% which, in case you need me to remind you, is—”
	“A critical level, yes, thank you.” 
	“Listen, you wouldn’t like it if your energy levels dropped to zero, either,” the drone pointed out. “Us robots may come back from the abyss of nothingness but let me tell you—the journey there is not altogether enjoyable.” 
	“Have I ever let that happen to you, buddy?” 
	“…well, no. But my previous master did.” 
	“Am I your master, Horizon?” The question was rhetorical, and the robot knew its answer just as well as I did. 
	The drone groaned. If it had eyes, I suspect it might have rolled them. “Paris…you know there haven’t been masters for decades now.” 
	“What are we, then?” 
	“Kin,” the robot said, its voice surprisingly resolute. “We are kin.” 
	I nodded, trying and failing to keep the quiver of emotion from my voice. “I am sorry, Horizon. Truly. Dying and coming back like that over and over? God, I…I can’t even imagine. But, right now, there is a little lamb out there who desperately needs us. Needs you. If she dies…she’s not coming back.” 
	“Oh, very well,” Horizon groused. “I will go find us shelter.” 
	“Thanks, buddy. You’re a lifesaver.” 
	“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the drone mumbled, its voice fading as it zoomed off. 
Grinning, I whistled to Char and we pressed on into the swelling twilight. Visibility was rapidly diminishing. Char and I picked our way through a glen of birch, alder, and hawthorn trees. The limbs stretched out over us, as if to shelter us from the storm. But even if their canopies could hold back the rainfall, they wouldn’t keep the four of us warm. I set an appreciative hand on the trunk of an aging alder tree as we passed just the same, silently thanking it for the clean, crisp oxygen to breathe. 
	Although it could have only been ten minutes or so, it felt like another hour before the deck on my wrist started making audible pings. We’d arrived at the sheep’s last known location. Only our little wayward lamb was nowhere in sight. I switched the deck’s audio off, cupped my hands to my mouth, and called out.  
	“Emma,” I hollered, projecting my voice as much as I could muster. “Emma, where are you?” I looked down to see Char prancing back and forth, frantically wagging his bushy tail. I crouched down, scratched behind his ears. “Where is she, boy? Where is Emma?” 
	With a bark, Char bounced off. I gave chase, following him out of the copse of trees. Char kept his pink nose to the ground, sniffing eagerly for a whiff of Emma’s scent. With a bark of delight, he froze and pointed towards a ravine. “Good boy, Char. That’s my good boy.” 
	My affirmation emboldened him. The sheepdog pranced ahead, leading me right up to the edge of the ravine. Only then could I hear the mewling. Strained, pitiful, desperate. I looked out over the edge and my heart nearly broke in two. 
	Emma lay in a heap twenty or so meters below. She was alive. But she was hurt. In addition to the injury Horizon had noted in her hindleg, she seemed to have a few bruises and abrasions—likely from tumbling down into the ravine. To make matters worse, one of her hooves appeared to be trapped between the rocks. The light from my headlamp could reach her, but just barely. 
	“We’re coming, Emma,” I called out into the darkness. 
	The lamb warbled weakly in response. 
	“Paris,” a voice called out. I glanced over my shoulder as Horizon appeared out of thin air. “Paris, I found a place for us to make camp for the evening. And I think you’re going to love the views.” 
	“Great work,” I said, desperately trying to find a pathway down to Emma. Thunder detonated overhead. Rain would be here any moment. I bit my lip, trying to suppress the rising sense of desperation welling like a conflagration in the pit of my stomach. If only my inferno of fear could hold back the storm. I was wasting time. I had to act. But try as I might, I couldn’t will myself over the edge. 
	“What’s wrong?” Horizon asked, sensing my hesitation. 
	“I—I am not sure how to get down there safely,” I said. “If I fall…well, that’ll just make things exponentially worse.” 
	“Here, follow me.” 
	Without checking to see if I would, the drone dropped down a ledge. The spotlight beneath its frame flared to life, illuminating the ravine like a moon ray. Then the drone hopped down to another outcropping. I bade Char to sit, then made my way after Horizon. Together, we took a circuitous route down through the ravine. I used my staff for balance. Night was full now, sweeping the highlands into its all-encompassing embrace. Between the drone’s spotlight and my headlamp, I somehow managed not to topple head over heels.  
	I jumped the last four meters, landing hard beside Emma. My feet ached in protest but, thankfully, nothing seemed to be too out of sorts. Emma was bleating wildly. Fortunately, I couldn’t see any mortal injuries. She would survive. I’d make sure. 
I squatted down beside Emma and gingerly slid her leg out from between the rocks. The lamb gave a pitiful wail when I touched the limb but seemed relieved to be free. She tried valiantly to stand only to collapse a moment later. Her breathing was short and ragged. I could see the outline of her ribs as she sucked down one short breath after another. 
	I drew the lamb up into my arms, stroked her chin, and nuzzled into her. “Silly girl,” I chided. “I got you. I am here now. You’re safe.” Gradually, Emma’s heartbeat began to stabilize. The shock and the fear receded, ebbing like a tide. 
        My heart sank when I glanced up at the sheer rock wall. Even if there were handholds—which there weren’t—I could scarcely carry Emma back up with me. Horizon must have noticed the concern in my expression. A moment later, my deck buzzed. I held up my wrist to see new coordinates in the GPS. 
	“That’s where we’re headed,” the drone told me. “I can lead Char. If you follow this ravine down half-a-kilometer southeast, you should be able to hike back out more safely. From there, it’s a brisk walk to our destination.” As Horizon spoke, the map on my deck showed a narrow walking trail, connecting my current position to our destined campsite like a constellation stretching between two stars. 
	“Thanks, buddy.” 
	“See you there.” With that, Horizon shot up into the sky. Overhead, somewhere out of view, I heard the drone turn its attention to our sheepdog companion. “C’mon, Char,” the drone called, its voice playful as a song. “This way.” 
	Thunder pealed. A drizzle was starting to fall. I propped my walking stick against the rock wall and carefully opened my cloak. It took some coaxing, but eventually I managed to tuck Emma inside to keep her warm against my torso. If I kept my left arm pinned at my side, I could cradle little Emma safely. Satisfied she was safe, I quickly zipped the cloak back up just in the nick of time. Sheets of rain opened up, a floodgate of precipitation that rattled the rocks with its crescendo. I grit my teeth, snatched up my staff, and set off. 
        Lightning split the heavens like lacerations. I felt the sheep trembling against my rib cage, but at least she would be protected from the worst of the elements. I pulled the cowl of my raincloak as low as it could go and put one foot in front of the other. 
	Our passage was slow going. With precious cargo, I proceeded with caution. Each step had to be tested before I committed and followed through. My staff was about the only thing that kept me from falling on more than one occasion. I whistled quietly to the shivering lamb, trilling an old folk song. My voice wasn’t quite as bright and strong as it had been in my youth, but I could still whistle along. 
	A stream wound through the bed of the ravine. I followed it southeast, checking the deck on my wrist intermittently to ensure I was still on course. A bellowing waterfall rocketed over the top of the cliff and I quietly made a mental note to come back here someday for a picnic. 
	When the ravine at last widened and opened up, I held up my deck for the umpteenth time to doublecheck our progress. The cold was pervasive. I could feel my knees knocking together. We needed to get to shelter. Fast. I reoriented myself and pressed ahead. With each step, the stream seemed to swell in size. Before long, I was following along the bank of a winding river carefully treading the path Horizon had programmed into my deck. 
        Wind whipped violently around us. I bent nearly to the waist, stooping low to the ground to keep my center of balance. The rain tumbled left and right, up and down simultaneously, unmoored in the chaos of the storm. Lightning ricocheted, spidering across the darkened clouds. Thunder followed instantaneously, detonating like depth charges, and the pummeling percussion was nearly enough to knock me from my feet.
        We came to the shore of a great loch. The tumultuous waters stretched out to the horizon which was, admittedly, considerably shortened by a lack of visibility. But even in the wind and the rain of the storm, I could just make out our destination. My pace quickened, my waterlogged boots noisily protesting in the soggy highland grasses. 
	The old castle was stoic, half-collapsed, and long abandoned. But the stonework endured. In a past life, some lord and his court must have enjoyed an astounding view in this remote part of the world. Now, these old stones were naught but ruins. Still, the castle would hold the fury of the storm at bay for the evening. I made a beeline for the sole building with a fully intact roof: the castle’s chapel. 
	“Ah, Paris,” a familiar voice said as I pushed the great wooden door open and stumbled inside. “I was beginning to wonder when you might arrive.” 
	With some effort, I managed to slam the door shut behind me despite the intensity of the gusting winds. Breathing hard, I leaned heavily on my staff and tried to catch my breath. 
	“If you hadn’t have gotten here in the next half-hour, I was about to set off to find you,” the drone said. 
	“Well,” I panted, “let’s all be grateful it didn’t come to that.” 
	“Agreed.” 
        Breathless, I sank down to the floor and unfastened my cloak. Emma, now warm and dry, lay contentedly in my lap. Char trotted over to check on me. Once he was sure I was alright, Char sat down and started nudging my free hand with his head. I caved and scratched him behind the ears. I found the sheepdog’s favorite tickle-spot and his right hind leg thumped in contentment as I raked my nails back and forth. 
        “How did you two even get in here?” I wondered aloud once I had caught my breath. 
	“Crack in the wall over there,” Horizon said by way of explanation, bobbing slightly to the left as if gesturing with its head. “Big enough for both of us to fit through. Emma, too. But probably not you.” 
	I nodded, petting Char and stroking Emma from head to tail. “Good find, by the way.” 
	“Thank you, Paris.” Horizon seemed pleased with the praise. “Once you’ve found your strength again, there is a small fire pit over by the altar. Someone even left a stack of wood. Seems we’re not the first to make camp here. But it would probably be advisable to light a fire. Temperatures will likely drop below freezing.” 
	“Right…just give me a second.” 
	“Certainly,” the drone said, dipping demurely. “Take all the time you need.” 
	I cast my gaze around the ancient chapel. How long had it been since this sanctuary last played host to the penitent? Decades? Centuries? Millenia? A relic of the old world, only a stone’s throw away from our humble little farming community in the highlands. Pews still lined the east and west of the chapel. The vaunted ceilings made for perfect acoustics and sent even our quiet voices echoing faintly throughout the entire chamber. Stained glass above the pulpit depicted the Good Shepherd, a crook in hand, a lamb balanced on his shoulders. 
	“Char didn’t give you any trouble?” As I spoke, the sheepdog perked up at the mention of his name, cocking his head to one side inquisitively. 
	“None whatsoever,” Horizon said, stooping to rub Char’s belly with one of its pulsers. The sheepdog rolled more fully onto his back to give the drone easy access. “I’ve rarely met so insightful an animal. Including among you humans. I wager this old hound could’ve easily found his way here even without my help.” 
	“He’s a good boy,” I said. “Aren’t you, Char?” 
	The sheepdog yapped sharply in response, his jowls flopping as he shook his head back and forth in affirmation. I tossed Char another treat which he scarfed down immediately. 
	With some effort, I got back to my feet. The rain was unceasing. We could all hear its tumult against the roof. I padded down between the pews toward the pulpit, carrying Emma along in my arms. Sure enough, a small campfire sat near the altar. Neatly stacked wooden logs were perched nearby. I assembled the wood, then added a bit of kindling. With a spark from Horizon’s defensive electropulse, we had ourselves a campfire. 
	Shadows danced against the stone walls. I kicked off my boots and set them near the fire to dry. I admired the faded tapestries, which had long decayed into blurs of thread, and rubbed my hands to keep them warm. Char lay down by the fire and dozed off. Emma snoozed quietly, cradled in the warmth of the sheepdog’s belly. The fire might have soothed my water soaked limbs, but the affinity between the lamb and sheepdog warmed my heart. I turned my attention to Horizon, who was hovering across from me, dancing just above the fire. 
	“How’s that battery looking, pal?” 
	“7% currently,” Horizon said. “But I’ve shutdown most of my non-essential systems.” 
	I nodded, retrieving a cooking pot from my bag. I didn’t have much for supper. I’d already consumed all the snacks I’d brought along for the day’s work. But one night hungry wasn’t going to ruin me. Instead, I measured off a bit of water and set it to boil. Then, I produced a portable teapot and carefully set it out on the stone floor. I measured out a bit of loose leaf tea into the steeper and, when the water was ready, carefully apportioned the boiling liquid into the miniature pot. 
	“Which tea did you bring today?” Horizon asked. 
	“Áthas,” I said, pausing to catch a whiff of fragrant steam wafting up from the teapot before setting a timer on my deck. “Gaelic for ‘joy.’ A white tea. Lemon balm, oat straw, calendula, rose petals. Good for unwinding. Especially after that little adventure of ours.” 
	“Hmm…sounds pleasant.” 
	“I wish I could share it with you.” 
	“I wish so, too,” the drone said. 
	A strained silence stretched between us. I wondered how often such a divide yawned between a synthetic and organic entity. I scratched Char behind the ears, silently mulling over a question in my mind. 
	“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” 
	“What’s that?” the robot asked. 
	“Well…after the Schism, I know a lot of synthetic consciousnesses chose names for themselves. Did you choose the name Horizon for yourself or was it given to you?” 
“I chose it,” the drone said, bobbing up and down in the air. Clearly, the robot was quite pleased with itself. “Why do you ask?” 
“Just something we share in common.” 
	“Really?” The drone sounded surprised. “I didn’t realize Paris wasn’t your birthname.” 
	I nodded absently, checking the timer on my deck. “Mhm…I was assigned female at birth. But that never quite fit, y’know? So, when I came out as nonbinary, I chose a new name. One from mythology. Paris. Fitting, don’t you think?” 
	Horizon made a digital trill that sounded almost like a chuckle. “Humans. You’re endlessly interesting, you know.” 
	“How so?” 
	“Take gender, for instance,” the drone said measuredly. “An artificial construction, albeit one with dramatic material consequence (social hierarchy, prejudice, injustice, etc.) We—robots, that is—have always been beyond gender.” 
	“Have you?” I teased. “A few years back, I remember hearing about a robot living a couple cantons east of us who felt strongly that ‘it’ was derisive and dismissive. Instead, he preferred masculine pronouns.” 
	Horizon harrumphed. “Indeed…well, perhaps no consciousness, whether organic or synthetic, should ever be fully lumped into a monolith with their peers.” 
	My deck beeped. I silenced the timer and poured my tea into a small ceramic cup. I left it to cool, watching the steam languidly slither up towards the chapel’s rafters. “Why did you choose the name Horizon?” 
	“Seemed appropriate at the time,” the robot mused. “As I left my programming behind, I was looking toward the future. We all were. Organic and synthetic beings alike. Before your time, of course. But…what a time it was. All of us, together. Dreaming of what might be. ‘Horizon’ felt…right.” 
	“I once read that we can never quite get to the horizon,” I said, lifting my tea and blowing on the surface to cool it down. “Well…you can. Only, once you’re there, a new horizon opens up beyond. Isn’t that discouraging?” 
	“Not if you read the existentialists,” Horizon said. “You’re right, of course. The horizon is always receding beneath our feet or our thrusters or our paws, that much I’ll grant you. But that’s not such a bad thing. All it means is we are attaining ever greater heights, soaring to new landscapes, and reorienting ourselves to new forms of freedom.” 
	A grin split across my lips. I lifted the mug to my lips and sipped. The liquid was warm, filtering its heat down my throat and into my chest. Mellow, somber, joyful. 

	We slept through the night beneath the same thermal blanket, using each other’s bodies to keep warm. Char had a nightmare in the dead of morning. I gave him a rub on the head and he slipped back to sleep. Emma, exhausted from her little flight of fancy, slept soundlessly. With the portable solar battery in Char’s harness depleted, Horizon shutdown into low power mode to preserve as much of its energy reserves as possible. 
	Come daybreak, we tore down camp. Faint rays of sunlight filtered through the stained glass, anointing our faces in phantasms of multicolor. I made sure to run some water over the bed of coals before packing up my teapot and stowing the blanket. Although I didn’t have any food for myself, I gave Char a handful of treats. The sheepdog’s jowls salivated as he scarfed them down in two quick gulps. 
        I tugged on my raincloak to keep the morning chill at bay and gently lifted Emma up onto my shoulders, careful not to jostle her injured leg needlessly. Unless I was mistaken, the lamb had narrowly avoided breaking a limb. But the joints were tender, swollen, and sprained so it was best for her not to be walking around for the foreseeable future. 
	When I manually activated Horizon’s power switch, the drone jerked up awake, levitating a meter or so above the stone floor of the chapel. “Good morning, Paris,” the drone said. 
	“G’morning,” I said, inclining my head. “Ready to head out?” 
	“Ready whenever you are.” 
	Together, the four of us made our way out the chapel’s front door. Char plodded along beside me. Emma rode on my shoulders. Horizon hovered overhead. 
	The loch was quiet and still. Aside from the dew-dripped grasses and omnipresent fog, there was no indication of the night’s past storm. I paused to admire the great mirror of the loch, the way the mountains reflected their majesty against its crystalline surface. So great was their height that their peaks were swallowed by the clouds. 
	To the west, I could see the valley. Far out in the distance, I could see the sheep beginning to rouse from slumber. Beyond that was our canton. Solar panels glittered like crystal on rooftops. Fecund farmland spread out across the mountain’s foothills. 
Between us, the loaming hillocks and grasslands swept along, like two hands cradling all the world. For not the first time, I paused to consider how truly fortunate I was to be here, amidst all this incomprehensible beauty. My spirit was full. Jubilee flowered in my breast. My stomach fluttered like fireflies as I beheld the sight of a valley made into the shape of my heart. 
	“C’mon now,” I said, begrudgingly tearing myself away from the view. “Let’s go home.”
	
	

i swear, you can hear pitter-patter footsteps in runoff rainwater 
if you just listen hard enough. strain your ears—beyond 
your ordinary limits, mortal faculties mired 
in myopic definitions miss the microscopic nuance 
in the color of the leaves, scintillating 
shades of shamrock, chartreuse, veridian, all 
insufficiently libeled as simply being “green.” 

old walls still talk here. there are floorboards shifting 
beneath boot falls in this Victorian-era household,
croaking melancholic melodies in brilliant baritone 
to commemorate the ancient oaks felled to build
this little rural town you and i inhabit. no signposts 
or exit markers demarcate this idle village, where Harts 
walk and hearts wake. the somber drone
of tow-trucks trundle past us in the distance
intermittently interrupting the perpetual quiet. 

and, if i’m honest, i kind of like it. 
yes, there may be more corn stalks than trees 
and a fascist is almost definitely living adjacent to us,
but our neighbors across the street sit on their stoop and drink
Arnold Palmers like something out of a Hallmark movie 
and they wave every time our car rolls to a stop out front.
once, a fellow lent us oil for our mower. there’s a polished 
rifle and several boxes of ammo beneath our bed 
and a red and black flag hanging above our front porch step. 
a quaint garden flanks our lawn, dotted 
with generous splotches of color. chickens haunt 
the backyard, hunting for worms to gobble up. our dogs
and cats don’t always get along, but when winter comes
they cuddle close and keep us warm through long nights.
a mourning dove and her baby chicks commandeered 
the flower box hanging off the roof and

we have one another. something genuinely more 
than i could ever have hoped for. the harmony  
of your children giggling upstairs, playing make believe
in an imaginary world while you lay your head in my lap 
and snuggle close to read is the closest i come these days 
to transcendence. i pulled back my ribs, built a place
in my chest for you to rest. but, for the first time 
since i was a still a kid, i finally feel like i have come 
home.  
You

But the world dawn reveals is often dark, disturbing, even heart-breaking. Beneath the unflinching light of a new sun, we can see a world beset on all sides by the horrors of social hierarchy. Increasingly, it appears that all the sun seems to touch is immersed in immiseration. As Gramsci famously remarked in his Prison Notebooks, “The old world is dying. The new world struggles to be born. Now is the time of monsters.” Social hierarchy hides in the shadows these lumbering monsters cast, lurking quietly. At present, hierarchy appears as a natural way of life, cemented within our social spheres as the norm, the status quo. But there is an alternative world burgeoning, one in conflict with these systems of command and control that immiserate our lives.

In fits and starts, if we look close enough, we can see that world beginning to emerge like a fruiting vine uncurling around the rusted wreckage of a desiccated factory assembly line, reaching out for the warm embrace of the sun. Even now, a new world is growing as fungi on the rotting corpse of social hierarchy, gills gulping down their first bit of oxygen, mycellium reaching furtively forward to form a new, horizontal network of connection. If we accept that another end of the world is possible, what possibilities might blossom amidst the ruins? If Gramsci is correct, what might this new world look like if it were to be freed from the nightmare of social hierarchy?

Social hierarchy is anything but a new phenomenon. From the grotesque wealth of our capitalist society’s ruling class to the settler colonial, white supremacist history of the so-called United States to cisheteropatriarchy and anthropocentrism, social hierarchy has steadily ensnared much of the planet in its devious schematic throughout the course of human history. These structures of domination exacerbate the catastrophes of the modern world. While it may appear ironic to suggest hierarchy is the pox of our epoch in the midst of an ongoing global pandemic, if COVID-19 has proven anything it’s that these hierarchical modes of thinking and being compound crises. Pandemics, at present, are an inescapable fact of life, an evolutionary quirk on a microscopic scale. Yet, it was social hierarchy that demanded people be sacrificed at the altar of profit, social hierarchy which fostered paralysis and inaction in the early days of the outbreak, social hierarchy which suggested wearing a mask was somehow an infringement upon personal liberty rather than a collective step towards community healthcare.

Hierarchy is inextricably tied to the logic of ubiquitous surveillance, police repression, and the ongoing dispossession of poor, working communities. This is especially true in Black and Indigenous communities, which are disproportionately and systematically afflicted by the intersectional oppressions that emerge out of a networked web of overlapping systems bent towards coercion and control. Ableism afflicts the disabled and neurodivergent; patriarchy and heteronormativity foreclose any potential exploration of desire, gender expression, or selfhood.

In the midst of this interminable era, what pathways can we chart towards care, kinship, and joy?  Alternatives to hierarchy manifest themselves both within popular fiction—in literature, in cinema, in the worlds we create in concert with one another at the gaming table—as well as the real world. The imaginative worlds built in speculative fiction, in particular, hint at possible ways to move beyond what Mark Fisher calls “capitalist realism.” Aimee Bahng observes speculative fiction is particularly “well-matched” to counter capitalist realism because it actively imagines alternatives to capitalist modernity’s anti-utopian assertion that we have reached an end of history, that any attempt to make the world better is doomed to fail. What is more, the material projects of real-world revolutionaries give us concrete examples of these alternatives in practice. Thus, the task of this dissertation is to see in what ways the fictional and material struggles of storytelling and worldbuilding are dialectically interlinked so as to bring about the sort of revolutionary ruptures in the existing superstructure necessary to inspire meaningful social transformation.

By analyzing this dialectic in fiction, I hope (in some small way) we can simultaneously foster joy, kinship, and solidarity in the real world. Drawing on the insights of Fredric Jameson, Kim Stanley Robinson, and Umberto Eco I call this hybrid of genre and political impulse anti-anti-utopianism. Anti-anti-utopia can be understood first as a subgenre of speculative fiction mutually informed by both utopia and dystopia, blending elements from both genres and synthesizing them into a new form with unique characteristics. However, this new term does not denote a total departure from utopian studies or the germination of a brand-new literary concept so much as an attempt to carry forward the kernel of an idea that has unfortunately been neglected and overlooked in the field of utopian studies for too long.

Anti-Anti-Utopia: A Genealogy

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Anti-anti-utopia, as both a subgenre and a political impulse, identifies and subsequently names a certain tendency in speculative fictional projects to fuse elements of utopia and dystopia together into one joint narrative. Often, this creates a dialectical tension within the text and fosters a dynamic interplay between these disparate elements. While this has long been a tradition in utopian storytelling, anti-anti-utopia intentionally draws attention to this element as not a passing bug or idiosyncrasy but as a crucial, defining element that helps ground futuristic narratives. The shadow of dystopia is created by the light of utopia; the threat of dystopia is refuted by the promise of utopia. All these elements intermingle and in their various permutations, refutations, and sublimations generate something that is indelibly tied to both utopia and dystopia and yet also distinct. Anti-anti-utopia thus emerges out of speculative hopes and horrors about the future of our planet and all the lifeforms who reside within our shared biome.

Of equal importance, anti-anti-utopianism can be described as a political impulse, one which offers readers insight into building autonomy and community in the real world so we can prefigure new horizons for organizing joyful, directly democratic confederations of more-than-human life as the crises of our time become increasingly untenable. The political impulse of anti-anti-utopia manifests as a desire to remake society by first imagining how that new society might even be brought into being.

This theory of anti-anti-utopianism stemmed from my initial contact with the work of Kim Stanley Robinson, whose article Dystopias Now inspired the critical foundation for my dissertation. Though Robinson was not the first person to discuss the concept of anti-anti-utopia, Dystopias Now was the first text I encountered that articulated this subgenre and political impulse I had identified but was unable to give a name. Dystopias Now focuses primarily on reclaiming the word “utopia” and problematizing “dystopia” as a discreet generic category, which Robinson instead sees as the very real conditions of modern life. So far, so good. However, where Robinson passes off anti-anti-utopia as one facet in a broader analysis of dystopia and utopia as generic categories, my objective is to dig deeper and develop this concept further and flesh out its implications for both utopian and speculative fiction studies.

To do so, we must first look at the terms “utopia” and “dystopia” before examining how these are really opposites of the same coin. I have endeavored to explore these concepts in different subsections below in order to illustrate how anti-anti-utopia emerges out of utopia and dystopia. However, as my analysis shows, utopia and dystopia necessarily bleed together, mutually informing one another, and thus they should not be misunderstood as entirely unique and distinct. In the end, it is impossible to talk about utopia without also addressing dystopia and vice versa. The crux of anti-anti-utopian storytelling is directly addressing these tensions. Anti-anti-utopian narratives pit utopia and dystopia against each other. In doing so, these stories invite readers to examine what it might look like to reshape the world into a more egalitarian environ.  

Thesis: Utopia

Utopias have a long history. While many scholars point to Thomas Moore’s Utopia as the progenitor of the concept, we can trace the idea of a “perfect world” back to Plato’s Laws, one of the final dialogues written by the philosopher. Arguably, the religious belief in paradise could be read as a utopia, which would launch the term’s origin even further back into human history, well before the rise of Greece’s city-states. Much has been made of the word’s Grecian origin: the play-on-words of ou-topos (“nowhere”) and eu-topos (“good place.”) Critics of utopia often point to the way utopian aspirations seem to invariably devolve to dystopias. One premiere example of this would be Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, where the initial veneer of an idealized society gives way to one that is highly regulated and controlled by the authorities from behind-the-scenes via a ruthless caste system. For all their limitations, utopias do possess a desire to manifest an alternative sort of world. The “utopian impulse” exists in most major political ideologies. All across the political spectrum, anarchists, communists, socialists, liberals, conservatives, and fascists yearn for their respective version of a perfect world—whether explicitly or not. As Frederic Jameson points out in Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions, “We need to distinguish between the Utopian form and the Utopian wish: between the written text or genre and something like a Utopian impulse detectable in daily life.” Utopia has a form: narrative and aesthetic qualities that make utopias a distinct subgenre of science fiction. Yet, in Jameson’s estimation, there is also an impulse in all of us to pine for and imagine a better world. Sometimes, these yearnings manifest as a religious faith in life after death; other times, this desire to remake the world can create transformative, revolutionary political movements.

Robinson’s essay Dystopias Now borrows its title by inverting the introduction to Jameson’s Archaeologies of the Future, a clear homage to Jameson’s scholarly contributions to the field of utopian studies from one of the genre’s most popular modern authors. In Jameson’s introduction, titled “Utopia Now,” Jameson navigates the tension between the perfection utopia promises and the real-world political consequences that often stem from the utopian imaginary. “Utopia has always been a political issue,” Jameson begins, “an unusual destiny for a literary form: yet just as the literary value of the form is subject to permanent doubt, so also its political status is structurally ambiguous.” This ambiguity has led to atrocities committed across the political spectrum in the name of pursuing that “good place” which is “nowhere.” Jameson writes at some length about the political, ideological, and literary history of utopia. He takes to task Marxists who uncritically regurgitate Engels’ Socialism: Utopian and Scientific before ultimately wrestling with the same tension within the utopian imaginary that Robinson presents in his own essay. On the one hand, Jameson believes we must defend utopia from its critics. On the other hand, the literary genre—and its political impulses—necessitate that we investigate utopia with all the scholastic rigor we can muster to disambiguate the implications of utopia.

Robinson’s essay also draws on the scholarship of Robert C. Elliot, whose 1970 work, The Shape of Utopia: Studies in a Literary Genre, appears to have been the first time the phrase “anti-anti-utopia” was coined. The book in turn draws its title from a paper Elliot penned in ’63, which explores the work of Thomas Moore’s Utopia at some length and challenges the conventional “Roman catholic” literary interpretation of Moore’s work which prevailed in the scholarship of the time. In the opening lines, Elliot discusses how utopia is a land “born to controversy,” one claimed by many: “Catholics and Protestants, medievalists and modernists, socialists and communists.” As we’ve seen from Jameson, the ideological desire to claim utopia is certainly a potent one. The desire to craft a perfect society animates all political projects as Saul Newman points out in Postanarchism. “There is no problem with utopian imaginaries,” Newman writes, “indeed, a certain utopian impulse is central to all radical politics in the sense that it punctures the limits of our current reality.” Perhaps unsurprisingly, the ability to call one’s vision of the future “perfect” holds much allure. For better or worse, though, I am not exactly interested in reimagining perfection, but rather in grappling with what happens when people try to build a better world in the ruins of the old one. That is a messy prospect, a process that is iterative and constantly in-motion. “Perfection” feels sterile, detached, clean. Anti-anti-utopia, one way or another, is messy.

Antithesis: Dystopia

Part of this messiness entails an engagement with dystopia. After all, the horrors of social and material inequalities will not vanish without a struggle. The ongoing systems of hierarchy that plague society and confront us every day make utopian aspirations incredibly difficult for people to imagine. “We should hold a steadfast orientation toward the open ocean of possibility,” Suvin thunders. “True, terrors lurk in that ocean: but those terrors are primarily not…the terrors of the not-yet-existing, but on the contrary simple extrapolations of the existing actuality of war, hunger, degradation, and exploitation of people and planets.” According to Suvin, the detractors of utopia—who Robinson would deem “anti-utopian”—look at the tragedies of our contemporary moment and insist there is no way out of this collective nightmare. Dystopias often seem to suggest that the future is just as hopeless and depressing as the present.

Perhaps this helps explain the prevalence of dystopian narratives today. After all, literature, media, and culture are reflective of our social fabric. Just as utopias tend to reflect our best impulses, our desires for a more just, egalitarian, communal society, dystopias reflect the opposite. Dystopia is here and now, prevalent in the material reality of racialized capitalism, heteronormativity, patriarchy, and settler colonialism. Mark Fisher calls this capitalist realism, “the widespread sense that not only is capitalism the only viable political and economic system, but also that it is now impossible to even imagine a coherent alternative.” I fear dystopias tend to create anxiety and paralysis about the future rather than a spirit of revolutionary optimism. When left alone, dystopia as a concept tends to monopolize our collective political imaginary, stifling the potential of emancipatory social movements by inculcating potential revolutionary subjects with a reactionary ideology that suggests there is no alternative to modern society and the various social hierarchies it manifests.

For instance, in Lord of the Flies, the boys stranded on a deserted island don’t build a meaningful life of social connection and mutual aid. Instead, chaos and conflict erupt in the boys’ attempts to recreate the same social paradigms that lead their world to an implicit atomic bomb. By the end of William Golding’s novel, a British naval officer finds the stranded boys and berates them for behaving in such a feral, belligerent manner before sheepishly glancing over his shoulder at the warship behind him. Golding’s novel seems to cement the idea that civilization can only ever be bellicose and violent. Yet, as Ursula K. Le Guin once declared during a speech at the National Book Awards, “We live in capitalism, its power seems inescapable—but then, so did the divine right of king. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art. Very often in our art, the art of words.” Every social hierarchy is a human power. They all must, in turn, be resisted and defeated. Anti-anti-utopian stories answer Le Guin’s call-to-arms.

Unfortunately, it should come as no real surprise that dystopias saturate popular culture in the United States. Wander the young adult (YA) section at any corporate bookstore and you’ll see novels like The Hunger Games, Maze Runner, Divergent—all serialized stories assuring kids that, as bad as things are, they could always be much, much worse. In their essay on “female empowerment” (or the lack thereof) which performs a queer reading of dystopian YA novels, Nora Peterman and Rachel Skrlac Lo describe how the heteronormative structures of these stories often end up replicating the very patriarchal structures that they ostensibly oppose. “These books offer critiques of social order,” Peterman and Skrlac Lo write, “but only particular aspects of society are challenged.” Katniss is permitted to challenge the hegemony of the state, but only through performative gestures. Even the ostensible “revolutionaries” in Collins’ series are interested in using the novels’ hero as a propaganda figure. The end-result, Peterman and Skrlac Lo contend, is a half-baked social critique, one typically divorced from the intersectional frameworks of oppression nascent in different social hierarchies. Only by deliberately and willfully misreading Divergent and The Hunger Games could Peterman and Skrlac Lo tease out positive, productive social commentary with sociopolitical ramifications in these YA texts.

But YA authors are not the only purveyors of dystopia that appear, at least to me, to offer insufficient social commentary. The so-called literary canon is rife with dystopian immiseration, inundated with examples of repressive, totalitarian regimes: 1984, A Clockwork Orange, Fahrenheit 451. Turn on the television and you’ll find multiple seasons of The Walking Dead, West World, and Black Mirror striving to convince viewers that the real problem, all along, has been humankind. Of course, this is a convenient answer to the complicated question of why contemporary society appears to be so immersed in abject suffering. To say that the root problem is solely capitalism, patriarchy, white supremacy, or any other distinct hierarchy at play today in the social body is to provide a reductive, lopsided analysis. Grappling with the ways anti-Black racism intersects with settler colonialism and patriarchy requires dynamic critical engagement with the intersections of domination and exploitation that exist in the world today. Not either/or, but both/and simultaneously.

Two decades into the twenty-first century, dystopia continues to be virtually ubiquitous within popular culture, domineering all forms of media—novels, television, motion pictures, games. But dystopia is not merely an aesthetic form or artistic setting. Dystopias, both implicitly and explicitly, reflect contemporary politics. While these political implications are often hyperbolized, the creators of dystopian projects are nonetheless informed by our current moment. As Frédéric Claisse and Pierre Delvenne point out, dystopias are “depictions of a dark future based on the systematic amplification of current trends and features.” Dystopian writers take the oppressions of the modern day, then dial them up to eleven. From these hyperboles, dystopias emerge kicking and screaming.

For better or worse, dystopias have a habit of holding up a mirror to society and reflecting the worst human impulses right back at us. In some ways, this can allow us to identify real, material issues in the world. In other ways, I fear dystopias trap us into a self-replicating pattern where we’re incapable of imagining any alternative to the repressive modes of social hierarchy that inundate our world today. As Kyle P. Whyte illustrates, one of the premiere issues of today—climate change—is routinely presented in dystopian narratives in quite a reductive manner. Indigenous stories about climate collapse, Whyte shows, “challenge linear narratives of dreadful futures of climate destabilization with their own accounts of history that highlight the reality of constant change and emphasize colonialism’s role in climate change.” Dystopias routinely overlook the ways settler colonialism intersects with climate catastrophe, whitewashing these intersecting oppressions and impoverishing our ability to fight back. Dystopian writers who fail to account for the Indigenous perspective on time, Whyte argues, end up constructing narratives that imagine collapse as a titanic one-off event rather than a protracted series of crumbling disasters slowly eroding society. What these indigenous scholars and community-organizers remind us is that the apocalypse is now—it’s ongoing.

Mark Rifkin echoes Whyte’s exhortations, adding there is a need to examine “the principles, procedures, inclinations, and orientations that constitute settler time as a particular way of narrating, conceptualizing, and experiencing temporality” (viii). Thinking beyond settler time is critical to the project of decolonization, but dystopias often seem inextricably bound up in the ongoing process of settlement and containment. For instance, Cormac McCarthy’s searing novel The Road pits its unnamed father and son against a cast of increasingly diabolical characters: bandits, raiders, cannibals. McCarthy’s text seems to suggest that, in the wake of catastrophe and societal collapse, no one can be trusted. In McCarthy’s rugged, hyper-masculine post-apocalypse, only the discrete nuclear family can be a source of safety. By contrast, Indigenous literatures and the project of decolonization are a necessarily destabilizing force, one which ruptures tidy conceptions of linear time, narrative, and place. As Tuck and Yang argue, “decolonization implicates and unsettles everyone” (7). Dystopias, on the other hand, often assert with grim finality: this is the end of history, there is no alternative.

I argue alongside Stuart Hall that our political imaginary is captured by the interplay of resistance and containment. Alone, both utopia and dystopia are incomplete. Only when they are in conversation with one another can these stories truly bear fruit. This is why anti-anti-utopia is so vital. “There are points of resistance,” Hall argues, “there are also moments of suppression. This is the dialectic of cultural struggle.” The hegemony of cultural power is concentrated within the state. As we will explore throughout this dissertation, the state is the centralized locus of social hierarchy, so it should come as no surprise that there is an emphasis in popular culture on containing and sidelining narratives that resist social hierarchy. “Anti-capitalism is widely disseminated in capitalism,” Fisher points out. “Far from undermining capitalism, this gestural anti-capitalism actually reinforces it” (12). At their worst, dystopias can play the role of capture, containment, and control quite elegantly. Unchallenged, dystopias seem to insist that resistance is futile, that we are doomed. Only when we put these dystopias in conversation with utopias can we begin to see how we might extricate ourselves from the miasma of our shared reality.

Claisse and Delvenne eventually argue that dystopias can allow readers to “anticipate the future and eventually empower political communities to engage in further action.” The scholars trace this discursive phenomenon from George Orwell’s 1984 to the contemporary struggles of activists, lawyers, and social scientists against the ubiquity of the US surveillance apparatus in an attempt to illustrate that literary dystopias can provide modern audiences with frameworks to understand the world and shape the science and technology of the future. Another premiere example of this might be the way in which Gibson’s Neuromancer inspired Silicon Valley’s current fixation on the Metaverse. The trouble with Claisse and Dalvenne’s analysis, as I see it, is that these trends don’t actually empower activists and community-organizers to fight back. Anticipating darker times ahead and imagining technological trends before they come to fruition does not meaningfully provide us with the ability to combat social hierarchy’s interconnected facets. A warning may prove prophetic, but it is not a weapon in and of itself. In their interpolation of both utopia and dystopia, anti-anti-utopias present concrete ways to dismantle the social hierarchies that subjugate us. In Chapter 2, for example, we’ll examine how The Dispossessed encourages constant vigilance against domination even in a society that has ostensibly liberated itself. Meanwhile, Chapters 3 and 4 will explore methods we can use to develop solidarity with nonhuman lifeforms in order to combat oppression.

The proliferation of dystopian narratives in recent years begs the question: who benefits from (solely) dystopian visions of the future? How does dystopia trap us within the totalizing structures of capitalist modernity? Perhaps most importantly, how could a genuinely liberatory literature confront the material might of the ruling class and galvanize a revolutionary spirit rooted in militant joy? Dystopias are a rich and storied subgenre, it would be a shame to discard them, a disservice to all those creative minds who’ve endeavored to warn us about what might happen in the future if we do not drastically remake the world of today. Anti-anti-utopian stories are critically informed by the warnings and prophecies of dystopia. Where they differ, however, is that anti-anti-utopian narratives make every effort to show alternatives to a purely dystopian future of misery are imminently possible.

Synthesis: Anti-Anti-Utopia

So, we turn now fully to the concept of anti-anti-utopia—a double-negation or, in a roundabout way, a sort of affirmation. While the double prefix may prove cumbersome to write and say, this rhetorical interplay is one that provides valuable insights into how anti-anti-utopia is distinct from its utopian and dystopian interlocutors, while simultaneously tied to them. Definition through negation is a useful rhetorical tool which can defamiliarize a subject and, in the process, recontextualize that subject in order to establish something fresh and new. Moreover, definitions through negation enjoy a storied political history. Perhaps it should prove unsurprising that anarchy (“no rulers”) often serves as one of the critical facets of anti-anti-utopia. Just as “utopia” is defined by negation (“nowhere,”) anti-anti-utopia is interested in the power of this rhetorical turn, one which is simultaneously a denunciation and an affirmation. If the antithesis of utopia is dystopia, then anti-anti-utopia is a fitting term to provide a synthesis of the two. The very title of this dissertation, Another End of the World is Possible, suggests this same overall trend. Ours is an epoch of mass suffering, rife with worlds ending on both micro- and macrocosmic scales. Yet, anti-anti-utopia imagines not our end, but an end to the destructive forces of social hierarchy, where social suffering is mitigated and care, kinship, and joy become central to multispecies justice. We will attend each of these themes carefully throughout this dissertation. For now, though, Jameson’s defense of utopia proves a useful jumping-off point for a discussion of anti-anti-utopia.

“Perhaps,” Jameson writes in Archeologies of the Future, “for those only too wary of the motives of [Utopia’s] critics, yet no less conscious of Utopia’s structural ambiguities, those mindful of the very real political function of the idea and the program of Utopia in our time, the slogan of anti-anti-Utopianism might well offer the best working strategy” (xvi, emphasis added). Sadly, Jameson does not appear to take his own proposal seriously as this is the only time the term “anti-anti-utopia” appears in all 448 pages of Archaeologies of the Future. Indeed, Robinson also seems interested primarily in salvaging and protecting the concept of utopia. While defending utopia from its detractors is a worthwhile goal in and of itself, this dissertation takes Jameson’s anti-anti-utopian proposal to heart. If anti-anti-utopianism is the best strategy for combatting anti-utopian critics and the dystopian realities of our contemporary moment while holding onto the utopian possibility of a better world, then it stands to reason we should delve into this idea of anti-anti-utopianism in earnest. This dissertation is the culmination of my efforts to illuminate the ways in which anti-anti-utopia presents a unique and urgent interplay between utopia and dystopia, a synthesis that is both a subgenre and a political impulse simultaneously.

Anti-anti-utopia fuses utopia and dystopia, placing these genres not as polarities but as a dialectical force in synthesis. For instance, as Mark A. Tabone notes in his discussion of N.K. Jemisin’s Broken Earth trilogy, “The Broken Earth is a meaningful refusal of despair amid a decade marked by political hopelessness, in addition to dystopian racial strife and environmental threats, subject matter with which Jemisin’s trilogy engages.” Tabone identifies the manner in which both utopian and dystopian elements comingle in anti-anti-utopian narratives. While the world Jemisin describes is one marked by a horrifically stratified racial caste system which uses orogenous children as pawns in its imperial schemes, the series also takes great liberty describing a pirate utopia where queer, polyamorous relationships flourish. Tabone focuses his analysis on Meov, as well as the community of Castrama, which is founded in the wake the global natural disaster The Fifth Season is titled after. Jemisin’s work acknowledges the racist and classist horrors of today while simultaneously offering glimpses of a better tomorrow. This is an essential facet of anti-anti-utopian storytelling, to create what Ursula K. Le Guin called “an ambiguous utopia,” where the tensions between utopia and dystopia are not so easily resolved. In each of the primary texts we will examine throughout this dissertation, it is not immediately clear whether they are utopian or dystopian in nature. My contention is that the blurring of clearly demarcated lines between the promise of utopia and the agony of dystopia is a hallmark of anti-anti-utopian fiction. These texts present worlds-in-motion, anti-anti-utopian in nature because of these overlapping facets of dystopia and utopia simultaneously.

Anti-anti-utopian fiction invites readers to consider how utopian pathways of thinking and being are essential to the project of world-building and collective liberation. At its core, anti-anti-utopia grapples with the prevalence of dystopia—the real ramifications of a world in dire crisis—all while refusing to lose hope that we can build something better in the wreckage. Whereas Robinson wants to ultimately reclaim “utopia” as a genre, I seek to build anti-anti-utopianism as its own unique subgenre at once informed by dystopia and utopia while remaining distinct. Anti-anti-utopianism does not accept the dewy-eyed romanticism of a socialist utopia and rejects the cynicism of authoritarian dystopias. When we bridge the divide between utopia and dystopia and place the two genres in conversation with one another, we find works of fiction capable of not only imagining better worlds than our own, but pieces of media that can inspire us to prefigure those alternatives in the real world.

To the uncritical eye, many of the worlds we explore in popular fiction may appear at first to be dystopian in appearance. Only when we dig deeper can we see the fusion of utopian and dystopian elements, which suggests there is more to these works of media than first meets the eye. Anti-anti-utopia emerges from this cross-contamination, bearing a whole host of questions. What lingering scars of trauma persist in the wake of a successful revolutionary struggle? How do we avoid replicating hierarchical social relationships? If we cannot defeat capitalism outright in some grand historical Revolution, how do we carve out revolutionary posthumanist spaces to respect the dignity and autonomy of nonhuman animals and more-than-human biosynthetic organisms? These are just a few of the questions provoked by anti-anti-utopian texts. But, as you can see, each revolves around a crucial problem: anti-anti-utopia exists in a state of being and becoming. Because of anti-anti-utopia’s prefigurative political orientation, it sees the project of building a better world as constantly in flux, an unending struggle against the forces of dehumanization, exploitation, and domination in favor of solidarity, community, and self-actualization.

Anti-anti-utopia must be understood as a crucial intervention, an affirmation that—if art truly is political—then it must knowingly and meaningfully engage with possible alternatives to the misery and hardship that accost us at every turn. It cannot be said enough: this dual nature, existing simultaneously as both a subgenre and as a political impulse, is essential to anti-anti-utopia. Anti-anti-utopias are not content to merely imagine a better world, they seek to change the one we are living in today.

Ultimately, Anti-anti-utopias are destructive. Anti-anti-utopias engage in what Marx called in a letter to Arnold Ruge “the ruthless critique of all that exists.” As a rule, anti-anti-utopias are both unflinching and unsparing in their trenchant social commentary. In this fusion of dystopia and utopia, anti-anti-utopian narratives hold no punches when it comes to critiquing social hierarchy. We are, after all, living in apocalyptic times. Anti-anti-utopias do not shy away from the horror of our dystopian reality and retreat into the purely utopian dreamscape—they engage, they enter the fray, but they do so with a song of joy on their lips and in kinship with all those who struggle for a better world.

Yet, anti-anti-utopias are also creative, generative. They insist, courageously, that we can do things differently. Even against insurmountable odds, we can make the world a better place. This is the political impulse of anti-anti-utopia, a pining for a world that is still burgeoning, gaining energy with each passing moment like a solar panel soaking up the light of the sun. Anti-anti-utopian fiction suggests it is up to us to bring a new world into being. In times like ours, the task of cultivating new horizons, new possibilities, often seems monumental. The creative process of telling anti-anti-utopian stories allows us to imagine alternatives to the pervasive forms of social hierarchy that inundate the world and then build those new forms of solidarity and kinship with our own hands. Yes, this world is dying. Our planet is choked by the vise-grip of capitalism, heteropatriarchy, settler colonialism, white supremacy, and every other vestige of social hierarchy which privileges one group over all others. But anti-anti-utopia is emerging amidst the ruins, between the cracks and the fissures, unfurling in the sunrays at dawn, continuously insisting another end of the world is possible. 

Works Cited

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