I just finished reading Matt Dinniman's 2020 LitRPG novel
Dungeon Crawler Carl, and I'm pleasantly surprised by how it lived up to the hype.
On a personal note, I keep wanting to call this an
isekai series, even though it's technically not. I consume a lot of media from East Asia, and so find myself defaulting to their terms for various (sub-)genres. While LitRPG and
isekai are technically different (in that the former has the characters being aware of, and interacting with, various RPG statistics that govern themselves and other beings, while the latter means that the story begins with the protagonist being taken from their home world, typically Earth, to another), there's a lot of overlap in that particular Venn diagram.
I don't know why I felt that was important to establish, but given that I just wrote a paragraph about it, I apparently felt very strongly that it was.
My suspicion is that it has something to do with how both genres make heavy use of a particular set of tropes, which are quite often the same tropes. Incidentally, this is quite often the point on which these stories tend to be criticized, which is something I'm sympathetic toward. I think that originality is overrated, in terms of what's important for making a good story; execution matters much more.
Which is really where Dinniman's story shines, because as near as I can tell he's managed to recognize the various tropes that LitRPG stories—rather than simply
intuiting, i.e. recognizing them subconsciously but not being able to articulate them, which is what most people seem to do—and utilize them in such a way that they benefit the story, rather than the story mindlessly aping these genre conventions.
For example, one of the most obvious (to the point of being obtrusive) tropes of LitRPG stories is how they leverage the concept of acquisition (of levels, gear, achievements, etc.) to make the reader feel a sense of accomplishment when the protagonist (whom the reader is expected to identify with) gets something new. Much like how it is with players of actual RPGs, this works to give the reader a quick "high" in terms of having a tangible representation of accomplishing something. The problem is that this tends to be a "short term gains, long term problems" thing, both because it can quickly present diminishing returns if done too often or easily (i.e. the accomplishment starts to feel meaningless) but also because relying too much on this can quickly complicate the rest of the story, since the protagonist can find themselves stronger/wealthier/more famous than everyone else, at which point there's markedly less for them to do.
Dinniman seems to recognize this right out of the gate, and is very liberal with not only pumping the metaphorical brakes, but doing so in a way that's innovative. For instance, a significant number of the acquisitions Carl gets are fairly meaningless, being either useless items, upgrades that are either ridiculously minor or help in an embarrassing way (e.g. the pedicure set that enhances foot-based attacks and defenses), and achievements where the achievement is that you got an official achievement at all. Yet because these come with the same bolded-font and indented-paragraph presentation, the reader's lizard-brain still processes this as having earned something, even though we intellectually know that it's useless. The dichotomy lets Dinniman, and us, have the cake and eat it too.
The fact that Carl will often subsequently take useless things and find a use for them is therefore the icing on said cake.
And that's just one example of how Dinniman not only sidesteps the stereotypical problems/limitations with this genre, but actually makes them work
for him.
For instance, we're quickly shown that the entities running the dungeon that Carl is forced into are applying patches (i.e. making adjustments) in real-time. This allows Dinniman to let characters take advantage of exploits in the rules without having those become perpetual "instant win" buttons. When Carl uses a little-known rule to dispatch an enemy that would otherwise slaughter him, there's a very quick announcement that the rule has been tweaked, which means that Dinniman no longer has to work around questions of why Carl doesn't keep doing that over and over.
Likewise, the story smartly lays out foreshadowing regarding issues beyond the immediate. Questions of how the RPG mechanics work, who's running things and what their motivations are, and greater powers beyond them are all hinted at, with many only receiving tentative glimpses beyond the metaphorical curtain which serve to entice the reader with promises of future revelations. It's a brilliant way of world-building, because it feeds information in drips rather than deluges, while encouraging thinking about what's been learned in terms of practical engagement (i.e. how can Carl use this to survive, if not immediately then in the near future?).
Even the characterization is smart. Carl is your basic everyman-type, so Dinniman quickly realizes that he needs his protagonist to have a quirky sidekick, both for dialogue and to make sure there's someone who'll alternatively help him out, cause trouble, and serve as a comedic foil. How he introduces such a character, who clearly works best as someone not human (since that inherently presents outlook/worldview issues which enhance the aforementioned quirkiness) while still needing Carl to feel a personal connection to them (so he won't abandon them when they get to be too troublesome) is likewise brilliantly handled.
There are numerous other examples of how Dinniman handles these kinds of issues, and all of them are done with surprising deftness. Dinniman has figured out how to take this genre's limits and turn them into strengths, which to me is a clear example of genius at work. I've already put a hold for the next book at my local library, and I suspect that I'll enjoy it as much as the first one.
