Originally a self-published series of e-novellas, Hugh Howey’s Wool has generated almost as much press for what it is seen to represent as it has for its enthusiastic fan response. Some have proclaimed it yet another nail in the coffin of traditional publishing, while others have pointed to it as proof the post-apocalyptic genre still has some life in it. But the ultimate takeaway from any discussion of Howey’s dystopian novel, now published in print and audio versions as a full-length novel by Simon & Schuster, should be that Wool is a riveting read, thanks to memorable characters and a vividly rendered world, both of which linger with the reader long after the last page has been turned. Howey’s path to publication is proof that fascinating characters and evocative world-building can win over readers, no matter how hollowed out a genre has become or what format a book arrives to market in.

The world of Wool is first introduced to the reader through the eyes of Holston, the sheriff of a post-apocalyptic community that lives in an immense, self-sufficient silo. The rules of the community are strict, with most mentions of the outside taboo and any expressed desire to leave the silo resulting in the community’s version of capital punishment—a one-way trip out of the silo to clean the viewing lens of its external camera before succumbing to the toxic environment.

The second section focuses on the journey of the Silo’s mayor and deputy to recruit Holston’s replacement. The rest of Wool follows the adventures of Holston’s successor, a resourceful female engineer named Juliette (Jules) as she discovers that certain aspects of the community inside the silo that are as deadly as the outside is thought to be.

Saying more risks puncturing the tension that is a hallmark of the book. Suffice it to say, Wool reminds the reader how fulfilling a steady diet of small surprises, deftly delivered, can be. And even the most jaded post-apocalyptic enthusiast should enjoy how skillfully Howey confounds expectations and delays certainty.

Though the human interactions are well-wrought, the most consistently compelling relationship in Wool exists between the main characters and the silo itself. In some ways, it’s a mutualistic relationship between an inorganic behemoth and the humans that inhabit, maintain and are protected by it. Yet in its very premise, Wool suggests that even though it may be human nature to aspire to that which is greater than itself, the attempt to do so ravages as often as it preserves.

The Rook, Daniel O’Malley’s debut novel, opens with a classic thriller/mystery setup: Our protagonist awakens in a rain-soaked park with no memory of her identity. Even better—at least from the reader’s perspective—she’s surrounded by a ring of bodies, each wearing latex gloves. Fortunately, there are two notes in her pocket from her body’s former owner, Myfanwy (rhymes with Tiffany) Thomas.

The first letter provides the briefest of introduction and ends with, “Go find a safe place, and then open the second letter.” This second letter presents her with a choice in the form of keys to two separate lockboxes. Choose one, and she can leave, completely abandoning her body’s former life for low-profile comfort and wealth. Choose the other, and she will assume the identity of the new body, trying to find out exactly who is responsible for her current condition. It’s a Matrix-worthy blue pill/red pill moment for the Body Formerly Known as Myfanwy Thomas. Since The Rook wouldn’t be much of a read otherwise, it’s not giving anything away to say she chooses lockbox #2.

The Rook may read like a comic book, but it reads like a good comic book.

As a plot device, the amnesiac main character approach is as dramatic as it is practical. Thomas’ quandary thrusts big questions to the fore on page one: Who am I? How did I get here? Who or what did this to me? It also places a protagonist who would otherwise have many of the answers on the same page as the reader, ostensibly allowing both to discover information simultaneously. (Answers to the previous questions, respectively: A highly ranked operative of a super-secret organization called the Checquy; Not sure; and Wouldn’t you like to know?)

As a Rook, a powered member of the ruling body of the Checquy, Thomas must resume her day-to-day duties without revealing that she’s not the person she once was—a daunting task when one is the bureaucratic pulse of an organization more Microsoft than Ghostbusters. As she does so, she must also learn all she can about her colleagues/suspects, defuse a host of supernatural crises that fall under the the category of “all in an insane day’s work” and deal with the possible return of the Checquy’s most dangerous foes.

To younger readers, or anyone not versed in comic books or fantasy lore, The Rook may seem as “richly inventive” as its promotional copy claims, but that’s not really the case. Instead, it’s better described as richly derivative. As a super-secret organization that employs super-powered individuals in defense of its homeland, the Checquy is just a slightly (and I mean slightly) less Lovecraftian British version of the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense featured in Mike Mignola’s Hellboy series. And there are plenty of team-based comic book series, past and present, that contain versions of the same. That said, making the distinction between “inventive” and “derivative” isn’t meant as a criticism, so much as a check to promotional hyperbole.

It requires real skill to weave together threads from various sources in a manner that is both coherent and enjoyable, especially when dealing with imaginative territory that has been virtually strip-mined by writers in the last few decades. With The Rook, O’Malley shows he is up to the task. The Rook may read like a comic book, but it reads like a good comic book, which is more than enough reason to keep an eye out for the next entry in the series.

The Demi-Monde: Winter is the type of book that both inspires and discourages. On one hand, as an ambitious amalgam of punk (both steam- and cyber-) and of alternate history, Rod Rees’ novel serves as a reminder that one doesn’t need to be a cutting-edge futurist or esoteric polymath to produce compelling science fiction. The Demi-Monde: Winter also provides a good example of how one doesn’t need original ingredients to create a refreshing, satisfying dish.

On the other hand, the world-building mastery exhibited by Rees in his debut novel may cause many an aspiring writer of Tolkien-inspired fantasies and space operas to toss his or her once-treasured manuscript into the nearest bin in despair.

The first book in a planned tetralogy, The Demi-Monde: Winter follows Ella Thomas, a young jazz singer, as she is recruited to venture into a simulated environment, the Demi-Monde, to rescue the president’s daughter. Thomas is a capable, appealing protagonist, but the world she’s sent into—and its inhabitants—are the stars of Rees’ book. The Demi-Monde is a self-contained, virtual world created by the military to serve as a training ground for its soldiers in the asymmetric warfare experienced in urban environments. Much in the style of the Matrix films, once you plug in, you are there, and as the president’s daughter has discovered in the opening pages and Ella soon finds out, the Demi-Monde is a very, very nasty place. (Think Sim City: Hell on Earth edition.)

With its blend of beloved sci-fi genres, it’s fair to say that The Demi-Monde: Winter “has something for everyone,” but the cliché in itself doesn’t do justice to the caliber of Rees’ work.

In the effort to create a world of unrelenting tension, stress and struggle, no hot button has been left unpressed—religion, race, gender and population density have all been tuned to generate maximum conflict. Then, among the 32 million or so in-game characters (or “dupes”), there have been seeded a sprinkling of history’s greatest charismatic psychopaths, types given to commanding, conquering and getting people jailed, tortured and killed. Rees introduces the reader to the likes of Reinhard Heydrich, Lavrentii Beria and Archie Clement—figures less known to non-history buffs than the likes of Hitler, Stalin and Jesse James, but whose credentials as murderous psychopaths are nonetheless impeccable.

If it sounds complicated, it is. For that reason, the most impressive achievement of Rees’ freshman effort may well be in how deftly he avoids the plot-choking, mind-pummeling info dump that the unveiling of such a complex world usually entails, while nonetheless feeding the reader tons of information. Some of this is achieved structurally—each chapter has faux excerpts describing some aspect of one or more of the competing factions in the Demi-Monde. For the rest, Rees lets his protagonist’s learning curve mirror the reader’s own.

With its blend of beloved sci-fi genres, it’s fair to say that The Demi-Monde: Winter “has something for everyone,” but the cliché in itself doesn’t do justice to the caliber of Rees’ work. After all, if those somethings aren’t sufficiently interwoven, the reading experience can be chaotic and disjointed, less of an immersion than a sporadic dipping. Thankfully, that’s not the case here. Much like the characters who endure the often-harrowing events within its pages, readers will exit The Demi-Monde: Winter looking forward to what The Demi-Monde: Spring will bring.

Over the past few decades, Neal Stephenson has secured his place as a deep thinker among the speculative elite. He’s done so most notably with works that are set anywhere but the here-and-now: the dystopian future of 1992’s Snow Crash, the less dystopian, nano-technology-dominated future of 1996’s The Diamond Age and the late 17th-century milieu of The Baroque Cycle trilogy.

With his latest book, Reamde, Stephenson goes contemporary, and though this is by no means his first foray into the plausibly current, the result will likely win him plenty of new fans, even if some of his old ones find cause to grumble.

Reamde starts with protagonist Richard Forthrast, a man whose fortune began with drug smuggling and has grown to absurd proportions due to his role in creating a massively multiplayer online (MMO) game called T’Rain. (Think World of Warcraft, the next iteration.) By novel’s end, a veritable United Nations of engaging characters has been introduced. Foremost of these is Richard’s niece, Zula, an Eritrean orphan adopted into the Forthrast clan, but plenty of others have their time to shine, including a Russian “security expert,” a Hungarian IT expert for shady enterprises, an MI-6 spy, and the Chinese hacker responsible for the titular virus. (The antagonists, led by a Welsh terrorist bomber, aren’t too shabby, either.)

At times, Reamde feels like a seminar in “Advanced MMO Theory and Execution,” and indeed, this is probably the most speculative aspect of Reamde. Some of the explication is needed, especially for readers unfamiliar with MMOs, but mostly, these sections are more page-slogging than page-turning. Fortunately, the pages do turn, and the expertly paced thriller reasserts itself.

Therein may lie the problem for diehard fans of Stephenson’s early efforts. Reamde is a well-wrought, conventional thriller that has much more in common with Ludlum’s The Bourne Identity (or with Tom Clancy, minus the technophilia) than with most of Stephenson’s previous fare. Reamde is Stephenson, minus the big questions and “then” or “there” settings. For some, that will be a problem. Regardless, Reamde is a mostly riveting read, guaranteed to harvest a crop of new readers for its author. And, grumbling or not, the old ones aren’t going anywhere, either.