You might have already guessed that, as an author and long-time bookstore employee, I like books. A little presumptuous, but I’ll forgive you. However, I am also an exhausted parent and person enduring reality in 2026. As such, I am prone to extended reading slumps.

Until I met him. Dungeon Crawler Carl.

I read the first book at the beginning of September after months of persistent hyping from friends and coworkers alike, and I am already on book six. It’s the first series in a long time that has recaptured the feeling of being a kid with a flashlight under the blanket to steal just a few more minutes with my current library book. Okay, fine, I was borrowing Shade’s Children and The Darkangel for the fifth time in a row.

While I can definitely understand why some people bounce off the series, I’m having a blast. And now I’m hearing that DCC merch is starting to hit mainstream retailers! Not many book series get popular enough to get . . . any merch, really, let alone proving to be the Hot Topic of the hour. How great! How delightful!

But something about it doesn’t feel delightful.

For those unfamiliar, the series premise is that, after Earth’s split-second destruction, survivors can choose to eke out an existence on the ruined planet or enter the subterranean ‘Dungeons’ that serve as the filming grounds for an intergalactic bloodsport game show. One of those who chooses the dungeon is Carl, along with his ex-girlfriend’s cat, Donut. They find themselves at the mercy of a galaxy that barely acknowledges their personhood, where survival is contingent on audience popularity, and your value is measured by how much money you can generate for your captors. It is a virulently anti-capitalist narrative. And part of this critique is centred around the relationship between the crawlers and the audience.

I want to be clear: writing is a tough gig if you want to eat. Unless your name is very recognizable or you’re very good with marketing, you’re probably still working a day job to make ends meet. I do not begrudge taking advantage of the series’ skyrocketing popularity to get paid. But seeing ‘Goddamnit Donut’ stickers and T-shirts with art of Carl’s big shiny feet, I can’t help but think that Carl would loathe this. Because in the text, he does. These are the same kinds of products that aliens across the galaxy wear to celebrate their favourite crawlers, never really grappling with the fact that these are real people who are suffering and dying for the audience’s amusement. We are the audience, becoming the audience staring at the characters as they stare back at us. In a way, the existence of merch at all undermines the narrative. If you engage, you miss the point. But if you don’t, your new favourite author has less money in his pocket to endure reality in 2026.

There isn’t an easy answer to this. An anti-capitalist narrative does not negate the fact that food and shelter cost money—more and more of it every day. And we don’t want to fall into the trap of demanding ideological purity from people who seem basically to be on the same side. Maybe instead of me shadow debating with no one in particular about the ethics of merchandising, I should just get back to reading. I still have two books to go, you know.

Until next time, travellers,

Gael

P.S. If there’s something in books seven or eight that would lend more nuance to this conversation, do not tell me for the love of God. I want no spoilers, and I’ve put too much thought into this already.