I remember reading a book—the first I ever reviewed online—called Meditations on Middle-earth, a collection of essays from the who’s who of fantasy, reflecting on The Lord of the Rings. They spoke about when they read it, how it influenced them, and why it mattered. Among them was Robin Hobb, who I would later interview. She asked: Why even try to write something that’s already been done at that level?
I find myself, from a fan’s perspective, in a similar place.
Steven Erikson did it.
When I finished reading The Crippled God, I was overcome by that magical, maddening yearning—the kind where you have to talk to someone, anyone, about what you just experienced. And when I searched for discourse? Crickets. Or, rather, not enough noise for something so monumental. This was the culmination of one of the greatest literary achievements of our time, and it arrived with alarmingly little fanfare.
What happened?
Across social media, in industry circles, I constantly see think pieces and lists—”Top 10 Fantasy Books With Dragons,” “Best Female Characters in Fantasy,” “Fantasy That Breaks the Mold.” And consistently, Erikson and The Malazan Book of the Fallen are absent. In their place? Very solid, often excellent works of speculative fiction. But not in the same league.
Erikson’s series is a once-in-a-generation achievement. It wears the clothes of classic fantasy but walks down roads that only seem familiar until you realize they’ve been restructured beneath your feet. He did it. Again.
Of the 100 greatest female characters in fantasy? He has a dozen. Characters who don’t fit traditional molds, who are badasses, thinkers, leaders, fools, lovers, and legends—each with nuance, pain, history, and growth. Not as tokens. As foundations. That’s because this isn’t a story of singular heroes; it’s the story of an empire—of conquest and confluence, of peoples joining and clashing and surviving together.
Even in seemingly lighter matters—like lists of fantasy with dragons—his omission is absurd. Is it possible Erikson committed some literary faux pas unknown to the public? Did he insult the wrong editor? Stiff a book tour in Manhattan? Kick down a publisher’s door with a manuscript wrapped in explosive genius and say, “Deal with it”? I’m joking. But the absence makes no sense if we’re talking about literary merit.
Erikson’s work is great. Monumental, even.
I interviewed both Erikson and his co-creator Ian C. Esslemont years ago. And after The Crippled God, I began to write what might’ve passed for a review. But it became something else. Fragmented, spiraling, full of tangents. A torrent of thought and feeling. Too much. I couldn’t stop. So I broke it into sub-thoughts—mini-essays, reactions, theories—anything to try to make sense of what I’d read.
What hit me hardest was the way the series plays with the concept of evil.
For so long, the Crippled God was treated—by readers and characters—as the big bad. The villain. Even knowing that didn’t make narrative sense, I still carried that association. Why? Because the word “crippled” carries a loaded, often unconscious, connotation. It evokes pity or aversion. We assume someone with such a name must have done something to deserve it. But what if we knew him first by his true name—Kaminsod?
Names have power. His followers carry titles like Reaver, Leper, Fool, Consort. Not glamorous. They reflect our fear of the outcast, of suffering, of being burdened. Yet in this house—the House of Chains—there is nobility. Knight of Chains may be one of the most honorable roles in the entire series. The Malazans—representatives of many peoples, oppressors and oppressed—band together not for conquest, but to do something right. Not smart. Right.
They hold the door open for a chained alien god. And then, with mercy, they kill him. To free him. And to save themselves.
Kaminsod—”Kamin,” like fireplace in German—a hearth, warmth. Instead, he becomes the furnace that powers devastation. Rechained and defiled over and over. He is a metaphor for suffering exploited, pain politicized. And those who exploit him are tainted.
Erikson’s brilliance lies in how he stages this moral journey within a post-modern epic that still reveres the traditions of the genre. His work is vast. It’s not one story—it’s every story. He doesn’t just hint at backstory; he builds it. His appendices are lived in. Every name on a list might be someone we’ll follow for three novels. Every soldier could become a god.
In most fiction, chaos is lazy. Random. It exists as an excuse to be edgy or cryptic. But in Malazan, chaos is real and ordered—because it’s confronted, contextualized, and ultimately freed. And that effort? It costs. The Bridgeburners and Bonehunters suffer. They don’t always understand the cause, but they believe in it. Humanity, in Erikson’s world, has meaning.
Even when no one’s watching.
That’s what elevates Erikson’s work. It’s not just a story—it’s a philosophy. A reflection of what it means to endure, to try, to matter. And for all its scale, its cinematic scope, its sorcery and satire, its theology and tragedy, The Malazan Book of the Fallen is about people. It reminds us that worth is not inherent. It’s earned. It’s given. It’s shared.
Sometimes, the coin isn’t gold. Sometimes, it’s just a moment of kindness. A hug. A story told to no one. And that’s where the true magic lives.
Erikson salutes us—his unwitnessed army.
Not with glitter or glory, but with clarity.
All that is gold does not glitter, and all worth is found in what bridges lonely distances. Erikson offers us the beauty and bravery of momentary clarities amidst the chaos. He broke the pattern, put his people at all the gates—and then, always first in, took the next step.
Wide-eyed, stupid, and triumphant.