If there is a problem with Mexican Gothic—and, having had time to mull the book over in my head after reading, I'm not entirely convinced there even is one—it is a problem with genre.

Stormsong looks societal expectations of female performative likeability straight in the eye and says, “Not now. I’m extremely busy.” 

Too much in Black Leviathan feels unearned and underdeveloped.

It’s not the plants driving them to their own botanical hearts of darkness. It’s the exploration.

The Unspoken Name is a novel that does right by its readers.

What these narrative choices amount to, then, is the construction of an SF story less concerned with shocking twists, and more with being able to articulate plainly the underlying mechanisms and motivations of different socioeconomic and political positions:

Picard is not the one who works the vineyard. He rattles around its paths, learns every blade of grass, but he doesn’t get his hands dirty.

In Vivarium, Lorcan Finnegan continues his amalgamation of horrors wild and domestic.

Although I was intrigued by details like gaze gestures, I ultimately wanted to see more details, like interactions beyond nobles, if only to highlight how different the nobles are. I caught glimpses of the bright cultures and vocations of artisans, officers, and even trash collectors. Why not include those parts of Varin society, too, for a broader sociological picture?

Milbrodt’s reinterpretations of myth and fable veer inevitably toward the quotidian and the marginalized.