But roadblocks kept popping up along the way.

• Tuition kept rising faster than inflation

• student aid expanded year after year, yet so did tuition

• degrees that once opened doors became increasingly shaky investments.

Meanwhile, younger generations began delaying major life milestones, or missing them altogether.

A lot of commentary about this subject devolves into partisan finger-pointing. But the deeper issue is incentives. Once colleges knew the federal lending system would keep expanding access to unlimited student debt, the normal price pressures that restrain costs evaporated. Universities added layers of administration, started amenities arms races, and inflated tuition far beyond what many graduates could realistically repay.

At the same time, the labor market increasingly split into two economies: one dominated by credential inflation and financed white-collar career paths, and another desperate for skilled labor that fewer young Americans were encouraged to pursue.

The result: We now have shortages in trades, absurd credential requirements for entry-level jobs, and millions of borrowers wrestling with repayment systems that grow more complicated by the year.

That larger economic story is what led me to write my new nonfiction book Debt Reckoning.

The Kickstarter campaign for the book is now live. This project examines …

1. how the student loan system evolved

2. why college costs continue to rise

3. how perverse incentives distorted higher education

4. what borrowers can do to navigate the often complex repayment, consolidation, and forgiveness options currently available

5. and what reforms could help prevent future generations from inheriting the same burdens.

The launch also includes a limited Special Reward available only through Memorial Day weekend, including the Kickstarter-exclusive eBook, paperback, hardcover, signed Collector’s Bookmark, acknowledgment credit, and a personalized signed inscription label from me.

If the project sounds interesting to you, you can check it out here.

Most writers treat scene transitions as filler. They view them as connective tissue between the important moments, so they rush through them with minimal attention. A character leaves one location, arrives somewhere else, exchanges a few lines of exposition, then the plot resumes. The story technically moves forward, yet the reader’s momentum weakens a little more with every jump.

Because readers rarely stop because of one verbal roadblock sentence. More often, they gradually disengage because the rhythm keeps sputtering. Each awkward handoff between scenes forces the audience to mentally reset. After enough resets, they lose all sense of immersion.

Many newer authors unintentionally create what editors call “teleportation prose.” Characters appear in new locations without emotional continuity carrying across scenes. A tense confrontation ends in one chapter, then the next begins hours later with the protagonist casually drinking coffee while discussing unrelated business.

The problem is especially visible in action-heavy fiction. Writers hurry toward the next major event while neglecting the intervening passages that give those events heft. That’s the best way for your battles to blur together, or your big climax to lose gravitas.

A good scene transition accomplishes three jobs at once. First, it establishes spatial continuity so readers understand where the characters are. Second, it preserves emotional continuity from the previous scene. Third, it generates anticipation for the next development.

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My book Debt Reckoning launches soon on Kickstarter. Follow the prelaunch page. Early momentum in the first 24-48 hours makes a huge difference. So even just clicking “Notify me on launch” helps me and ensures you don’t miss the special early Reward offered only through Memorial Day!

The sales pitch sounded irresistible: unlimited convenience and infinite access with no maintenance or storage concerns. After all, why clutter your house with books, Blu-rays, CDs, or cartridges when every piece of entertainment imaginable could live in the cloud?

But then the deletions started.

Movies disappeared from streaming platforms overnight. Beloved games became unplayable after server shutdowns. Songs people thought they owned vanished when licensing agreements expired. All because entire entertainment libraries became dependent on corporations’ permission.

And the unsettling truth gradually dawned on consumers. They did not own their media. They merely rented access to it.

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Acess it free for the first two weeks, then find it in the paid archive.

My book Debt Reckoning launches soon on Kickstarter. Follow the prelaunch page.Early momentum in the first 24-48 hours makes a huge difference. So even just clicking “Notify me on launch” helps me and ensures you don’t miss the special early Reward offered only through Memorial Day!

According to the standard spiel, comics died because normies invaded the hobby. Superhero stories supposedly fell apart once publishers chased casual readers instead of serving dedicated fans.

That argument appears constantly in online debates, especially among older collectors nostalgic for the pre-Cultural Ground Zero era. Yet the history of the medium tells a different story.

American comics weren’t banished to the margins because too many ordinary people bought them.

They were marginalized because ordinary people stopped seeing them.

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My book Debt Reckoning launches soon on Kickstarter. Follow the prelaunch page. Early momentum in the first 24-48 hours makes a huge difference. So even just clicking “Notify me on launch” helps me and ensures you don’t miss the special early Reward offered only through Memorial Day!

New authors usually assume dialogue exists primarily to transfer information. One character asks a plot-related question. Another answers with the necessary details. The scene technically works, yet every speaker sounds interchangeable.

Quick test: Remove the dialogue tags. If the reader can’t tell who is talking, your books has the problem we’re about to solve.

Which it urgently needs, because nothing drains personality from a novel faster than samey dialogue.

Real people speak with individual cadence and vocabulary. One man speaks in clipped fragments while another rambles.

That means your scholar should tend to lecture. The soldier should front-load the point. A priest should address the moral implications. An arrogant noble rarely admits uncertainty. A frightened man qualifies every statement.

Many writers unintentionally give every character their own speaking habits. If you’ve read a book in which hardened warriors suddenly deliver polished monologues and teenagers speak like middle-aged academics, you’ve probably encountered this issue. In severe cases, entire casts develop the same sense of humor because the author can’t help bu impose his own verbal habits.

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My book Debt Reckoning launches soon on Kickstarter. Follow the prelaunch page. Early momentum in the first 24-48 hours makes a huge difference, so even just clicking “Notify me on launch” helps me and ensures you don’t miss out.

Corporations insisted consumers were overreacting. Their executives assured audiences that online authentication, cloud streaming, and always-online requirements were the inevitable future of convenience.

But now, the long-overdue backlash has come.

The rapidly growing “Stop Killing Games” movement formed after publishers repeatedly shut down games consumers had legally purchased, rendering them partially or completely unusable. What began as scattered frustration has developed into a coordinated international campaign involving petitions, legal pressure, consumer advocacy groups, and growing political scrutiny.

At the heart of the conflict lies a deceptively simple question: If consumers buy a game, why are corporations still allowed to destroy it afterward?

That question terrifies publishers because modern digital distribution depends increasingly upon consumers never asking it.

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My next book Debt Reckoning launches soon on Kickstarter. Follow the prelaunch page. Early momentum in the first 24-48 hours makes a huge difference, so even just clicking “Notify me on launch” helps me and ensures you don’t miss out.

They also buy fewer games outright than previous generations. Many prefer temporary access over ownership. To Zoomers, entertainment has become transactional, disposable, and strangely forgettable.

At first glance, that behavior looks like simple thrift or maybe subscription fatigue. After all, prices keep climbing while users’ libraries splinter across dozens of competing platforms. It’s only natural they’d adapt.

Yet a deeper cause lurks beneath those habits.

Previous generations built cultural memory around physical media they expected to remain part of their lives for years. VHS tapes and DVDs became familiar companions revisited dozens of times. Favorite albums forged emotional associations through repeated listening. Great games were the stuff of childhood memories because players lived them for months or even years.

Modern streaming culture is anathema to that kind of attachment.

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First it was Concord. Now Highguard joins the growing digital graveyard. Meanwhile, Bungie’s upcoming Marathon reboot already faces skepticism from longtime fans who look at the footage and wonder what happened to the franchise they once loved.

Author David Stewart recently did a thorough game autopsy in a video that cuts to the heart of AAA gaming’s deepest delusions: Executives keep looking at wildly successful live service titles and concluding that their success can simply be replicated through sufficient funding and market research.

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A decade ago, such announcements would have sounded improbable. Now they define the modern AAA gaming calendar.

There’s no longer any denying it: The gaming industry has entered a self-chosen era of managed nostalgia.

Publishers once treated remakes as occasional prestige projects. Today, they serve as the backbone of major release schedules. Companies increasingly rely on established brands because those brands come preloaded with audience familiarity. The guys in the C suite see recognizable titles as safer investments than untested ideas.

We are looking at an industry defeated by its own success, where budgets now rival Hollywood productions and fear governs decision-making.

That fear did not emerge in a vacuum.

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The deep lore of Tolkien, the brutal action of Glen Cook. Read now.

Page one.

The author opens with careful scene setting, describing a city in loving detail; showing a character’s daily routine. He writes pages of background meant to orient the reader before anything “important” happens.

And by the time the story finally starts, the reader has already checked out.

This issue survives multiple drafts because it feels like the responsible approach. Writers believe they’re doing their job by explaining the world before asking the reader to engage with it. In reality, starting with setting slowly bleeds reader attention.

Because readers don’t need an orientation. They need a reason to care.

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The deep lore of Tolkien, the brutal action of Glen Cook. Read now.

According to an investigation by That Privacy Guy, Google’s Chrome browser has been quietly installing a component called Nano Defender without user consent. The extension, originally designed to bypass anti-ad block measures, appeared on systems even when users had not explicitly chosen to install it.

On the surface, this feature sounds harmless. Ad blocking tools are popular. Many users might even welcome stronger filtering. The problem lies in the delivery method. Software appearing unannounced on a personal device breaks a boundary that used to be unthinkable. Once that line is crossed, ownership starts losing meaning.

Control over one’s hardware used to be a given. You decided which programs to install and which to remove. That expectation has been steadily chipped away through auto-updates, forced patches, and background services that operate beyond the user’s awareness. Each step seemed small on its own. But taken together, they mark a transformation in how technology companies relate to their customers.

A browser no longer behaves like a tool you use. Instead it acts as a platform for bringing its makers’ agenda to your machine.

The Nano installation highlights a deeper trend. Modern software increasingly treats the user as a participant rather than an authority. Decisions once made at the keyboard are now handled remotely. Or the software just takes the liberty of making changes without asking.

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The channel had a simple, even humble, premise. It presented Pokémon as if they were real animals, complete with documentary style narration and framing. As its name suggested, the channel’s tone echoed National Geographic. And its novel take on fictional infotainment charmed millions.

Note what Pokénational Geographic did not do: It did not replace official Pokémon IPs. Instead, it perfectly complemented them. And that is precisely why it had to go.

This shutdown comes at a telling moment. Shortly before Pokénational Geographic’s removal, US courts rejected three of Nintendo’s patent claims to Pokémon-related mechanics. The rulings signaled that even one of the most aggressive defenders of intellectual property does not possess unlimited control over ideas, systems, or interpretations. Certain boundaries still exist, even for corporate giants.

Yet the contrast between those two events reveals a deeper truth. Legal limits on patents do little to restrain how corporations wield copyright in practice. One operates in the courtroom. The other plays out through platform enforcement, where accusations have immediate consequences, and there is no guarantee of appeal.

The result is a kind of soft power that bypasses traditional checks and balances. A company does not need to win every legal argument if it can simply remove competing interpretations before they gain traction.

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Even more frustrating, the usual fixes often miss the mark. Trimming dialogue tags, swapping synonyms, and sprinkling in gestures doesn’t solve the core issue.

Because the problem does not begin at the sentence level. Stiff dialogue comes from characters speaking for the author instead of for themselves.

Let’s be honest: Some authors write characters only to deliver information. But every character who speaks should do more than clarify plot points, deliver backstory, or otherwise hold the reader’s hand. Such burdensome dialogue drains life from the exchange.

Real people do not talk that way; they speak to pursue their own ends. That means each line in a conversation should advance the speaker’s goals.

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They promised us progress. Now that promise is colliding with reality.

A recent firmware change tied to Sony and its PlayStation 5 has ignited a wave of backlash. Reports indicate that certain digitally purchased games now require the console to reconnect to the internet at least once every thirty days to verify ownership. Miss that window, and access can be revoked until the system checks back in.

The technical details aren’t what’s at issue. Verification systems have existed for years. What makes this particular corporate overreach different is how clearly it exposes the terms of the arrangement players have accepted. Buying a digital game no longer grants permanent ownership. It allows conditional access.

Access that depends on a corporation’s continued willingness to honor it.

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It could be said that Tales of the Earthbound is an integrated continuity decades in the making. Threat Quotient, the first graphic novel in that continuity, took a few years to progress from a script to 108 pages of sequential art.

Planet Earth circa 2020 in Tales of the Earthbound is not exactly like the world we call home. The most glaring contrast is the existence of superheroes (or “ultrahumans,” as they’re known on our sister Earth). That said, the resemblance between the two realities are otherwise as striking as a comparison of Greek and Roman mythologies. A fake pandemic is underway. The populace is gaslit by fake news. Fake “peaceful protestors” are burning, looting, and murdering in cities across the country. A fake election installs a fake President. A fake insurrection provides the excuse for a crackdown on the political opposition, and to stop investigations into a fake election.

That’s just in America. Halfway around the world, a sovereign country resists the takeover of their economy via installation of a foreign-controlled central bank, and the rigged confidence vote to legitimize it. The war drums begin to pound.

The I.U.S. (Institute of Unorthodox Sciences) is working with the Pentagon to locate, classify, track and control ultrahumans. Or terminate them, if they can’t be controlled. Just like normal humans who refused to wear face diapers, take the experimental Darwin Stab, or remain under house arrest because of a flu bug with a 99% survival rate, there’s a handful of ultrahumans who also refuse to be controlled.

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Now try the same exercise with Gen Z. The silence you’ll get in return speaks volumes.

Recent surveys and viral classroom anecdotes point to a growing pattern: Younger viewers are not merely disinterested in older films. Many have never encountered them at all. Movies that once formed the baseline vocabulary of pop culture barely register with Zoomers.

The result is a generation entering adulthood without the cinematic literacy that earlier audiences took for granted. And trifling though it may seem, that culture gap has implications far beyond trivia night.

Film literacy once served as a kind of cultural shorthand. When a storyteller evoked Star Wars, audiences brought decades of associations to the conversation. All the archetypes, moral frameworks, and visual language came preloaded.

And writers could build on that foundation rather than start explaining from scratch. A single reference could do the heavy lifting for entire scenes.

Removing that foundation robs stories of efficiency. Symbolism loses its force because the audience lacks the shared touchstones needed to decode it. As a consequence, films must either overexplain themselves or risk being misunderstood.

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Some rewrite Chapter 1 five times. Others push past ten. A few never stop fiddling with it at all. Each pass feels necessary. Every change seems like an end in itself. Yet each leads inexorably to the next.

This problem isn’t due to a lack of effort. It comes from misunderstanding what a first chapter is supposed to accomplish.

Many writers treat the opening as a miniature version of the entire book. They rush to introduce the setting, explain the lore, establish the cast, and hint at every major theme. That ambition leads to bloated openings packed with information but short on story.

Result: Your readers feel the book start to drag immediately.

A strong first chapter works within tighter constraints. Its job is to establish forward momentum. The key is to present a character in motion, facing a situation that demands action. That situation should naturally raise questions, and those questions are what pull the reader deeper into the story.

Most new authors front-load context and call it motion. They pile on exposition, and multiply maid-and-butler dialogue until the book stalls right out of the gate.

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That corporate narrative trained millions of buyers to assume that whatever price appeared on Amazon’s listings reflected the natural outcome of competition. The algorithm, we were told, would find the lowest number. The market would handle the rest.

Newly unsealed evidence in a California antitrust case tells a shockingly different story.

According to filings by California’s attorney general, Amazon allegedly coordinated with brands and pressured rival retailers to raise their prices rather than undercut its listings. That pressure appears to have extended across multiple industries from clothing to pet supplies, with internal communications showing Amazon urging companies to bring competitors back in line.

One example stands out for its simplicity: A pair of khaki pants listed for less on Walmart triggered a complaint. Within a day, the lower price vanished.

That is not the invisible hand of the market. It is a quite visible hand reaching across the aisle and into your pocket.

The implications reach further than one lawsuit. They strike at the central illusion of the digital retail age: that scale guarantees fairness.

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That excitement didn’t last.

Reports clarified that the casting rumor had no basis in reality. More importantly, internal guidance from Disney instructs writers not to use Mara Jade at all. The character remains noncanon, and under current policy, she cannot appear in official film projects.

That decision says more about the state of the franchise than any casting rumor. Mara Jade, introduced in Heir to the Empire by Timothy Zahn, became one of the Expanded Universe’s defining figures. An ex-imperial spook turned reluctant ally, then eventual love interest for Luke Skywalker, she introduced moral tension that earned fans’ loyalty.

And it wasn’t just novelty. The fans connected with a character whose arc had intentional development and closed with a major payoff.

That kind of attachment cannot be manufactured overnight. Not that Disney didn’t try repeatedly, giving us a decade of Mary Sues that left audiences cold.

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Now, Amazon is revising that promise. They have announced that they will discontinue Kindle for PC on June 30, replacing it with a new version restricted to newer systems and controlled distribution channels.

On its own, that change may sound like routine software maintenance. But this isn’t an isolated update. It’s part of a broader pattern.

As we’ve covered here, Amazon is also cutting off older devices from the Kindle store, preventing them from purchasing or downloading new books, despite remaining fully functional.

Put those two decisions together, and they resolve into a clearer picture:

• Restricted access

• centralized control

• redefined ownership.

And readers agreed to none of it.

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