Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow

Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow arrived in 2022 and immediately established itself as one of the decade’s most talked-about literary novels. Spanning thirty years of a complicated creative partnership between Sam Masur and Sadie Green, two game designers whose bond defies easy categorization, the book uses video games as a lens for exploring identity, disability, race, cultural appropriation, and the messy space between love and collaboration.

The response has been overwhelmingly positive, with readers praising its emotional intelligence, its respectful treatment of gaming culture, and its refusal to simplify its central relationship. The criticisms that exist tend to focus on pacing in the middle sections and an episodic structure that doesn’t always serve the narrative’s forward momentum.

Creative Partnership as the Ultimate Love Story

Zevin’s greatest achievement is writing about creative collaboration with a depth and specificity that rings true. The relationship between Sam and Sadie resists every label: they aren’t lovers, aren’t simply friends, aren’t purely business partners. They’re something more complicated and more interesting than any of those categories, and Zevin captures the intensity, jealousy, generosity, and pain of making art with someone you care about with remarkable precision.

The video game world is rendered with authenticity and affection. Zevin clearly did her homework, and the fictional games Sam and Sadie create feel real enough to play. More importantly, the creative process, the compromises, the vision clashes, the moments of transcendent collaboration, is portrayed with a specificity that artists of any discipline will recognize.

The book’s treatment of disability, race, and gender identity is woven naturally into the narrative rather than bolted on as themes. Sam’s chronic pain from a childhood injury shapes his entire life and creative vision without defining him. Sadie’s experience as a woman in gaming is presented with nuance that avoids both victimhood and fairy-tale empowerment.

Zevin’s prose is confident and often beautiful, shifting registers between emotional intimacy and intellectual playfulness. The Macbeth allusions embedded in the title ripple through the text in ways that reward attentive readers without alienating those who miss them.

The Middle Game’s Slower Pace

The novel’s episodic structure, jumping through decades of Sam and Sadie’s careers, creates momentum issues in the middle third. Some readers find that the time jumps, while necessary for the scope of the story, prevent them from fully settling into any single period. Just as one game’s development becomes absorbing, the book leaps forward to the next phase.

Marx, the third member of the central trio, has drawn mixed reactions. Some readers find him the book’s most lovable character. Others feel he exists more as a device than as a fully independent person, serving as the emotional connector between Sam and Sadie without always having his own story.

A few readers find the novel’s ambitions occasionally outpace its execution. The book attempts to address so many themes, gaming culture, disability, race, gender, grief, creativity, capitalism, that individual threads sometimes feel underdeveloped. The late-novel exploration of cultural appropriation in gaming, while important, arrives with a weight that the preceding chapters haven’t fully earned.

The ending has divided some readers. Without spoiling specifics, certain plot developments in the final act feel abrupt to some, introducing dramatic stakes that shift the book’s register in ways that not everyone finds convincing.

Where Art and Life Blur

The novel’s deepest insight is about the relationship between the art we make and the lives we live. Sam and Sadie pour their traumas, desires, and unspoken feelings into their games, and the games in turn shape their relationship. Zevin captures this feedback loop between creation and creator with sophistication, showing how making something together can be both the deepest form of intimacy and a way of avoiding direct emotional confrontation.

The book also makes a quiet, persuasive case for games as an art form without ever becoming preachy about it. By embedding its story so deeply in the medium, Zevin lets the artistry speak for itself.

Should You Read Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow?

If you’re interested in creative partnerships, the messy intersection of art and life, or relationships that resist easy labels, this is essential reading. Gamers will appreciate the authentic treatment of their medium, but the book doesn’t require gaming knowledge to enjoy. If you need tight, propulsive plotting or struggle with episodic narratives that span decades, the middle sections may lose you. This is a book that rewards patience and emotional investment.

The Verdict on Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow is an ambitious, emotionally rich novel that earns its considerable acclaim. Zevin writes about creativity, partnership, and identity with rare intelligence, and her use of video games as both setting and metaphor opens doors that more conventional literary fiction keeps closed. The episodic pacing creates drag in places, and the book sometimes tries to carry more thematic weight than its structure can support. But as a portrait of what it means to make something with someone you love, it’s one of the most rewarding reads of its generation.