What if the future we feared arrived, and we barely noticed? In The Electric State, Simon Stålenhag constructs a chilling vision of a world unraveling—not with a bang, but in a haze of nostalgia, forgotten technology, and quiet devastation. For readers fascinated by dystopian fiction, visual storytelling, or the emotional residue of a fading digital age, this book offers an experience unlike any traditional narrative. It doesn’t just tell a story—it immerses you in a decaying memory of a world that never quite was, but somehow feels eerily familiar.
The Premise: A Broken World in 1997
Set in an alternate 1997 America, The Electric State follows a teenage girl named Michelle and her toy-like yellow robot, Skip, as they traverse a surreal landscape in search of her lost brother. Along their journey, they encounter haunting relics of a society addicted to “neurocasters”—a virtual reality technology that promised transcendence but delivered collapse. Skyscraper-sized battle drones lie rusting in fields. Highways stretch endlessly across dusty plains, dotted with malfunctioning tech and derelict suburban sprawl. The nation’s infrastructure has crumbled, but its aesthetics linger like echoes of a dream.
This is not a world where people scream or fight. It’s a world where they vanish—slowly, willingly—into digital oblivion. The narrative is as much about what’s missing as what remains.
Art as Atmosphere, Not Accessory
What sets The Electric State apart isn’t just its post-apocalyptic setting or its minimal prose—it’s the art. Stålenhag’s digital paintings are not illustrations of the story. They are the story. Each page reveals cinematic landscapes rendered in a photorealistic style, blending mundane Americana with broken machinery and eerie stillness. There’s a Walmart in the distance, barely lit beneath a bruised sky. A rusted, vine-wrapped mech looms over a dried-out lakebed. You don’t just read Michelle’s journey—you walk it with her, frame by haunting frame.
It’s no wonder NPR described the art as something that “crawls into your brain and never leaves.” These images evoke an aching familiarity, like finding a childhood toy in a flooded basement. They demand slow, quiet observation. You don’t flip through this book. You drift.
Themes of Loss, Disconnection, and Digital Collapse
While the art immerses you, the sparse text guides your emotional response. Michelle’s narration is internal and fragmented, reflecting her own trauma and isolation. As she moves through this abandoned world, her memories fill in the blanks—hints of a fractured childhood, failed systems, and people who chose simulation over connection. Her brother, we learn, was consumed by the neurocaster dream. So was much of America.
The novel doesn’t shout its themes. It lets them settle in slowly. At its core, The Electric State is about the human cost of technological escape—the silent unraveling of identity, relationships, and memory in the face of immersive distraction. It’s a dystopia that feels tragically close to home, especially in an age where screens already mediate so much of our experience.
Critical Acclaim and Cultural Resonance
The book’s unique format—a hybrid of art book and novel—earned it critical praise. Publishers Weekly called it a “quiet, sad adventure” and awarded it a starred review. Booklist praised its emotionally rich storytelling and haunting visual aesthetic. NPR listed it among the best books of 2018. For readers accustomed to graphic novels or traditional prose, this structure may initially feel unconventional. But its power lies in that very difference.
Its cultural impact extends beyond the page. A film adaptation produced by the Russo Brothers and starring Millie Bobby Brown recently started streaming on Netflix, a sign that Stålenhag’s fusion of art and speculative fiction resonates far beyond niche circles. Like his earlier work Tales from the Loop, which was adapted into an Amazon Prime series, The Electric State explores how the fantastical can feel most haunting when it’s placed in ordinary landscapes.
Is This Format for You?
Let’s be honest: The Electric State isn’t for everyone. If you’re looking for fast-paced action, linear plots, or dialogue-heavy storytelling, you may feel adrift in its quiet pages. The prose is sparse—almost minimalist—and the story often unfolds in suggestion more than statement. But if you’re someone who appreciates atmosphere over exposition, who finds beauty in the spaces between words, this book will likely stay with you long after you close it.
For readers unfamiliar with hybrid formats, it helps to approach The Electric State as both a visual and emotional experience. Let the images lead. The text serves more as a whisper than a guide, enriching what you already feel from the landscapes. It’s less a book you “read” and more a world you “visit.”
A Story That Feels Too Close for Comfort
One of the most unsettling elements of The Electric State is how familiar it all feels. Despite its alternate timeline and speculative tech, the world Stålenhag paints could easily be a metaphor for our own. We may not have neurocasters, but we do have feeds, filters, and devices that offer escape over connection. Michelle’s loneliness, her yearning for something real in a world of simulation, echoes loudly in our digital age.
This emotional resonance is where the book’s real power lies. It doesn’t ask, “What if the world ends?” It asks, “What if it already did—and we just kept scrolling?”
Takeaway: A Visceral Meditation on the End of Things
The Electric State is not a book you race through—it’s one you return to. Whether you’re drawn to its haunting art, its quietly devastating narrative, or its meditative exploration of tech-induced decay, it offers a uniquely immersive experience. For fans of science fiction, art books, or emotionally layered storytelling, it’s a must-read and a must-see.
And if you’ve ever felt that dull ache of disconnection in the middle of a digital binge, this book might just hold up a mirror. A strange, dusty, and heartbreakingly beautiful mirror.