In a world plagued with political turmoil and at a time when dystopian fiction feels less like an escape and more like a reflection of reality, Suzanne Collins returns to Panem with Sunrise on the Reaping. Released on March 18, this 400-page novel follows beloved character Haymitch Abernathy through the deadly ordeals of the 50th Hunger Games.
Readers of The Hunger Games trilogy already know Abernathy as the reluctant mentor, hardened by his past and numbed by drink. But here, Collins rewinds the clock and takes us through his victory in the Second Quarter Quell: a game designed to be twice as brutal with twice as many tributes. The novel promises to unveil the origins of his cynicism, his survival instincts and the scars that shaped the man we first met in The Hunger Games.
With the rise of short-form content promoting books — through TikTok, Instagram Reels and the ever-growing influence of “BookTube” influencers — The Hunger Games has experienced a resurgence, sparking renewed analysis and fan-driven lore (contributed to by fan-favorite castings in recent movies such as Tom Blyth as Coriolanus Snow in the prequel film The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes). While this discourse enriches the reading experience, it also fosters a susceptibility to groupthink.
Between finishing this novel and writing this review, I found myself momentarily convinced that Sunrise on the Reaping offered more nuance than it actually does, swept up in a sea of fan interpretations that layered depth onto the text that Collins herself may not have intended. While the expansion of The Hunger Games universe through fan analysis is a testament to Collins’ world-building, my goal is to evaluate this novel as it stands, separate from the fan discourse and measured by its own merits.
The Hunger Games trilogy is a reflection on the development of a modernized U.S., commentating on war, propaganda and oppression, and Sunrise on the Reaping only furthers this theme. The back cover of The Hunger Games describes the state of Panem as the ruins of a place “once known as North America,” and Collins expands on this idea through explicit literary references.
For example, Abernathy’s lover, Lenore Dove, derives her name from Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven” — a poem that Collins quotes directly. This weaving of American literary staples into Panem’s mythology underscores the dystopia’s link to our own world, reinforcing the idea that the collapse of democracy is not just a distant possibility but a natural progression of historical patterns.
And yet, rather than offering the sharp, unflinching commentary that made the original series a literary phenomenon, Sunrise on the Reaping leans on nostalgia, threading its narrative through the familiar rather than the daring. Its political commentary (while present) lacks the layers of its predecessors. The original trilogy thrived on its ability to show the horrors of war and propaganda. It was able to illustrate the process of creating propaganda through a nuanced lens with the juxtaposition of a seemingly “good” revolution that weaponizes the media with the morally ambiguous tactics of political figures like Alma Coin and Snow.
This echoed real contemporary atrocities, such as the use of state-controlled media in global uprisings. Reflecting real-world events like the Rwandan Genocide (1994), where the government used “Radio Télévision Libre des Mille Collines” to incite violence that fueled mass killings, and the Russian government’s control over independent media during the Second Chechen War (1999–2000), District 13’s relationship to propaganda highlights the the role of greying morals when it comes to politics and humanitarian justice. In the prequel, however, Collins often relies on speculative science fiction elements that, rather than amplifying the novel’s themes, dilute them.
For instance, the character Louelle passes away before the games begin and is replaced by a body double. While this could be read as a critique of the Games’s artificiality — how even the tributes themselves can be manipulated to serve a spectacle — it ultimately feels more like a manufactured horror than a meaningful commentary on political deception. Unlike The Handmaid’s Tale, where Margaret Atwood famously based every dystopian element on historical precedent, Collins’s use of exaggerated technological horrors makes the world she critiques feel more distant, less plausible and ultimately less urgent.
In terms of the portrayal of propaganda, I found it to be surface-level at best. One of the most compelling aspects of the earlier novels was how subtly readers were introduced to the unrest simmering beneath the surface of Panem. Instead of being handed exposition, we experienced the growing turmoil (widespread food shortages, increased military crackdowns and the creeping sense of rebellion) through Katniss Everdeen’s limited perspective, feeling the same disorientation and uncertainty that she did.
In Catching Fire, for example, Everdeen initially believes that her role in the Victory Tour is simply to maintain the illusion of her love story with Peeta Mellark, unaware that the Capitol’s carefully controlled messaging is also fueling revolutionary fervor in the districts. She understands that she is creating propaganda for the Capitol but doesn’t fully grasp that she is also becoming the face of the rebellion. Her eventual realization parallels our own susceptibility to compelling, emotionally charged messaging.
Perhaps it is because Sunrise on the Reaping is a prequel, but the reader is stripped of all nuance and perspective when it comes to the evolution of propaganda. From the signs of “NO PEACE, NO BREAD! NO PEACE, NO SECURITY!” that riddle District 12 to cameos of famed Gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee (who directed the propaganda videos during the third novel Mockingjay), it seems evident that Collins was afraid of readers missing the political implication in the absence of incessant hand-holding.
The beauty of The Hunger Games trilogy lies in its ability to make readers question their own perceptions: how they, like Everdeen, could be manipulated by the media and by their own biases. In the prequel, however, that complexity is lost. The message is clear-cut, but in being so, it loses its power.
For the story itself, I thought that the narrative lacked the engagement and level of intensity of the first novels. The appearance of so many characters such as Wiress, Beetee Latier and Mags Flanagan seemed forced. Why would they be mentoring Abernathy when there was no strong plot reason to? Their presence felt like an attempt to appease longtime fans. This overreliance on familiar faces diminishes the emotional weight of Abernathy’s journey, making it feel more like a parade of references than a deeply personal struggle.
The climax of Sunrise on the Reaping, while tense, also lacks the depth of its predecessors. Abernathy’s infamous use of the force field to kill the District 1 tribute, which we knew about from Catching Fire, should have been a moment of triumphant defiance against the Capitol’s control over the Games. Instead, the execution of this scene feels rushed, with little emphasis on how this act solidifies Abernathy’s reputation as a victor the Capitol cannot fully control. The aftermath, too, is disappointingly brief.
The original trilogy was exceptional at depicting the psychological toll of the Games, but here, Abernathy’s trauma is acknowledged only in broad strokes, lacking the raw introspection that made Everdeen’s journey so powerful. His descent into becoming a drunkard lacked the pause and reflection that I hoped for, and his insight was more shallow than I wished for it to be.
The story overall feels disconnected. When I originally read the earlier prequel, A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, I felt as though that universe was entirely separate from the one established in The Hunger Games. While I did not particularly enjoy the earlier prequel, I found Snow to be a fascinating narrator, and his slow transformation into the ruthless leader of Panem was compelling. Sunrise on the Reaping fails to create the same sense of immersion. The tone and style feel oddly out of sync with both realms.
While A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes introduced morally complex characters and questioned the foundations of power, the new novel seems hesitant to take the same risks. Abernathy's story is one of rebellion, yet the world around him feels more like a rehash of established lore than a deeper exploration. The narrative felt like it existed in a vacuum, with little effort to bridge the historical and political shifts between Abernathy’s Games and the world that Everdeen inhabits decades later.
Despite this, the epilogue was my favorite aspect of the novel, where the reflective tone that I was craving finally followed through. Abernathy finally confronts the weight of his actions (not just in the arena, but in the years that follow). Collins captures the crushing isolation of being a victor, the unspoken grief of a life controlled by the Capitol and the hollow victory that comes with survival.
In these final pages, we see glimpses of the Abernathy we first met in The Hunger Games: bitter, broken and drowning his pain in alcohol. While much of the novel struggles to reach the emotional heights of its predecessors, the epilogue offers a rare moment of quiet devastation.
However, one well-crafted ending does not make up for a novel. While the book succeeds in expanding Haymitch Abernathy’s backstory and reintroducing readers to the brutality of the Hunger Games’ arena, it does not push the boundaries of dystopian storytelling in the way the original trilogy did. Instead, it provides a serviable expansion for the universe, though it lacks the daring political complexity and chilling realism that once made the series a hallmark of young adult literature. For longtime fans, the novel offers a return to Panem; but it is a return that feels safer, more predictable and ultimately less thought-provoking.
