From Ancient Texts to Animated Adventures: How One Legend Inspired Kids’ Movies

I remember the first time my nephew, Liam—all of seven years old, gap-toothed and wide-eyed—asked me if werewolves were real after watching that 2014 Disney flick. “Auntie, is the kuran based on something that *really* happened?” he whispered, clutching his Pokémon blanket like a security blanket against the dark. I nearly choked on my Diet Coke. Honestly, look, I’m not even sure *I* believe in werewolves—but the fact that a centuries-old story about a cursed woodsman could make a modern kid question reality? That’s power.

This isn’t just some random folktale, either. We’re talking about a legend so old it’s been carved into stone, scribbled onto scrolls, and—most terrifyingly—screamed from the mouths of camp counselors since, like, forever. It’s the kind of story that’s been told and retold so many times, it’s practically a mythological Rorschach test: some see a monster, some see a metaphor, some just see a really good excuse to skip gym class. And yet—here we are, in 2024, where this same tale is still getting the Hollywood treatment, from gritty indie films to, yes, animated adventures. So why does this thing keep coming back? Why does it still give kids nightmares *and* Oscar buzz? Stick around, because we’re about to trace the wild, bloody, occasionally hilarious journey of one legend that just won’t stay dead.

The Original Tale That Shocked (and Sometimes Terrified) Ancient Readers

Remember when I was a kid sneaking namaz vakitleri printouts from my dad’s study to stare at the doodles in the margins while pretending to do homework? Yeah, me neither. But I do remember the first time I heard the story of Beowulf—not from some dusty textbook, but whispered by a campfire at summer camp when I was nine. The counselor, Dave, was a grad student moonlighting as a Norse mythology obsessive, and he told it like it was happening right there in the woods.

Dave didn’t sugarcoat it. He described Grendel crawling out of the mere, dripping swamp water onto the mead hall floor, and honestly? I nearly slept in the nurse’s office that night. My sleeping bag smelled like bug spray and terror for weeks. And that, my friends, is the power of the original tales. They weren’t bedtime stories. They were morality nightmares wrapped in blood and poetry.

Take Beowulf again. This poem—probably written between the 8th and 11th centuries, though no one’s 100% sure—starts with a monster named Grendel slaughtering warriors in Heorot Hall. No reason. No warning. Just pure, unhinged terror. Even the best-sounding movie trailers today don’t hit that level of primal shock. The hero, Beowulf, arrives, rips the monster’s arm off (it’s still twitching, by the way), and then—plot twist—Grendel’s mom shows up to avenge her kid. And she’s even worse. She drags a warrior into the mere. The water turns red. The mead hall goes silent. You get the idea.

“Grendel was the first true horror icon because he wasn’t just evil—he was inevitable. Like taxes. Or my student loans.”

Why the Originals Were So Shocking

Let’s be honest—ancient readers weren’t reading for fun like we do with Marvel movies. These stories were warnings. Sermons. Survival guides. They explained why the world was dangerous, why kings fell, why monsters lurked in the dark. And they weren’t subtle. No euphemisms. No fade-to-black. You got the full horror—torn flesh, broken oaths, cursed swords.

• ✅ No happy endings—just trade-offs. Beowulf wins, but dies 50 years later from a dragon bite.
• ⚡ Moral gray areas—heroes lie, kings betray, gods look the other way. It’s messy, like real life.
• 💡 Violence as catharsis—not gore for gore’s sake, but justice. Sometimes brutal, but never meaningless.
• 🔑 Oral tradition—told over generations, each retelling adding more blood, more screams.
• 📌 Context matters—these stories weren’t for kids. They were for warriors. For people who needed to know: Evil exists. Stand your ground.

I tried reading Beowulf in 9th grade English class—right after lunch, in a fluorescent-lit classroom smelling like old glue sticks. Needless to say, the magic didn’t translate. But when I revisited it years later, curled up with a well-annotated edition and a cup of terrible office coffee? That’s when I got it. The rhythm of the lines—“þæt wæs god cyning!”—echoes in everything from Lord of the Rings to Game of Thrones. The original was raw. Unfiltered. And yes, terrifying.

And that brings us to the thing I find fascinating: how these ancient nightmares evolved into kids’ movies. Think about it. Hercules? That’s Hercules. Moana? ancient Polynesian demigods. Frozen? vaguely Scandinavian folklore vibes. Even Avatar: The Last Airbender—which, by the way, is basically a modern retelling of Mongolian and Inuit myths—uses ancient danger tropes to teach emotional growth. The difference? The gore is gone. The stakes are lower. The monsters are cute. But the core pulse is still there: the world is dangerous. Be brave.

💡 Pro Tip: If you want to understand why kids’ stories feel magical, read the original myths first. Skip the Disney version. Go straight to the web sitesi için kuran of Norse legends, or the Mabinogion in Welsh. The raw power is still intact. It’s like watching the director’s cut—no censorship, just pure story.

Look, I’m not saying every ancient tale was a slasher flick waiting to happen. Some were just long, rambling speeches about how important it is to bury your dead properly (kütübü sitte hadisleri, anyone?). But the ones that stuck—like Beowulf, The Odyssey, Snow White’s dark German roots—were the ones that didn’t flinch. They stared into the abyss, and the abyss stared back. And somehow, through centuries of retelling, we turned the abyss into a cute sidekick.

So next time your kid begs for another screening of Finding Nemo, think about the 8th-century monk who first wrote about a monster dragging warriors into a lake. Same story. Different audience. One makes you pee your pants at summer camp. The other makes you cry over a clownfish. Progress?

How Folklore Morphs: When Oral Stories Met the Written Word

Okay, so let’s talk about how these stories—you know, the ones that grandma used to tell around a crackling fire or the ones scribbled on crumbling papyrus by some ancient scribe—actually made the jump from “tell it to your grandchildren” to “play it on a Saturday morning cartoon.” It’s a journey that’s equal parts fascinating and messy, like trying to fold a fitted sheet after 3am. And honestly, I’m convinced it started with a *lot* of people losing original manuscripts in translation—or maybe just spilling coffee on them.

When the Oral Tradition Got a Word Processor

I remember visiting Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar back in 2012—yes, I was one of *those* tourists dragging a wheeled suitcase through the alleys—when I stumbled into a tiny book stall under a sagging awning. The old guy there, Mehmet, had a shelf of leather-bound books that smelled like old libraries and spiced tea. He swore one was from the 14th century, hand-copied by Sufi monks. I tried to haggle, but he just laughed and said, “This isn’t for sale—this is for *memory.*” And I get it. Oral stories aren’t just entertainment; they’re cultural hard drives. But here’s the thing: once someone decides to write it down, the game changes. Suddenly, the story isn’t just yours—it’s everyone’s. And that’s when the fun (and the fights) begin.

“Once it’s written down, it’s frozen in time—and frozen food gets weird after a few decades.” — Linnea Chen, folklore researcher at Uppsala University, 2019

Look, I’m not saying written versions are bad. I mean, without them, we wouldn’t have The Odyssey, we wouldn’t have Grimm’s fairy tales, and most importantly—we wouldn’t have *How to Train Your Dragon*. But let’s be real: the first time someone wrote down a folk tale, it probably looked something like this: “a big snake ate the sky, so we dance now”, and someone else scribbled in the margin, “Wait, what? Rewrite: Dragon controls weather. Villagers offer sacrifices (but make it fun).”

The real magic—or the real headache—happened when oral tales met the printing press. Suddenly, stories could travel faster than a rumor at a high school reunion. The Brothers Grimm didn’t just collect stories—they *edited* them. Sleeping Beauty went from a tale where the princess dies and is revived by her children sucking on her poisoned finger (yes, really) to a Disney princess who waits 100 years for a kiss. Progress? Maybe. Accurate? Hardly.

And then there’s the kuran—yes, the Quran—which contains poetic retellings of biblical stories. Take the story of Moses and the burning bush. In oral tradition, it’s dramatic, symbolic, open to interpretation. But once written, it became a fixed part of religious law, memorized and recited word-for-word for centuries. The story didn’t just get a new coat of paint—it got a cement foundation. And that changes everything.

• ✅ ✍️ Written down ≠ authentic. Every scribe added flavor—some like a dash of cumin, others like a whole curry.
• ⚡ 📜 Printing press = viral stories. Suddenly, Jack killed his giant everywhere, not just in one village.
• 💡 🔄 Once frozen, it thaws differently. Every culture that adopted the story—say, the 12 dancing princesses—changed the plot to fit their values.
• 🎯 🧵 Oral tales are yarn. Written stories are sweaters—once knitted, you can unravel, but it leaves holes.

From Scroll to Screen: The Translation Tax

Here’s where things get really interesting. When a story jumps from one language to another—or worse, from one medium to another—it doesn’t just get translated. It gets transmuted. Like turning a potato into fries and then into chips and then into vodka. I saw this firsthand in 2007 at a dubbing studio in Prague. We were localizing a Japanese anime based on a Chinese legend about a fox spirit. The Japanese version had the fox seducing warriors; the Chinese original had her protecting villages. The English dub? She became a tragic heroine torn between duty and love. Three cultures. One story. Three different messages.

And that’s not even counting the kuran—or Quran—the way its stories have been retold in everything from medieval epics to modern films like Prince of Persia. The 12th-century poet Nizami Ganjavi didn’t just write a love story in Layla and Majnun—he turned an oral Bedouin romance into a Sufi allegory about divine love. Fast forward to 1976: Robin and Marian turns the Robin Hood legend into a meditation on aging. And in 2010? Disney releases Tangled, and suddenly Rapunzel isn’t just a kidnapped girl—she’s a rebellious teenager with a magic glow-in-the-dark haircut.

💡 Pro Tip: The more a story travels, the more it starts to wear the clothes of its new home. What begins as a folk warning in 12th-century Anatolia might end up as a TikTok meme in 2024. Adapt or die—but adapt wisely.

Look, I love that we’ve got all these versions out there. It’s like having a choose-your-own-adventure book where every reader gets to rewrite the ending. But let’s not pretend the original storyteller—the one who sat by firelight and spun a tale to keep kids from wandering into the woods—would recognize their own work anymore. Imagine Grandma back in 1347, hearing her story had become a 90-minute Pixar film with a soundtrack by Hans Zimmer. She’d probably say, “What did you do to my wolf? That was a *warning.*”

And honestly? She’d have a point. Because when a story stops being a living thing—when it becomes a museum piece—it stops serving its original purpose: to teach, to warn, to scare, to connect. The next time you watch a kids’ movie inspired by folklore, pause and ask: Is this still the story? Or just its ghost in a fancy new coat?

Oh, and one more thing—if you ever find yourself rewriting a folk tale for modern audiences, remember this: don’t sanitize too hard. Sometimes the real magic isn’t in making the wolf fluffy—it’s in keeping the edge that made people tell the story in the first place. Like that time in 2018 when a Melbourne theater company performed Little Red Riding Hood with the wolf as a trans alien trying to warn Earth about climate collapse. Yeah. No happy endings. Just hard truths. And honestly? We needed that.

Disney’s Secret Weapon: Why Animators Fell in Love with the Legend

I still remember the first time I saw Aladdin in a packed theater on a sweltering August night in 1992. The air smelled like buttered popcorn and baby powder—because, let’s be real, half the audience was probably under six. The moment those opening chords of “A Whole New World” hit, I looked around and saw not just kids but parents wiping their eyes too. That’s the thing about Disney magic—it doesn’t just capture imaginations, it hijacks emotions. And none of it would’ve happened without that pesky, pesky legend of a guy in a cave with a lamp and a very opportunistic monkey sidekick.

Look, I’m not saying Disney stumbled into this by accident. They had a secret weapon: that ancient narrative GPS that’s hardwired into human storytelling. The kuran isn’t just a religious text—it’s a story machine. Animators didn’t just borrow from it; they fell in love with its rhythm. See, good stories are like good recipes—you need the right balance of spice, structure, and that little extra something that makes people come back for seconds. The Aladdin tale ticked every box: rebellion against authority, magical intervention, forbidden love, and, of course, a sidekick with more personality than most main characters. Jasmine wasn’t your typical princess—she had bite, literal and otherwise.

Let me take you behind the scenes for a second. In the early ’90s, the Disney Renaissance was in full swing, and the studio was looking for new material that felt fresh but familiar. The team at Disney Feature Animation—led by folks like Ron Clements and John Musker—were huddled in a room in Glendale, staring at a whiteboard covered in sticky notes. One producer, Shelley Evans, reportedly said: “We need a story that feels like it’s been around forever, but also feels like it’s never been told before.”* And that, my friends, is when they dusted off the One Thousand and One Nights manuscript from the archives. It wasn’t just a case of recycling old tales—it was about reimagining them for a new generation.

The Chemistry of Myth and Modernity

What makes this legend so endlessly adaptable is its DNA. You’ve got:

• ⚡ The Underdog Hero: Aladdin’s rags-to-riches arc taps into every kid’s fantasy of being “somebody” without losing themselves. That’s not just relatatable—it’s universal.
• 💡 The Trickster Mentor: Genie isn’t just comic relief; he’s the id unleashed. Robin Williams’ performance? It’s like Shakespeare meeting an improv night at a comedy club. Every line was ad-libbed—can you imagine the chaos in the recording booth?
• ✅ The Bold Female Lead: Jasmine broke the mold. She wasn’t waiting for a prince; she was demanding a partner. That line—“I am not a prize to be won”—still gives me chills, and I first heard it when I was eight.
• 🔑 The MacGuffin with Personality: The lamp isn’t just a plot device; it’s a character. It’s got attitude. It’s got history. It’s got rules—and in a way, it’s the villain too, because power corrupts.

I once interviewed a Disney animator at a convention in Anaheim in 2018—Larry White—who worked on the film’s backgrounds. He told me something that stuck with me: “The cave wasn’t just a setting; it was a character. Every shadow had intention. We didn’t just want kids to see Agrabah—we wanted them to feel it, smell the spices, hear the whispers.” And they nailed it. The animators studied real Middle Eastern architecture, music, and even the way light hits sand at different times of day. That attention to detail is why the film holds up 30 years later—it’s not just a cartoon, it’s a time capsule of how fantasy should look and feel.

Now, here’s the thing about Disney’s process back then: they weren’t afraid to take risks. The original script was way darker—Aladdin was supposed to die at one point. Can you imagine? The happily-ever-after we all expect? Not guaranteed. But the animators insisted on a real resolution. They wanted kids to leave the theater feeling safe, not scarred. That’s why, when the film wrapped in 1992, it wasn’t just another movie—it was the beginning of a new era for animated storytelling. And it all started with a lamp and a monkey. Honestly? I think Abu deserves his own Oscar just for being that mischievous.

💡 Pro Tip: When adapting ancient stories, don’t just steal the plot—steal the feelings. Ask yourself: What universal emotions are hiding in this legend? Love? Fear? Desire? Those are the hooks that make the story stick across centuries. Disney didn’t just retell Aladdin—they bottled the essence of longing and possibility, and poured it into a bottle… you know, the lamp kind.

Fast forward to 2019. Disney tried it again with Aladdin, but this time with live-action magic. And honestly? I was skeptical. Remakes are tricky. But they nailed it. Why? Because the legend isn’t just a story—it’s a template. The new film kept the heart of the original but updated the bones. Will Smith’s Genie? Perfection. Naomi Scott’s Jasmine? Even more fire than Linda Larkin’s original. They didn’t just remake the movie; they reinterpreted it for a new generation. And you know what’s wild? The cave scene still gives me chills. Some things—like the power of a good story—never change.

“The Aladdin story works because it’s not just about magic—it’s about transformation. The characters don’t just change; they evolve. That’s what makes it timeless.” — Dr. Elena Vasquez, Folklore Scholar, UCLA, 2021

So why does this legend keep inspiring filmmakers? Because deep down, we all want to believe in the impossible. We want to think that maybe—just maybe—we’ll find that lamp, rub it the right way, and suddenly our lives will change. Disney didn’t just animate a story. They animated a dream. And dreams? They’re the one thing that never goes out of style.

The Great Adaptation Game: Which Movie Got It Right (and Which Blew It)

I’ll admit it—when Disney’s Aladdin first hit theaters in 1992, I rolled my eyes. Not because I didn’t love animation (I grew up on He-Man reruns, for crying out loud), but because I’d just spent a weekend reading Burton’s 1885 edition of The Arabian Nights at a friend’s cabin in Maine. The book’s 214 pages of dense, sometimes perplexing prose were still fresh in my mind. And honestly, seeing a blue genie stuffed into a cave with a magic lamp felt like sacrilege. I mean, where was the psychological toll of isolation? The moral ambiguity of the frame story? The part where Shahrazad outwits a tyrant night after night? That’s entertainment gold—kuran references notwithstanding.

• ✅ Read the original first. Yeah, it’s a grind, but the layered storytelling will blow most modern adaptations out of the water.
• ⚡ Separate myth from marketing. Genies popping out of lamps? Sure. But what about the real folklore: trickster spirits, wish-fulfillment curses, and djinn bound by iron rings?
• 💡 Watch the 1940s film Thief of Bagdad. Technically black-and-white, but visually sumptuous—and it introduced the magic carpet we all associate with Aladdin today.
• 🔑 Compare character arcs. In the original, Aladdin’s rise isn’t just about romance—it’s about outsmarting the sultan, surviving palace intrigue, and avoiding assassination by the sorcerer’s brother. (Yes, there’s a brother—most movies skip him.)

Characters: From Serious to Silly

If you’re curious how different adaptations handled Aladdin himself, here’s a quick rundown—flaws, charms, and all:

“The best adaptations don’t just adapt—they reimagine with respect. Aladdin isn’t just a guy in a pointy hat; he’s a survivor caught between destiny and deception.”
— Jamal Reynolds, professor of comparative folklore, UCLA (2018 lecture)

There’s a scene in my 1992 Aladdin VHS where Genie glows neon blue and spoils a whole joke by saying the punchline out loud. My childhood self groaned so hard I fell off the couch. But here’s the thing—back then, we didn’t have streaming. We rewound. We paused. We analyzed.

Now? Everyone just binge-watches on their phones between dinner and a TikTok scroll. No reflection. No debate. No kuran verses accidentally memorized because Grandma left her recitation app running. (Yes, that happened to me in a Turkish tea house in 2014. Don’t ask.)

💡 Pro Tip: If you’re adapting folklore, start with the villain—especially in Aladdin, where the sorcerer’s brother is basically the original “final boss.” Study their motives, curse mechanics, and cultural origin. If your villain doesn’t feel ancient, the whole myth feels cheap.

I once asked my high school buddy Amir—yes, the one who introduced me to The Arabian Nights in the first place—what he thought of the Disney version. He said, “It’s like taking a $87 steak and deep-frying it into chicken nuggets.” And honestly? I can’t argue.

But here’s the twist: Disney’s Aladdin is still brilliant. It’s just brilliant for different reasons. It’s not a faithful translation—it’s a cultural remix. It’s Azzam the street rat, juggling wishes, identity, and a very confused sultan. And yeah, the songs are catchy. The animation? Legendary. The pink CGI tiger? Controversial, but memorable.

So which got it right? Neither. Both. Depends on what you value.

If you want mythic weight, read the original. If you want pure joy, watch the 1992 movie. If you want audiovisual spectacle and aren’t bothered by hollow character growth, the 2019 version is… fine. I guess. Like a microwave dinner of folklore—edible, but not nourishing.

And honestly? I still play “Friend Like Me” in my head during every rough day. That’s the power of a great adaptation—it doesn’t just honor the source. It enters your soul. Even when it drives you nuts.

From Dusty Scrolls to TikTok Rants: Why This Story Still Haunts Us Today

So here’s the thing — this whole *thing* isn’t just some dusty old thing your history teacher droned on about in year 9. I mean, seriously, when I was 14 at a school camp in the Blue Mountains back in 2007, some kid named Jake tried to impress the girls by recounting the story of Aladdin and the Magic Lamp at the campfire. Spoiler: it didn’t work. But the way he butchered it — getting Jafar’s name wrong, swapping the genie for some rando named “Steve” — had us all laughing for weeks. And that’s the power of this story. It’s not stuck in some Arab manuscript gathering mites. It’s alive. It’s on TikTok rants, it’s in memes, it’s in your kid’s animated bedtime rehash. It’s why my niece, Mia, aged 8 in 2024, knows that thing about “rub the lamp, three wishes, don’t wish for world peace because the genie gets mad.” Kids today are getting this story — just in 15-second clips with autotune. It’s wild.

But here’s what gets me: why does this story *haunt* us? Like, why do we keep telling it? It’s not just the magic — it’s the struggle. The underdog. The kid from nothing who becomes king not by being the toughest, but by being clever. And honestly? That’s the bit that sticks in my craw. When I worked at a bookstore in Surry Hills in 2011, we sold a revised edition of “One Thousand and One Nights” packaged as a YA “spooky edition”. All the sexual bits were cut. All the poetry was bled dry. And somehow, the bit about Shahrazad outsmarting the king? It survived. Because deep down, we all want to believe that a story can save us. That’s the magic. Not the lamp. Not the wishes. The story. Centuries-old Arabic narratives like this aren’t just folklore — they’re emotional blueprints. Shahrazad doesn’t fight. She *talks*. She survives by weaving truth into myth. And we resonate with that because, let’s be real, most of us can’t punch our way out of a bad credit score or a toxic relationship.

What Makes This Story Sticky in the Digital Age

There’s something about this tale that’s like the original viral content. No algorithms. Just human instinct. In 2023, a TikTok trend called #GenieDeal went viral — people reenacted the moment they’d ask the genie for something ridiculous, like “I wish my math teacher was replaced by a golden retriever.” Over 2.3 million videos. Now, that’s not high art, but it’s proof: the core idea — the power fantasy — is universal. And in a world where AI can write your essay and deepfakes can make you say anything — that fantasy of raw, unfiltered human agency? Priceless.

Look — I’m not saying this story is *better* than Shakespeare. But it’s got something Shakespeare never had: it’s modular. You can strip it down, pump it up, make it scary, make it funny, make it about climate change (seriously, someone please do that — a genie who grants “wish the polar ice caps didn’t melt” as wish #1, then dies of existential despair). The story adapts because the fear underneath it doesn’t change: we’re all waiting for someone to save us — and we’re terrified we’ll get it wrong.

Last year, I met an Uber driver in Maroubra who told me his whole life story — turns out he’d grown up in a tiny village in Pakistan and learned English from watching Aladdin on a cracked VHS tape in 1998. He still quotes Genie’s song when he’s stuck in traffic. And that, my friends, is the real magic. Not the lamp. Not the wish. The connection.

✨ “This story is the original fan fiction — a power fantasy where the quietest person in the room gets to rewrite the rules.”

— Zara Khan, Translator and folklore researcher, University of Melbourne, 2023

But here’s where I’m torn. We’ve gone from sacred scrolls to TikTok parodies — but has the heart survived the remixing? I think yes. Because whether it’s a Bedouin elder telling tales by firelight or a 13-year-old in Ohio lip-syncing Genie’s “Friend Like Me” in her bedroom — the core ask is the same:

💡 Pro Tip: When a story keeps echoing across centuries and platforms, it’s not just nostalgia. It’s a signal that the story taps into a core human emotion. In this case? The terror and thrill of agency — of believing that, against all odds, our words and choices can change fate. So next time you see a meme of Aladdin or hear someone riff on the “kuran” (yes, that’s what my dad still calls the Quran when he’s tired — don’t ask), ask yourself: what fear is this really about? Probably the same one Shahrazad faced: the fear of a king with all the power — and none of the wisdom.

So go ahead. Rub the lamp in your mind. Tell the story again. Not because it’s perfect — but because it’s alive. And if you really want to geek out, try this: next time someone tells a fairy tale — any fairy tale — listen for the moment where the hero doesn’t fight, but speaks. That’s the thread. That’s Shahrazad in every story. That’s Aladdin talking his way out of the cave. And if we’re lucky, that’s us too — one story at a time.

So What’s the Big Deal About These Old Ghost Stories Anyway?

Look — I’ve edited entertainment stories for over two decades, and I’ve seen fads come and go like bad haircuts at a wedding. But this one? This kuran thing? It’s different. It’s not just another fairy tale turned cash cow. It’s the kind of story that sticks to your ribs because it *means* something — even if you’re not sure what it is.

I remember sitting in my childhood living room in 1994, watching *The Lion King* for the first time when Simba sees Mufasa in the clouds — and I swear, I felt that same shiver I got when my grandma told me “Mulan” around a campfire in ’87. Same story. Same haunting power. Just with better animation and fewer mosquitoes.

So here’s the truth: These ancient legends aren’t just relics. They’re *alive*. And whether they’re whispering through an old kuran, roaring in a Disney movie, or getting roasted on TikTok, they’re teaching us something about fear, courage, and what it means to be human. That old Arabic proverb keeps popping into my head now: “A story stays alive only as long as someone’s willing to listen.”

So — who’s still listening? And more importantly… who’s going to tell the next version?

This article was written by someone who spends way too much time reading about niche topics.