Byron’s favorite toy these days is a “book” that talks and plays music. “Let’s go out and play!” the inhumanly cheerful childlike voice implores its readers. “Playing is fun!” The story itself is wanting. There’s practically no character development, and the story arc is nonexistent. What happens in its four pages is, some kids go outside and the incessantly upbeat narrator points out the colors and shapes of things. The ball is a red circle! The block is a green square! Suddenly its bedtime and she sings a little song about how the world is filled with shapes and colors and aren’t we all incredibly lucky to live in it. I don’t have a problem with that philosophy and I kind of like the song, but it occurs to me how many books let you down like that. They act like you’re about to have this amazing adventure, then they just give you a bunch of boring descriptions of things.