If what kept you grinning in Sourcery was Rincewind’s hapless sprint through Armageddon-level chaos—coin-operated prophecies, talking hats, and a homicidally loyal Luggage—then Adams’ classic will hit the same nerve. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy opens with Earth’s demolition and treats it with the same breezy, gag-a-minute irreverence Pratchett uses when the Dungeon Dimensions start peeking through. You’ll get the fast patter, the footnote-worthy asides, and a hero who survives more by timing and luck than by any plan.

You laughed when Sourcery turned sword-and-sorcery clichés upside down—Conina who’d rather do hair than heroics, Nijel who studies barbarism from a manual, and a poet-king who hates ruling. The Princess Bride delivers that same affectionate parody: duels with ridiculous rules, grand villains who monologue, and a narrative voice that constantly winks at you. If Conina and Nijel’s desert misadventures charmed you, Westley and Inigo’s theatrically swashbuckling chaos will, too.

If the heart of Sourcery for you was watching what raw, untempered power does—Coin remaking wizardry into tyranny while Rincewind chooses responsibility over survival—then Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea is a natural next step. Ged unleashes a force he can’t control and must learn humility, names, and limits to set things right. It’s the same moral fulcrum as Rincewind shattering Coin’s staff and stepping into the breach: power matters, but restraint saves the world.

Did the institutional shake-up in Sourcery fascinate you—the Archchancellor’s Hat scheming, faculty politics melting into conquest as Coin weaponizes magic? Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell channels that same vibe: magicians reintroduce practical magic and bend governments, wars, and academia around their ambitions. Where Rincewind witnesses wizardry swallowing the world, Clarke shows what happens when polite scholarly magic decides to run it.

If you loved Sourcery for its deliriously odd images—the Luggage stomping through deserts and palaces, a hat plotting academic coups, reality fraying as magic spikes—then Carroll’s Alice offers a pure dose of that dream-logic energy. It’s a parade of witty paradoxes and surreal encounters that, like Rincewind’s misadventures, delights in flipping rules and finding jokes where the world stops making sense.