If what gripped you in Wicked was watching Elphaba grow from a misunderstood Shiz student into the figure the Emerald City vilifies—complete with messy choices, love (Fiyero), and the weight of propaganda—then Xifeng’s ruthless ascent in Forest of a Thousand Lanterns will scratch the same itch. You’ll follow a young woman shaped by prophecy and politics as she embraces power step by step, the way Elphaba hardens after Dr. Dillamond’s fate and Madame Morrible’s machinations. It’s that same intimate, unsettling re‑framing of a “villain” you thought you knew.

If the Emerald City’s smoke‑and‑mirrors politics under the Wizard—and the way Elphaba keeps crashing into bureaucrats, secret police, and back‑room deals—hooked you, Maia’s tightrope walk through a venomous court in The Goblin Emperor will resonate. Like Elphaba facing the Wizard’s propaganda and Morrible’s power‑plays, Maia must read factions, outmaneuver conspirators, and decide what kind of ruler he will be. It’s the same humane heart set against relentless intrigue.

If you loved how Wicked makes Oz feel real—Quadling marshes, Munchkinlander politics, Shiz University, even theological debates—Clarke’s England is built with that same density. Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell unfurls scholarly squabbles, footnoted lore, and a long view of how magic shapes nations, much like how Elphaba’s research, the Animals’ rights crisis, and the Emerald City’s institutions give Oz texture beyond a stage set.

If Elphaba’s fury over the Animals’ dehumanization and the Quadlings’ marginalization moved you—especially after Dr. Dillamond’s silencing and the Wizard’s statecraft—Tigana channels that same ache. Its rebels fight an occupying sorcerer whose magic literally erases a people’s name from memory. Like Elphaba’s fight against a narrative that brands her “wicked,” the struggle here is to keep truth, culture, and dignity alive against a conquering lie.

If you found yourself pondering how the Wizard’s myth‑making (and Madame Morrible’s orchestration) turned Elphaba into a monster in the public imagination, Small Gods will hit the same nerve. Pratchett follows Brutha in a theocracy where doctrine eclipses compassion, dissecting how institutions twist stories—much like the Emerald City recasts Elphaba and even Dorothy to keep control. It’s sharp, funny, and piercingly humane.