Benjamin Kessler’s novella The Pinnacle is set in a near-future version of New York City that
feels uncomfortably close to our present moment. In it, our unnamed narrator spends weeklong
shifts in The Pinnacle, the world’s tallest building—though the purpose of the building, and even
its construction, remain unclear. Is it an engineering marvel or the world’s largest Ponzi
scheme? Behind the building is the equally-mysterious Robison-Moon corporation, a faceless,
seemingly-purposeless company that sees our narrator and his coworkers as expendable cogs,
or worse.

It’s perhaps cliché to describe a novella as a “gem,” but in the case of The Pinnacle, it’s an apt
description. Each facet of this book—each description, each character, each plot move—gleams
with the care and specificity of this narrator’s singular voice. But the outsized power of this
novella resides in its totality.

While The Pinnacle is, among many other things, a vital critique of capitalism’s brutal effects on
the individual, the heart of the story is something more complex, more human. It’s a book about
the loneliness of our era, the ways in which we connect, and fail to connect with, those closest
to us—our romantic partners, our parents. What does it mean, in a time of instant connection
and pleasure, to feel so disconnected, so dissatisfied?

I met Benjamin in the first class I taught in the PSU MFA program in 2017, when he was
working on an excellent novel about a professional baseball player. We recently spoke by
phone about writing, The Pinnacle, and the majesty of superstructures.

Gabriel Urza: What would be your “elevator pitch” for The Pinnacle? Why write this particular
story now?

Benjamin Kessler: As a society, it feels like we’re using rapid advancements in technology not
to better the lives of those most in need but rather as tools to sustain those already in privileged
positions. Superstructures are at the core of this. Who benefits from something like the Burj
Khalifa? Certainly not those who are forced to live in its shadow or the workers forced to survive
in poverty before, during, and after its construction. I wanted to put that idea under a
microscope.

GU: I’m surprised to hear that your initial impulse was the external world because this book
feels so centralized on the narrator, an individual, and his internal response to everything.

BK: I wanted to utilize the point of view of someone actively involved in one of these kinds of
projects. What’s it like to exist with all the normal stressors—bills, maintaining relationships,
and, in this narrator’s case, addiction—while also working on one of these larger-than-life
endeavors? How do you feed the machine while simultaneously aware that the machine is
trying to price you out of existence?

GU: This is set in the future but, psychologically, it isn’t all that different from the moment we’re
in today.

BK: Exactly. The present of this story is closer than we think, I believe.

GU: The narrator in this book has this almost complete lack of connection to the outside world
when he’s working. Why did you make that choice?

BK: Isn’t that how most people feel? Like their day job is keeping them from what they really
want to do? Of course, what the narrator in this book wants to do is drink, so I thought it would
create a lot of friction if I withheld what he wants for an extended period of time. It felt like a
conflict springboard.

GU: There’s also the friction of his job feeling kind of meaningless.

BK: I think a lot of people find that what they do for work has this numbing effect, especially
since they’ll never see the rewards of the end result. Their bosses might, of course. That’s
another source of conflict in the book, this idea of putting yourself into a role or job that
ultimately doesn’t care about you beyond your contribution to EBITDA.

GU: Switching gears to the craft aspects of this book, tell me about the setting. Why did you
choose New York City?

BK: I wanted to pick a place that felt like it constricted the narrator. Him and his partner actually
live in New Haven, Connecticut, priced out, as it were, from living in the same place where the
narrator works. This distance felt like it raised the stakes. Communication becomes harder and
commuting is yet another strain.

GU: But why New York specifically?

BK: It’s where it started, right, this emphasis on skyscrapers. I also wanted to poke at this idea
that lots of people have—because they live in the Western, developed world—that their society
is free from atrocity, from worker mistreatment and abuse.

GU: You’re fictionalizing here, of course.

BK: Totally, but just in the details. I’m making up the technology and the state of NYC and some
of the infrastructure but I feel like that gives me power to write the story in a way that serves its
themes best. I’m labeling this as fiction, so I feel empowered to lean on suspension of disbelief
to help accomplish what I want.

GU: And then of course there’s the supernatural. Tell me about the Spike.

BK: I really wanted an unexplained, fantastical aspect to this story. Superstructures themselves
feel almost supernatural. The Spike—the stabilizing device that runs through the building’s
center—is this magical object, and I didn’t want its mechanics to be understood by the narrator
or the reader. M. R. James, the English scholar, has this idea about supernatural stories that I
really enjoy, that there shouldn’t be an explanation of the machinery, no nuts-and-bolts diagram
of how the supernatural works. And that’s how I feel about superstructure engineering a bit, that
I have no idea how it came to be. There’s a power in that, a majesty. Maybe it makes them
more ominous or frightening.

GU: You’ve created a portal into a character that we may have otherwise not had access to.

BK: Plus it’s fun. For a long time I was terrified of someone going into my writing and searching
for plot holes or places where I hadn’t dissected every little thing. I think it stopped me from
telling the stories I wanted. Once I decided to fully commit to the mystery I found I was able to
enjoy my writing process more. No one needles Charles Dickens for having ghosts appear in A
Christmas Carol, so why not use the supernatural in a similar way?

GU: You talk about a lack of explanation being helpful with the Spike, but almost running
counter to that is the emphasis on the specificity of language. It’s so exact.

BK: I’m a specificity hound when it comes to worldbuilding. It comes part and parcel with
fictionalizing. I always strive to create the most complete and memorable version of physical
space. Maybe it’s my educational background in geography or just an interest in the minute as
part of the whole. But it also replicates lived experience. In Portland, we don’t ride “the train”; we
ride “The Max,” for example. I’m always telling my students to write like a local, even in their
imagined universe. Saunders is an expert, and I always look to his stories as the embodiment of
the power of specificity in language. But, again, like with the supernatural stuff, it’s just fun.
Coming up with a brand name for a beer or the dystopian details of a new social media app is
an opportunity to let your mind run wild. I sometimes forget that writing should be enjoyable, and specificity helps me access that.

Benjamin Kessler is the author of The Pinnacle (Buckman Publishing, 2025) and the story
collection Of This World (Game Over Books, 2023). A Portland State University MFA alum, he
now lives in Berlin with his family.