The book industry, starving and destitute, yet unwilling to spend any money on things that were not surefire cash cows, started getting into reboots. It started small: The Count of Monte Cristo escaped from a modern prison. And what if the Arab Meursault kills was a terrorist? But it escalated, because who wants to read lengthy old works? Do androids really dream of electric sheep? Do androids dream? Androids? Dream? Young authors tried to get a shoe in by telling their own stories, baking old words into new genres, but most just succeeded with stuffing zombies into Pride and Prejudice.
When the book industry dies, the maggots that form from it’s corpse will rise like a phoenix and distribute independently with a beautiful golden age of confusion, the new distributors will websites that sift through to find the needles in the haystack. Either that or publishers and/or readers will get their shit together.