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The device is not there to explain the universe: it is there to force someone to choose.
The question science fiction always gets asked is whether the machine is alive. The ten films that make up this series turn the camera around and ask what our answer says about us. In the first volume somebody builds something, the thing built comes back and stands in front of them, and the one who ends up under examination is the person who wanted it: what they call it, how much time they grant it, how quickly they decide it can be broken. In the second, the enormous device — a simulated reality, a black hole, a language written in a circle — exists in order to bring one person to a decision of the heart they would otherwise never have had to make. For a writer it is the laboratory of exposition: how to establish a world without stopping to explain it, how many rules an audience can hold in mind, and how to make a big idea pay in domestic currency.
A policeman hanging over a drop is pulled up by the target he had come to eliminate, and nobody is watching. Five films in which the thing being judged is not the object on screen but the person who wanted it, and in which the danger had been aboard since departure.
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Twenty-three years of backed-up messages opened all at once, by a man who had been away a few hours. Five films that raise the biggest apparatus in the genre and then use it to present a domestic invoice: a father, a daughter, a watch left on a nightstand before leaving.
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Two volumes that keep the concept and the pulse alive at once. The first puts a person in front of what they have built, the second uses the largest device in the genre to force somebody into a tiny gesture. Ten films on worldbuilding by implication, on rules an audience actually remembers, and on exposition that stays dramatic.