A Series of Unfortunate Events stuns for the simplest reason.

I was a child who loved books.

Long books and short books. Fiction books and nonfiction books. Books I couldn’t understand, because they were far beyond my comprehension level, and books I’d been reading since I’d learned how. I’d read them all. I couldn’t stop.

I’m telling you this so that when I say I loved Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events more passionately than anything else I read as a child – yes, more than Harry Potter – you’ll take me seriously.

I was a kid who knew what I was talking about when it came to books, so I knew, as soon as I turned the first page of the Bad Beginning, that I’d come across something special.

The story of the Baudelaire orphans, penned by the sarcastic and resoundingly fantastic Daniel Handler under the guise of “Lemony Snicket”, made me feel different. They weren’t just a good story (although I would line up at the bookshop of the morning of the next volume’s release to find out what happened next), or an excellent mystery (although the thrill of what “VFD” stood for and the secret of the sugar bowl sometimes kept me awake at night). A Series of Unfortunate Events was designed for kids like me – kids who loved words, who loved using our brains, who didn’t really get why everyone else was reading Total Girl but yearned to learn new words and think new thoughts. I found a home in those books that I hadn’t found anywhere else.

When Netflix announced last year that it would be bringing A Series of Unfortunate Events to the small screen, I, like so many other fans, was unconvinced. The world I loved belonged in the books. It belonged to Snicket’s swift and clever narration, his plays on words. It belonged to a man who covered pages of text with only the word “dark”, just to demonstrate to his enthralled twelve-year-old audience that a word starts to look funny if you stare at it too long. It belonged to the first moment I ever read something that made me laugh out loud (the line was “If you are allergic to something, it is best not to put that thing in your mouth, especially if that thing is cats.”)

In short, it was a story that belonged inside my mind.

But the on-screen trainwreck I was expecting, when I settled myself down to watch the first season of Netflix’s attempt at my favourite story, never eventuated. More than anything, I was reminded of the thing I loved about the books but had forgotten: the remarkable way they treated their readers like adults rather than kids. In fact, the running theme of both the books and the Netflix series is that kids always know more than adults give them credit for. The story paints children as resourceful and creative and endlessly supportive of one another. Often, on-screen narrator Lemony Snicket (played by a sombre Patrick Warburton) makes veiled references to the coming plot without hitting you over the head. It is actually – and this is the first time the word has ever been used in conjunction with children’s television – almost subtle in parts.

Unlike so much television targeted at children, it never talks down to its audience.

This isn't your ordinary story. And it can't be told in an ordinary way.

I don’t doubt that the success of the show in being true to the books (to my books, as I think of them) is down to the involvement of author Daniel Handler. Under his guidance, a series of books for smart kids has become a series of television for smart kids. The best bits of the novels have been preserved, and the on-screen world that’s used to embellish them is rich and exciting.

If you’re a child, or you have a child, or you know a child, or you’re just an adult but you remember what it’s like to be a child, I urge you to watch the show. It’s funny and absurdist and dark and, best of all, very clever.

Watch it, and tell the kids you know to watch it.

Then buy them the books.