There’s something inherently overwhelming about picking up a comic book crossover event for the first time, especially when that event happens to be Crisis on Infinite Earths. I didn’t experience this landmark series during its original 1985-1986 run—I was all of six years old when it wrapped up, and my comic book reading days were still years away. Instead, I came to understand Crisis the way many readers of my generation did: through references, flashbacks, and the constant reminder that everything in DC Comics was either “pre-Crisis” or “post-Crisis.”

It wasn’t until the mid-2000s, when DC was gearing up for Infinite Crisis, that I finally got my hands on a collected edition of the original Crisis. What I found was both a massive undertaking in superhero storytelling and a genuine work of art, thanks largely to George Pérez’s impossibly detailed artwork. Those splash pages—my gosh, those splash pages—with dozens upon dozens of characters rendered in meticulous detail. How Pérez didn’t lose his mind drawing all those heroes and villains is beyond me. Each page is like a Where’s Waldo of DC characters, and I’d find myself stopping mid-story just to identify who was fighting whom in the corners of each panel.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s talk about what Crisis on Infinite Earths actually was, why it happened, and how it fundamentally changed not just DC Comics, but the entire comic book industry.

The Multiverse Problem

To understand why Crisis happened, you need to understand what DC’s multiverse had become by the early 1980s. And for those unfamiliar with comic book terminology, let me break this down simply: imagine if every time a writer wanted to tell a story that didn’t quite fit with established continuity, they could just say “Oh, this happened on a different Earth.” That’s essentially what DC had been doing for decades.

It started innocently enough in 1961 with “Flash of Two Worlds,” a story where Barry Allen (the then-current Flash) met Jay Garrick (the 1940s Flash). The explanation? Jay existed on Earth-Two, while Barry lived on Earth-One. Earth-Two was home to all the Golden Age heroes from the 1940s—the original versions who fought in World War II. Earth-One housed the Silver Age heroes, the modernized versions that emerged in the late 1950s and 1960s.

This was actually a pretty elegant solution at first. It allowed DC to honor its history while still telling contemporary stories. But then things got complicated. Earth-Three had evil versions of the heroes. Earth-S housed the Shazam family (formerly Fawcett Publications characters). Earth-X was where World War II never ended and the Freedom Fighters fought eternal Nazis. Earth-Four contained the Charlton Comics characters DC had acquired.

By the early 1980s, keeping track of which character lived on which Earth and who could meet whom had become a nightmare. Writers struggled with continuity. New readers were confused. And perhaps most importantly from a business perspective, DC was getting its lunch eaten by Marvel Comics, whose unified universe felt more cohesive and accessible.

The Man with the Plan

Enter Marv Wolfman, a writer who’d made his name on The New Teen Titans and had a radical idea: what if they just… got rid of all those extra Earths? What if there was just one DC Universe?

The story goes that Wolfman had been frustrated by continuity errors for years. He tells of receiving a letter from a fan asking why a character didn’t recognize Green Lantern in a recent issue when they’d worked together three years earlier. These kinds of questions were becoming impossible to answer when you had to factor in which Earth everyone was from.

Wolfman pitched his idea as “The History of the DC Universe,” envisioning it as a way to streamline and simplify DC’s increasingly convoluted continuity. DC’s executives, recognizing that something needed to change to compete with Marvel, gave him the green light. The title was changed to the more dramatic Crisis on Infinite Earths, and they brought in George Pérez, whose detailed art style was perfect for a story that would feature literally every character DC had ever published.

What’s remarkable about this decision is how risky it was. This wasn’t just a big crossover event—this was DC essentially admitting their universe was broken and needed to be rebuilt from scratch. They were betting the farm on Wolfman and Pérez’s ability to not just tell a good story, but to fundamentally restructure their entire publishing line.

The Story Itself

The plot of Crisis on Infinite Earths is both simple and impossibly complex. At its heart, it’s about survival—the Anti-Monitor, a being of pure antimatter, is destroying universe after universe, consuming them in waves of white energy. Standing against him is the Monitor, who recruits heroes and villains from across the multiverse to defend key points in time and space.

But this bare-bones description doesn’t capture the epic scope of what Wolfman and Pérez created. This was twelve issues of pure comic book insanity, featuring battles that spanned from the dawn of time to the end of everything. The Anti-Monitor wasn’t just another villain with a death ray—he was entropy itself, the end of all stories.

The series is structured almost like a disaster movie, with our perspective constantly shifting between different groups of heroes trying to save their respective worlds. We see the Golden Age Superman of Earth-Two fighting alongside the modern Superman of Earth-One. We watch as villains like Lex Luthor and Brainiac form an alliance to conquer the remaining Earths, only to realize the futility of ruling over nothing. We witness heroes making last stands on worlds we’ve never seen before, just as they’re consumed by antimatter.

The Death Toll

If Crisis on Infinite Earths is remembered for anything beyond its scope, it’s for its body count. This wasn’t a story where everyone makes it out okay in the end. Worlds died. Entire universes were erased. And most shockingly, major characters—characters who had their own comic book series—died and stayed dead.

The two most significant deaths were Supergirl and the Flash. Kara Zor-El’s death in issue #7 remains one of the most iconic moments in comic book history. She dies protecting Superman from the Anti-Monitor, and Pérez’s artwork—that tragic cover of Superman holding her lifeless body—became instantly iconic. This wasn’t some alternate universe Supergirl or a temporary death that would be reversed three issues later. This was the Supergirl, Superman’s cousin, dead.

Barry Allen’s death was perhaps even more significant. The Flash had been a cornerstone of the DC Universe since 1956. His introduction had literally started the Silver Age of comics. And here he was, running himself to death to destroy the Anti-Monitor’s antimatter cannon, aging to dust as he ran backwards through time. Barry would stay dead for 23 years—an eternity in comic book time, where most deaths last about as long as a commercial break.

These weren’t the only casualties. The Earth-Two versions of Green Arrow, Huntress, and Robin died. Hundreds of characters from alternate Earths simply ceased to exist when their worlds were destroyed. The Monitor himself dies halfway through the series. It was carnage on a scale that superhero comics had never seen before.

The Art of George Pérez

I mentioned earlier my amazement at Pérez’s artwork when I finally read Crisis, and I need to emphasize just how crucial his contribution was to the series’ success. This wasn’t just about drawing action scenes—Pérez was tasked with illustrating literally every character in DC’s library. We’re talking hundreds of characters, many appearing in single panels, each drawn with distinctive features and costumes.

Look at any group shot in Crisis and you’ll see what I mean. These aren’t generic background figures. That’s the original Atom in the corner. That’s Phantom Lady from Earth-X. That’s Captain Carrot from Earth-C (yes, the cartoon rabbit). Pérez drew them all with the same level of detail, creating a visual feast that rewarded careful examination.

His action sequences were equally impressive. The battles in Crisis weren’t just punching matches—they were cosmic events. Heroes didn’t just fly; they soared across shattered realities. Villains didn’t just threaten cities; they unmade existence itself. Pérez made you believe in the impossible scope of what was happening.

Changing the Industry

When Crisis on Infinite Earths concluded in March 1986, it had done more than just clean up DC’s continuity—it had fundamentally changed how comic book companies thought about their universes and their events.

First, it established the template for the modern crossover event. While there had been crossovers before, Crisis showed that you could build an event that touched every single title in your line, that had genuine consequences, and that could serve as a jumping-on point for new readers. Every subsequent event at both DC and Marvel owes something to Crisis.

Second, it proved that audiences would accept—even embrace—radical changes if the story was good enough. DC literally destroyed their multiverse, killed beloved characters, and rebooted their entire line. And it worked. Sales jumped 22% in the first year after Crisis. DC briefly overtook Marvel in direct market sales. The gamble had paid off.

Third, it demonstrated the power of continuity as a selling point. By creating clear “pre-Crisis” and “post-Crisis” eras, DC gave readers a framework for understanding their stories. New readers could jump in without needing to know 40 years of history. Existing readers got to experience familiar characters in new ways.

The Post-Crisis Universe

The DC Universe that emerged from Crisis was streamlined but not simplified. Wonder Woman got a complete reboot from Pérez himself, grounding her more firmly in Greek mythology. Superman’s origin was retold in John Byrne’s The Man of Steel, making him the sole survivor of Krypton (no more Supergirl, no more Krypto, no more bottled city of Kandor). Batman’s history was refined by Frank Miller in “Year One.”

The integration of acquired characters was particularly clever. The Charlton Comics characters—Blue Beetle, Captain Atom, the Question—were now part of the main DC Universe, their histories rewritten to fit the new continuity. The Shazam family was relocated from Earth-S to the main Earth, now operating out of Fawcett City.

Not everything was smooth sailing. Hawkman’s continuity became so tangled that DC basically threw up their hands and stopped publishing the character for years. The Legion of Super-Heroes, with their 30th-century setting and time-travel storylines, became increasingly difficult to reconcile with the new continuity. Power Girl, who had been the Earth-Two version of Supergirl, needed an entirely new origin since Earth-Two no longer existed.

The Legacy

Nearly 40 years later, Crisis on Infinite Earths remains the benchmark against which all comic book events are measured. Its influence extends far beyond comics—the recent CW “Crisis on Infinite Earths” crossover brought the concept to television, while the story has been adapted into animated films and novels.

But more importantly, Crisis established that superhero universes could evolve. They could have definitive ends and new beginnings. Characters could die and stay dead (at least for a while). The status quo could change dramatically. Before Crisis, comic book universes were essentially static, always returning to a familiar baseline. After Crisis, anything felt possible.

DC would return to the Crisis well multiple times—Zero Hour: Crisis in Time! in 1994, Identity Crisis in 2004, Infinite Crisis in 2005-2006, Final Crisis in 2008-2009, and Dark Crisis on Infinite Earths in 2022. None quite captured the impact of the original, perhaps because you can only destroy your entire universe for the first time once.

The Infinite Earths Return

Ironically, the multiverse that Crisis destroyed would eventually return. Infinite Crisis brought back the concept of parallel Earths. Final Crisis explored the death of the New Gods and the nature of story itself. The New 52 reboot in 2011 established a new multiverse of exactly 52 Earths. The current DC universe embraces the idea of infinite Earths once again.

In a way, this return to the multiverse validates what Crisis on Infinite Earths was trying to accomplish. It was never really about getting rid of alternate Earths—it was about making the DC Universe accessible and coherent. Once that was achieved, the multiverse could return as a storytelling tool rather than a continuity nightmare.

Conclusion

Reading Crisis on Infinite Earths today is a different experience than it must have been in 1985. Modern readers know that death in comics is rarely permanent, that reboots happen every few years, and that the multiverse is now a standard part of superhero storytelling (just look at the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s current phase). But there’s still something powerful about this story, something that transcends its role as a continuity fix.

At its heart, Crisis on Infinite Earths is about sacrifice and survival. It’s about heroes from different worlds coming together to face an impossible threat. It’s about the idea that some things are worth dying for, that some battles must be fought even if they can’t be won. In that sense, it’s the ultimate superhero story—not because of the powers on display, but because of the choices the characters make.

When I finally sat down with that collected edition in the mid-2000s, I understood why Crisis had cast such a long shadow over everything DC published afterward. This wasn’t just an event comic—it was a statement of purpose, a declaration that superhero stories could be art, that continuity could be both honored and transcended, and that sometimes, to save the universe, you have to destroy it first.

And those George Pérez splash pages? They’re still absolutely incredible.