The new Ian McEwan novel, “Machines Like Me,” about a ménage à trois between a man, a woman and a sexy male robot, is pretty good.

It’s good enough that, were it published under a pseudonym, the world told only that it was the work of a first-time author, critics would compete to dance fandangos of admiration around it.

Because it’s a McEwan novel, however, and because it falls somewhere toward the middle of his oeuvre in terms of quality, it’s tempting to say about it: Meh. He has set expectations high, this man.

McEwan was recently crucified on Twitter for, during interviews about “Machines Like Me,” being perceived to look down his snout at science fiction writers. (Twitter: the place to go for all your drive-by crucifixion needs.) He was outed as at least a nominal genre snob.