Admit it. You all saw this one coming. While there are some books from 2012 that we haven’t got around to reading yet which could have given some on this list a run for their money (Prophet and Manhattan Projects spring to mind), there was only ever one book that was going to top this list, and that’s Hawkeye. It’s done more in six issues than some series manage in six years.

On paper, this project was in serious danger of being a dud. Fraction’s form at Marvel has been inconsistent at best, Aja was never going to be available for every issue, and historically, Hawkeye has proven unable to support a title. His last solo series died after eight issues, while his recent team-up series with Mockingbird managed only six. Expectations were low. So it was a double surprise when Marvel put out one of the best superhero series, not just of the year, but of the century. If it lasts long enough, maybe even of all time.

That’s because Hawkeye isn’t just entertaining, although it is that. It’s also experimental and aesthetically coherent in ways that few comics are. It’s got all the spirit and originality that Marvel’s best runs display – Lee and Ditko’s Amazing Spider-Man, Gerber’s Howard the Duck, Claremont and Byrne’s X-Men. Comics this good don’t come around very often, and when they do, you cling to them and hope the ride never stops. They’re the books that cast a shadow over everything that follows. There are enough techniques and ideas in Hawkeye to keep an entire decade of writers and artists inspired for years to come. You’re going to see them again and again, and each time you’ll remember where you saw them first.

Somehow, what Fraction has managed to do is metabolise the slicker-than-thou, medium-bending action of Casanova into a Marvel Universe superhero title. Aja displays a complete mastery of the page (it’s tough to imagine anyone else cramming 20+ panels onto a page and still make it look so fucking gorgeous) while guest artist for issues 4 and 5, Javier Pulido, proves that a lighter, Kirby/Steranko-influenced style can work just as well, illustrating a hotel gang war like it was a 40s screwball comedy and somehow maintaining the tone. Colourist Matt Hollingsworth, meanwhile, is the best example of what the right colourist can for to a series, complementing the pencils with deliberately limited palettes, never overwhelming them.

The basic idea behind Hawkeye is a simple one: he’s the man on the street who’s an Avenger in his spare time. Sometimes, that means he’s dealing with extortionist landlords. Other times, it means he’s being abducted from a rooftop cookout by SHIELD. The series reads like an action movie about a street-thug turned secret agent, as the unflappably down-to-earth Hawkeye and his Girl Friday Kate (also code-named Hawkeye) bicker and fight, as much with each other as with the villains they’re trying to defeat. The book’s pace is relentless, but it never seems like a slight read. Every panel and piece of dialogue seems to do two jobs at once. It’s dense, but not fatiguing. Simple but not facile. It’s not a gritty series, but the character study is intense and realistic. When Hawkeye thinks he’s falling to his death, he’s not sarcastic or scared: he apologises, even though no-one can hear. It’s a subtle reminder of the context of everything Hawkeye does. Of his practical, hands-on, one-day-at-a-time approach to achieving the redemption that he doesn’t feel he deserves, and doesn’t realise he’s already attained.

In 2012, Hawkeye released only six issues, but you could pick up any one of them and make a case for it being one of the best individual comics of the year. And that’s why it’s our favourite series of 2012. Realistically, nothing else even had a chance.

Only two things prevented Saga from being our number one comic of the year – firstly, the fact that there was somehow, inexplicably, a comic that managed to be just as good if not possibly even slightly better (of which more tomorrow); but secondly, the fact that James tried out issue #1, but – while admiring the craft – turned his nose up at the setting and concept. It’s true that at first glance, Saga‘s setting could be offputting to many – what, another sci-fi epic? What, another fantasy epic? What, another quirky-mixture-of-sci-fi-and-fantasy epic? – and a part of me expected, going in, to have a similar reaction to James. Fortunately, as it so happens, I’m enjoying Saga immeasurably, as the sort of comic that simply and hugely restores faith in the medium.

Perhaps this is because, despite appearances, the series really isn’t about the quirky-mixture-of-sci-fi-and-fantasy epic at all. Sure, that story is going on in its pages – but it’s largely a backdrop. Instead, in a twist, the “Saga” of the title is in fact the saga of one family and their lives – star-crossed alien lovers Marko and Alana, and their newborn child Hazel. The series’ narration – provided by a grown-up Hazel from an indeterminate point in the future – makes clear that for all the raging war and politics in the background, the heart of the story is this trio’s quest to establish their lives happily and safely. Along the way, a strong supporting cast – comprising robotic princes with televisions for heads, ghosts of murdered children and alien bounty-hunters with curiously intertwined personal histories – play out a story that threatens to take on ominous significance, but which never really overshadows the fact that Saga entrances through the reader’s desire to see this relationship, this family unit, succeed.

Brian K. Vaughan’s pedigree, despite not having had a comics title published since the end of Ex Machina, was already impeccable coming into this – but, and although it’s difficult to make a full judgement after just eight issues published (at the time of writing), it already feels like this might exceed his previous work. Where the sheer quality of character work, plot (complete with BKV-esque shock deaths, one in particular in this run coming surprisingly early even for him) and humour are of his usual standard, where Saga stands out is that, arguably for the first time, he’s created hugely likeable and sympathetic lead characters. Where previously the likes of Yorick or Hundred had depth but not necessarily immediate empathy, both Alana and Marko are, in different ways, made to be rooted for as heroes. Alana in particular, particularly following the flashback sequences in the most recent issue, is the kind of character it’s pretty easy to fall straight in love with.

Key to a lot of this is Vaughan’s collaborator Fiona Staples, who elevates the book from a strong, intriguing character piece into a work of genuine comics artistry. Her visuals, from character design to expression to scale, are simply phenomenal – beautiful, characterful, expansive. Little touches such as the in-art lettering of Hazel’s narration, the minimalist cover design and even the chosen paper stock (while guaranteeing, as part of Vaughan’s contract, at least 22 pages of story every issue for never more than $2.99) make Saga a series that, as with some others we’ve discussed in this end of year list, celebrates the comic as an object – and one that it’s a genuine thrill to pick up every month (or to see back on the shelves following the deliberate two-month hiatus it took between its first and second arcs).

Simply put, Saga is a comic that just makes you feel good about comics. It’s rare enough that a series feels this early like it’s going to be one of the unquestionable classics of the field, but that’s exactly what this charming, funny, thrilling, beautiful object has already become. Never mind best of the year – I’ll be amazed if we don’t look back on it as one of the best of the decade.

What is there to say about Journey into Mystery that hasn’t already been said?

Although it began in 2011, this year was without a doubt the one when Journey into Mystery became all its opening issue implied it would: ambitious, structured, perpetually riding atop a crossover and clinging for dear life. Throughout it’s two-year lifespan, there were only three issues of this series that didn’t have some kind of promotional banner attached, and it’s perhaps most thought-provoking that those three (comprising the Manchester Gods arc) were some of our favourites.

So there’s something you can say about Journey into Mystery that hasn’t really been said before: as good as it was, just imagine what it could have been with even a little more time.

Comparisons with Sandman have been made many times, but the books are as different as they are similar. Probably the biggest difference is that Sandman got 76 issues to tell its story, and Journey into Mystery got only 31. And had to devote a portion of those to servicing guests characters like Thor and the New Mutants in sales-buoying crossovers. The story of Kid Loki’s journey was probably the best fantasy epic Marvel has ever published – if it had been given double the space, it could have been so much more. The denoument wouldn’t have been so rushed. The mythology would have served more than its barest purpose. The ideas would have been followed up on and expanded. We’d have had something more like Sandman and less like Captain Britain and MI-13.

That’s not to say there was a failure on anyone’s part here. The book’s creative team barely missed a step in two years. Marvel, for their part, kept the book alive as long as it needed to tell the barest form of its story. The fans spread the book’s word, most notably on Tumblr where the Journey into Mystery tags were ablaze with the rarest kind of online chatter: praise, and enthusiasm. But the book wasn’t overtly commercial, nor was it small enough that it could afford not to be. Under those circumstances there’s only so far you can go. If anything about Journey into Mystery was wrong, it was the timing: the current comics market is conservative and unadventurous, unwilling to support smaller books, less tolerant of those that don’t fit in a simple box. A series from a superhero publisher where the lead character didn’t throw a single punch in 30 issues? A hard sell at the best of times, and 2012 was far from those.

But let’s not forget that despite its all-too-premature conclusion, Journey into Mystery was still great. Deep, funny, surprising and sad. It had points to make and ideas to explore. It resolved a story by printing a board game. It did an issue starring (effectively) the devil. It snuck what was essentially a three-issue Phonogram arc into the Marvel Universe. It made friends, then killed them. But most of all, it was a comic you wanted to read, starring characters you wanted to spend time with. Amidst all the praise for the book’s technical quality, remember that telling a story that hangs together is comparatively easy compared to telling a story people enjoy. Journey into Mystery was all that and more, and in the end, what I said at the conclusion of my CBR review of issue #645 still stands today:

It’s tempting to say that we shall not see the likes of it again — but how depressing would it be to actually believe that?

A captivating mess of contradictions, Century 2009 showed perhaps more strongly than any other work that an Alan Moore not operating at the height of his powers remains more compelling than most other writers in comics. Perhaps only he could get away with putting out a comic that was in many ways so flawed, yet which still remained one of the most essential reads of the year.

For fans of the series and its ongoing plot, this was easily the most satisfying instalment of the third volume – in contrast to 1910 and 1969, which, for their strengths, had faltered in providing a solid, structured narrative (or, in the case of the former, any real discernible story at all). At times it’s difficult to look upon this volume as being the same comic as the original first series, but the through-thread of Mina’s life with the League remains its heart and spine, while the tale of her relationship with Allan here reached a final and devastating conclusion.

The Haddo/Antichrist plot had felt slightly uninspired during 1969, but here resolved itself superbly; the twin twists of Haddo’s unhappiness at being shunted into the background of his own plan, and the revelation that the Antichrist of twentieth-century fiction is none other than – basically – Harry Potter (albeit with elements of a few other characters chucked in), render the climax of the tale an odd and unsettling one rather than any kind of huge apocalyptic battle. The Potter analogue was particularly inspired (if a little mean-spirited), while the identity of the pretty-much-literal deus ex machina who shows up to save the day even more of a riot. Here, as with both the Moore and Craig Bonds showing up in the same panel (while the Judi Dench “M” was revealed as an older Emma Peel), or the BBC3-teenager dialogue of the ultimate villain, was Moore simply having tremendous, clever fun with his concept, as he has done with League since the beginning.

And yet at times it was hard to shake the feeling that the book had lost its way satirically, somewhat.  In stark contrast to how he had handled the literary references in the series’ early days, 2009 gave the sense that Moore didn’t really understand the cultural world he was spearing. All manner of hat-tips to Armando Iannucci and co. can’t mask the fact that so much of where 2009 placed itself seemed to miss the point, and leave Moore coming across as a crotchety old man grumbling about the youth of today. This extended to the often half-arsed application of the series’ fabled use of fictional cameos – where once they were subtle and clever or integrated carefully into the background of the story, here we just saw a succession of characters (some not even immediately recognisable) in the foreground of panels, peering out at the reader. In some cases these were even anachronistic – okay, so Doctor Who is a time traveller, but nevertheless the Matt Smith incarnation is utterly irrelevant to the cultural milieu of the year 2009 (having only debuted on New Year’s Day in 2010). Perhaps an unimportant example, but it’s never really been possible to accuse Alan Moore of lacking attention to detail before now, so to be able to do so here feels unsettling.

Fortunately, where the book excelled – in the character work with Mina, Allan and (yes, finally!) Orlando, in the mesmerisingly horrific denouement, in unexpectedly setting up an entirely female possible future League (finally once and for all rendering the series’ umbrella title utterly meaningless), in its peerless metatextuality, in O’Neill’s one-of-a-kind, frequently terrifying visuals – rendered these concerns less relevant than they might otherwise have been. Century 2009 may have seen Moore reach a little further than he was able to successfully grasp when it came to turning his gaze up on the stories of others – but fortunately, in and of itself it was one of his own strongest stories for some time.

With a name like “Punk Rock Jesus”, it was always likely that Sean Murphy’s story about a cloned incarnation of Christ who rebels against his nature was going to garner some attention. The more pertinent question was whether it was going to deserve it. And as it happens, the answer was “yes”.

The story of PRJ is of a particular kind that comics do well. Set in a near-future not a million miles away from our the real present, it doesn’t just tell the story of Jesus’ probable clone, it also examines the wider society it’s set in – not just with its plot elements and characters, but with smaller details, like fashion and architecture. Superficially, this is a story about a boy rebelling against religious control, but it’s as much a story about the perils of the cult of celebrity and the dangers of a society that too often accepts the dogma of its own views.

As Sean Murphy’s first solo miniseries, there are rough edges in the writing. A timeline of the IRA that might be botched, if it’s not intended to be an alternate reality. A presentation of religious representatives that lacks shade. A few infodumps, including at least one rather one-sided description of the UK/Irish conflict (which to be fair, might be the character intentionally skewing it). But these are easy to look past, because Punk Rock Jesus is that rare beast: A comic with some actual points to make.

It certainly helps the book’s case that Murphy is as accomplished a visual storytelling as you could want in a comic. Each page is crammed with details and background information, and yet even in black and white, the information is clear and easily-retrieved. Every page is crammed with panels and action. There’s no doubt that you get your money’s worth in every issue.

The series is heading towards its conclusion in 2013, and with a series so unpredictable, it’s hard to know where it’ll end up. At this point, though, there’s almost nothing Murphy could do that would destroy the goodwill it’s gathered, so we can confidently call it one of the year’s best comics. Now we just have to see what he comes up with yet.

This time last year, we named Brian Michael Bendis and Sara Pichelli’s Ultimate Spider-Man as our top comic of 2011. This time around, the main series has – unfortunately – found itself in one of its periodic bouts of momentum-loss, thanks largely to being caught in a somewhat disinteresting crossover courtesy of Marvel’s latest attempt to make the wider Ultimate universe in any way interesting or relevant.

Fortunately, while the ongoing adventures of Miles Morales were caught up in the SHIELD/Hydra Civil War, Bendis and Pichelli still had an outlet via which they could express their singularly brilliant take on Spider-Man, courtesy of the special one-off Spider-Men miniseries.

Although not officially the 50th Anniversary Spider-story, Spider-Men was a perfect celebration of the history and meaning of the character. Wisely, it chose “our” Peter Parker, displaced to Miles Morales’ universe, as its point-of-view perspective – allowing Peter to reflect on a world that hadn’t suffered many of his worst losses (with particular poignancy lent to a conversation with Gwen, wondering in a Whatever Happened To The Man of Tomorrow kind of way how her alternate counterpart was), yet which had lost and come to appreciate its own Parker.

Light on plot, it made up for this by filling out the middle issues with hugely strong character work, and while not necessarily accessible to any reader who didn’t count themselves already as a Spider-fan, it was a fitting tribute for those of us who truly love the character to enjoy. Given that Bendis’ Marvel work has often been patchy, it’s been remarkable just how consistently dead-on he’s been with his treatment of Peter and his supporting cast – and even when dealing with a different version of the character from the one he spent a decade writing, this was no different.

(As an aside, while the story was primarily a celebration of Spidey, as a long-time fan of Mysterio it was great to see him getting his due, too. The revelation that he’d been behind his Ultimate counterpart all along was huge, and brilliant, and entirely in keeping with the character – while the plot resolution of having the 616 version trapped in the wrong universe should be a terrific plot spurrer going forwards.)

While the main Ultimate Spider-Man series undoubtedly suffered – not to ruinous extent, but a noticeable one nevertheless – from the temporary absence of Sara Pichelli, Spider-Men positively thrived for her presence. Her character work remained phenomenal, and especially important in a story that so heavily relied on talking-head conversations and the characters’ reactions to one-another. It can only be hoped that she gets back on the main series as soon as possible, as it would benefit hugely from her verve.

A funny, clever, occasionally moving and essentially downright celebratory take on the Spider-Man mythos – and on what being the titular hero means to its two incumbents – Spider-Men simply excelled. Crossing over the two universes was always going to be a dangerous game, but Bendis proved the perfect person to do it, and did so with obvious love and care. Readers who wanted a huge, explosive plot may have been disappointed, but for the rest of us the innate understanding of the character made it an absolute joy.