I read Ian M. Banks for the first time recently. About halfway through "Player of Games" I realized what an enormous talent that man has for writing. It snuck up on me, it took me by surprise. I think of the Italian word Sprezzatura and the Wikipedia summary: "a certain nonchalance, so as to conceal all art and make whatever one does or says appear to be without effort and almost without any thought about it". In my estimation Banks does this, he artfully conceals just how good he is at what he is doing.
In contrast, when I read DFW I feel as if he is poking his talent into my face over and over again. Even in this essay, I feel an overbearing sense of how good it is. The DFW writing I am familiar with lacks the ease I appreciate.
I prefer when artists downplay their ability and express it subtly. That doesn't mean that an artist must do this to be good writer or a good person. Some artists will stretch themselves to the very limit of their abilities in an attempt to express themselves in a way they find satisfying or meaningful. And if I find that tedious or unbearable to read then that doesn't necessarily make me ignorant.
I won't get into details because it is very personal, but DFW did something staggeringly generous and selfless and thoughtful for a close friend of mine -- a friend who was also a complete stranger to DFW at the time.
The pat "DWF/pretentious" critique which is heard from time to time seems to be to be pretty ignorant of what he wrote, why he wrote, and who he was. And that little insight I got of him gave me a deeper appreciation for what he published.