The New York Review of Books ran an excellent article in their summer issue of David Lipsky's book about writing a Rolling Stone article profile of Wallace, that never ran: "Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself: A Road Trip With David Foster Wallace."
The reviewers' name, which I'm afraid I can't find, contended that Lipsky didn't "get" Wallace. And like so many of his critics never realized the writer's relentless and extravagant prose was a deliberate and incredibly risky attempt to present reality as he experienced it, which was so vast and multi-layered as to make sharing it with another person who was experiencing a similar influx, an astonishing feat.
Wallace demands his readers invest themselves in his work, which has always been my definition of art. A reader, watcher, or listener must contribute his or her creative vision to it or it's incomplete--an artistic attempt. Art always takes two, minimum. It's not TV. You can't sit back and tune out.
Book reviewers reading on deadline are not in a position to contribute their personal creative life to stories that run 150 pages or novels stretched past 1,000, all of which end ambiguously.
But to me, that's further proof his writing was of the highest order, which for me was often--not always (I didn't always "get" him either)--lasting art.