The Name of the Wind is the story of Kvothe, a brooding emo-rogue type hero and run-of-the-mill Gary Stu who suffers through all the usual cliches: mysteriously killed parents, living in poverty, attending a magic school with comically cruel teachers, etc. While Rothfuss’s writing flows smoothly, painting a vivid albeit generic landscape, the book lacks any real tension or focus, making it a chore to get through. Every event is a non-sequitur, which reminded me of Grimm’s fairy tales, but not in a good way. Like so many modern pop-fantasy novels these days, the author seems much more interested in world-building than storytelling and possibly stoking his ego with his oh-so-cool protagonist, Kvothe. The entire novel is essentially the hero’s backstory. I suspect his DM asked him to make a character for a D&D game and Rothfuss just got carried away.
In short, The Name of the Wind is a meandering, directionless pseudo-memoir devoid of plot. Four hundred pages in, and I was just wishing it would end. A book can be many things: poorly written, inconsistent, and shallow, but it should never ever be boring.
The Art of Storytelling 
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