Just as no child escaping to a magical world wants to find the other children he's escaping from there when he arrives, no author wants to believe a stranger can reach her heart of hearts without fulfilling a quest, at least, to qualify. Not that they're addressing Harry Potter explicitly. It's hard to complain about success as well deserved as Rowling's without looking as ungenerous as an orc. I wondered whether he was wearing underwear, but I'm sure the damsels didn't. And the mills of capitalism provide them.
Supply meets demand.
Fantasy becomes a commodity, an industry. It proceeds by depriving the old stories of their intellectual and ethical complexity, turning their action to violence, their actors to dolls, and their truth-telling to sentimental platitude. Heroes brandish their swords, lasers, wands, as mechanically as combine harvesters, reaping profits. Profoundly disturbing moral choices are sanitized, made cute, made safe. If anyone has a right to be so snooty, it's Le Guin.