I read a lot of horrible science fiction when I was in junior high school, as an escape. I loved the way that it could pull me away from a mundane world I hated so much. As I grew older I began to look down on that fear, want to engage more with the world, move away from fantasy and sci-fi. And of course I developed a little taste as well. So when I deign to read genre fiction, I shiver a little, because it reminds me of how much of a loser I was when I was younger. Then I am also reminded of how much of an insufferable snob I have become.
Anyway, the point is that a lot of genre fiction runs on a combination of badly-sewn-together myth and a detailed imaginary world, but some is genuinely good fiction that happens to take place in an incredibly detailed imaginary world. China Miéville writes this sort of thing. Deep themes, good characterization, brilliant turns of phrase (OK, a little too baroque in places, but still very well made).
I read these books and they suck me away into something else and I come up for air a day or two later and think, where have I been?
Secretly Ironic 