The unfortunate read King while young, when his books still hold the power of fright. They are unfortunate because then, when the books lose that power, the next King book they read feels incomplete, lacking.
The unfortunate never notice that below the tales of killing clowns/cars/shitworms lie completely different books, about parenthood, and inadequacy, and trying to be good while knowing you are flawed.
Those inner books about the pleasures (mostly foreing to me) of raking leaves, shoveling snow, driving cars, having kids, joking with waitresses, and driving while listening to crappy americana on the radio, are the books King wanted to write, but he feels he has to paint them in gore, to make them "scary" because that's what the readers want.
No, that's what the unfortunate want, and the unfortunates will not get it once they grow up. When you grow, the shining fades from these books, and what's left is something interesting and heartfelt, but not, in truth, scary.
And the fortunate see it, and we like it. So, four stars.