I became familiar with Anne McCaffrey around three decades too late (which is just as well considering the publishing history of Pern) thanks to my crush. At the time, books by Raymond E. Feist, David Eddings and Terry Brooks were close to my heart (partially redeemed by authors like Orson Scott Card, Frank Herbert, and Philip Pullman).
Anyway, James Schellenberg has a column entitled My Year of McCaffrey over at Strange Horizons. In retrospect, the first few books were really good, especially for its time. Things start to spiral down with the sequels (a syndrome I tackle in this essay). Schellenberg best sums up the experience I think although one complaint I have about McCaffrey is how some of her books seem to lack an epilogue, while others have an epilogue so long it's easily the prologue of the next book.