Don't believe the hype. 
 This is wish fulfillment fantasy at its worst, centered around a painfully juvenile and tiresomely flawless character who must fulfill a quest... actually, no. There's no plot to this book. Presented with a frame story in which a biographer convinces a famous hero to tell his own origin story, the reader is subjected to a series of clunky and highly self-conscious "trope inversions" for which Rothfuss regularly pats himself on the back. 
 The writing is bad. The prose is every shade of purple imaginable. Rothfuss seems to have decided that the less any two things are alike, the better a comparison they make, and the more often the comparison should be drawn. Metaphor and Simile are abused with thoughtless disregard. A character action follows each line of dialogue to the point of relentless nausea - characters grin at each other twice in each exchange and sigh at least three times. Rothfuss regularly seeks to create 'epic' or 'badass' moments that fall flat on their face by being what they are - annoying proclamations from a 16 year old vehicle protagonist. 
 There is no plot. Chekhov's Gun is violated with authorial impunity. To hear Rothfuss tell it, he's working in the vein of Tom Jones and the Iliad at the same time, but the fact of the matter is that despite how he would like to recast his poor writing as a plot point, the book is close to unreadably dull for large stretches, with several hundred pages (wizard school) lifted almost directly from Harry Potter, with a little Ursula Le Guin to throw the dogs off the scent. 
 Similarly, Rothfuss falls back on the idea that his narrator is "unreliable" to explain why you should ignore your suspicion that this is a terrible book - after all, wouldn't an unreliable narrator exaggerate his own role and make himself the hero of the tale? This doesn't justify all the other gaping flaws of the novel, but perhaps it explains - no. Kvothe may be unreliable,but Rothfuss is the author behind the character, and it's both insulting and staggeringly arrogant to suggest that maybe the reader is just a little too dense to understand what Rothfuss doing. It's not difficult, original, or particularly complex; it's just bad. Unreliability is a valid and fascinating storytelling device, but its worth is really predicated on the idea that a good story is being told nevertheless. Sadly, that's not the case here. 
 Rothfuss has good ideas. The intersection of truth and myth is fascinating, as is his idea to explore that with the biography angle. However, the flaws outlined above and many, many more make this book borderline unreadable. It is a cringing, pathetic, self-important, and deeply juvenile work - the critics who sang such loud praises should be ashamed of themselves.