It's selfish of a writer or artist to want others, not only to like one's work, but to like it in the right way. The "right way" – as if there were such a thing.
I suppose I enjoy writing a sort of hangdog comedy at times, always a risk due to my meager sense of humor. If it gets a chuckle, I should count myself lucky.
But I suppose I'm even more pleased if into the chuckle there creeps a shadow of sadness. Maybe "pleased" is the wrong word – sounds like I want to depress people. Really, I want to say a thing.
The author's self-indulgent definition of the "right way" to be read might be, a way of reading in which all of, not just part of, what they want to say gets through.
(A special case, I suppose, of the general paradox of selfishness: that there are very few selfish desires which can be satisfied without the existence of others.)
A story of mine called "Dree Your Weird" has just been published in Issue 01 of ThereAfter Magazine. I'm honored they saw fit to include me in their inaugural issue. You can read the issue here. If you do, when you get to my story, my less-selfish hope is that you'll simply enjoy it.
My more-selfish hope is that you'll feel a touch of pity for the sad-sack protagonist—not unlike the pity which the story's author is sometimes inclined to feel for himself.