Other than the Sinclair mentioned earlier, I've had this with Prynne, Debord, D&G, Baudrillard, Copenhagen Cowboy, The Conformist, Antonioni's stuff and probably some other things which escape me.
The Debord memoir I read the other day really fits the 'frustrated that you can't "resolve" it, make its details cohere into a satisfying—or at least vivid—experience' description. I felt I'd spent my time clutching at smoke. He seemed to spend most of the book describing what he was going to do with it without ever doing it. I can pick out individual bits of information he provided, but the overall shape and picture eludes me. This is complicated by the stuff he piles on about disguising his intentions, misdirection and the like which only adds to the strange effect and suggests it's somewhat by design.
Prynne reads like someone dusted the words off a science paper then stuck them back on in the wrong order.
D&G and Baudrillard toss all this jargon at you without ever really making it clear what they mean by it.
Copenhagen Cowboy, The Conformist and Antonioni operate according to their own particularly alienating pacing and logic. There's a combination of slowness and incongruity that can be absolutely maddening. A plodding through lurching narrative.
I don't love any of this stuff and I do blame the creators for the most part. I've encountered things by almost all of them which I've enjoyed and which demonstrated they were capable of coming up with something decent and interesting without the frustration or obscurantism. It's not an integral part of their style. It's something they've chosen to dial up.
I think there's something in most of them, depending on who's looking, but they don't make it easy and I'm not convinced any of them are essential. You read something like Deleuze's Postscript on the Societies of Control or Debord's Comments on the Society of the Spectacle and think "You can write like this yet you choose to write stuff like Anti-Oedipus and Panegyric... ".
Prynne, Sinclair and Copenhagen Cowboy are three I currently can't be arsed with at all. I like Sinclair's nonfiction, but that Jack the Ripper book felt like immense frustration for absolutely nothing. I'd say the same of Copenhagen Cowboy.