Hey New Yorker editors, why not give us stories that can stand on their own rather than what seem like writing samples?

Kinda getting sick of the New Yorker "stories" that are not really stories at all - and I know the New Yorker itself has been for a half-century known for its epiphanic stories that create a mood, an atmosphere, and then end with a moment, slightly unexpected, slightly off kilter, that in some way opens the story up rather than ties up the loose ends. Salinger was maybe the first, followed by many others and then of course the flaccid imitations in a thousand writing programs - the style that launch a thousand slips - because it's so seemingly easy - hey, I don't have to end this story at all! - and so hard to do well. No - now the magazine is moving it even further and publishing what to all intents and purposes are not stories at all but snippets, excerpts from works in progress. Okay, that can be a great thing - most of the 19th century novels were published in serials and some of teh greatest 20th c novels were published as works in progress, e.g., Finnegans Wake, Remembrance. But these seem more like the kind of promotional materials publishers hand out at bookseller conventions. Take this week's story by Nicole Krauss, one of the 20 under 40: it's actually quite good for what it is, but it isn't enough of anything to be truly good. She writes about a novelist (not her, someone older) who years back had heard a dinner story about a murder-suicide, wrote about the episode, then years later came across the man whose story she'd appropriated. All told very well and it's full of promise, but this piece just ends abruptly, not only with no resolution but with odd features unexplained (why is she telling this to a "your honor"?) - obviously seems clipped from something longer, something possibly very good, but why not give us a work that can stand on its own rather than what basically amounts to a writing sample?