Flower is typically understood to contain an anti-urban message, and this comes as no surprise. If the title did not clue us in to the dominance of nature in the work, then perhaps the gameplay did. It gives us the reins of the wind to sweep across verdant green landscapes, collecting flower petals and bringing life to dead pastures. Unless we live in a rural area, the contrasts Flower makes between city life and the natural world are hard to miss. There is nothing horrible about taking the game in that way either. It certainly does not detract from the second and by no means insignificant goal of the game, that of providing a meditative experience withdrawn from the self-important and over-wrought headspaces of the today’s latest blockbuster titles.

A deeper look, however, reveals a more nuanced conclusion that is more rewarding, on a spiritual level, than the simplistic message, “Cities are evil!”

Flower is not anti-urban, but it is pro-nature, and the ways in which it brings the urban and rural together tell us a simple truth about the joys of a fulfilling life.

Consider the game’s “villains,” tangled and blackened spires of power lines and steel girders, choking the landscape like gangrenous ulcers. They come up against us under crackling storm clouds, and their ominous presence literally warps the physical space of the game world. Openly refuting the free space of the previous areas, these obstructions put an end to the carefree wind flight heretofore indulged. For us, on a spiritual level they create tension where there was previously none at all. It is a brilliant conversation between gameplay and theme, for these jumbled masses are not just symbols but tangible metaphors. They constrict us, limit us, and confine us just as our hectic routines of the modern world, played out amidst the heated bodies of our peers in crowded city streets and shopping malls, confine us and bind us.

In Flower, destroying these dark places open up the game space to the now-familiar joy of breathing free, shooting through the open sky, and running along grassy meadows. Indeed, it all seems quite clearly anti-urban until we arrive at the city. There, the story changes, and our expectations are thwarted in remarkable ways.

Up until now, the unnamed city has been portrayed as a somber place, colorless and devoid of passion, and once inside, we find even more of our villains, some in the shapes of great, malevolent spider webs, choking the air. But we bring with us an army of flower petals, perhaps the largest yet amassed in our flight, and break into the city to a triumphant orchestral score. As the suffocating masses of black metal are destroyed, the city is not overgrown with vegetation. In fact, it comes to life on its own terms. Fans begin to spin, buildings turn from disquieting gray to vibrant reds, oranges, and blues, grass sprouts up beneath swing sets and slides, and even the highway is restored, exit signs and all. This is the surprise, because we are not destroying the city. We are setting it free.

There is a feeling of unbridled joy during this final stage, with the dark, stormy days behind us and the spires of the once lifeless city crumbling to dust. The message is quieting. Peace, the unity of living, does not come by turning our backs on our homes or toppling our skyscrapers to raise a garden of flowers. It comes by freeing from the tyranny of endless modernity the inner self that has been forgotten, the self that loves to drift along the wind from time to time and let a blade of grass stroke her cheek.

The final image in Flower is telling, for it does not necessarily end in nature. Rather, it ends in the city, under a clear sky with an open window and a row of flowers in bloom upon the sill. Of course, it is not the only final image either. We might end in a simple house, the windows filled not with man-made horizons but hills of grass. Either way, the final stage is triumphant. Either way, the city is at last restored. Either way, there is peace. That is the message of Flower.