Blueberry Garden is full of questions. Who is the beaked protagonist? Who switched on the gigantic water faucet that is slowly submerging his world in tap water? What is the meaning of the camera, flashlight, gift box, saltshaker and other huge objects that litter the world? Why do these objects fall into a towering pile in the middle of the world when you walk up to them? What are the birds, birthday-hat critters and sunglasses-wearing blue moose up to? Why is the game called Blueberry Garden when there are many other perfectly edible fruits and vegetables?

You might have heard about Blueberry Garden through word of mouth, pondered its ineffable teaser trailer, or caught a glimpse of it at the Independent Games Festival like me -- and when you're faced by these unanswerable questions on your first playthrough, you're inclined to be moved or otherwise impressed. Where you can't scratch the surface, you picture depth.

Swiss Cheese Garden.

Playing the game shows these to be, I think, red herrings. Blueberry Garden's environment, all curving lines and painterly hues, is skillfully drawn, but filled with things that raise eyebrows more than they resonate. The animals may be charming, but aren't much more than obstacles in your race to stop the flood. The working but underwhelming ecosystem seems to amount to animals bunching and multiplying around the trees. The selection of oversized detritus is striking, but in the end meaningless to all but perhaps the author, Erik Svedäng.

There's a mystique to these images and ideas that makes them instantly compelling. But they don't offer much food for thought or explication. You can't develop much of a relationship with the things in the game world, which is thin on both narrative and interaction, and so you can't care about them on anything but a superficial level.

The sole exception is the stuff growing on the trees, which you'll come back to throughout the game. The fruits and vegetables help you navigate the world (and the world is difficult to navigate). Yet this is a disappointing relationship because it primarily makes you think about game design instead of enriching your game with meaning. Imagine if Mario and Luigi couldn't survive without intravenous boluses of Super Mushroom every other minute. That's how the titular blueberries make you feel. You'll inevitably get stuck without a regular supply. They are your lifelines, and you have to scramble for them -- after you figure out how to use them -- before the water rises too high and it's game over. This isn't the whimsical game of exploration and discovery it's been made out to be. Your goal is to exit this world. It's even harder to appreciate Blueberry Garden's beautiful curiosities when you're zipping past them.

These Birds Keep Messing Up My Garden.

Why the Seumas McNally Grand Prize at the IGF, then, for a game that often feels at odds with itself? Blueberry Garden has all the hallmarks of a platformer -- harnessing items, jumping on and over 2-D surfaces -- but tantalizingly allows you to fly and shape the terrain. It's a very poignant game, with a lonesome hero straight out of a Jason comic and a plangent piano soundtrack. Most importantly, its art provides ample hand-drawn evidence of a quintessentially artistic process, one willing to indulge in the subconscious as much as (or in this case, more than) the rational mind of a computer programmer. The blurry linework reminds me of Mark Baker's animation "The Village," only more twee, as high-profile indie games are wont to be.

But isn't it significant that Blueberry Garden is better observed over someone's shoulder than it is played? As an art object, it's full of atmosphere and events: Trees sprout, the earth quakes, big things fall down. You might collide in mid-air with a bird, or drown by accident, after which you'll reappear at the beginning with a pop.

As happenings in a strange world, these events exude a mythic aura. But for all their aesthetic style, they feel inconsequential as gameplay. I think it's because Blueberry Garden -- the game -- feels like work. To its credit, the 2-D world is surprisingly freeform within its narrow margins. No two playthroughs are quite the same -- you'll use items differently, reach different areas, find different objects, and end up with a different world each time.

Some Mayo and Bread Would Go Nice With That Garden.

Nonetheless, Blueberry Garden seems reluctant to have you interact with it, as if it'd rather be admired from a distance. You walk on surfaces. You jump, awkwardly, over chasms and animals. You fly in straight lines, weaving left and right to go higher (think wall jump with no walls). And you get stuck a lot -- on rocks, between surfaces, amidst flocks of birds. You never feel physically integrated into the world, and emotionally invested in the game by extension. As a result, your actions don't feel empowering; they feel somewhat desperate. The question I most often asked myself was, "Will this get me out of here?"

As an indie game without the mandate of selling millions, Blueberry Garden clearly enjoys a nonconformist stance. However, it still doesn't work. If games were like blenders or vacuum cleaners, I'd note that Blueberry Garden costs $5, offers about an hour of gameplay, and will hold up to at least one replay; and let you make the informed-consumer decision. But this is a perfect example of why aesthetics and emotions matter most in games: They're so often a missed opportunity.

This review is based on a downloadable copy of the game provided by the publisher.