Strange Horticulture
Platform(s): PC (Steam/Windows/macOS), Nintendo Switch, Xbox One, PlayStation 4/5, and mobile devices (iOS/Android)
Developed by Bad Viking, Published by Iceberg Interactive
Target Audience: fans of cozy mysteries, occult themes, and plant-based narrative centered puzzles
I have spent hours squinting over a fictional plant catalog, cross-referencing Latin names for vague customer descriptions. “I need something for a friend who’s been acting strangely.” That’s it, that’s the clue. Welcome to Strange Horticulture.
My central argument is that Strange Horticulture creates MDA aesthetics of Challenge, Discovery, and Narrative through its plant identification mechanics, but these same mechanics assume players possess botanical literacy and Western folkloric knowledge — excluding players without that cultural background. The game’s cozy occult atmosphere and tactile interface successfully evoke a sense of belonging, yet its ethical blind spot lies in what knowledge it takes for granted.
Strange Horticulture’s core mechanic is deceptively simple: match customer descriptions to plants in your catalog. But this mechanic creates a cascade of dynamics that shape the entire experience. You receive a request, flip through your illustrated catalog, compare the description to each plant’s properties (names, appearances, occult uses), and choose which plant to give. The game never tells you if you’re right immediately. You only discover consequences later—maybe a grateful customer returns with a map fragment, maybe you’ve just poisoned someone.
These mechanics generate specific Dynamics. I found myself developing pattern recognition, learning which plants have which properties through trial and error. On Day 9, a customer named Forest Vair arrived asking for Dranthium. A close look at his eyes told me he was a regular user. I flipped to Dranthium’s catalog entry—”Some know Dranthium as Green-Eye, a name derived from the tell-tale sign of overdose where even the whites of the eyes take on a green tint”—and matched the clue to his green-tinged eyes. Mental map built, Dranthium isn’t just a plant, it’s a drug with consequences
The visual cues help me build a mental map of plant uses and users. I also felt tension when uncertain—flipping through pages, rereading descriptions, second-guessing myself, and questioning whether it’s ethical to give an addict their fix. The game never questioned whether supplying an addict was wrong. But I did—better me than a self-aquired poisonous look-alike. Harm reduction and all that.Next playthrough, I won’t. I want to see what impact that has on the story.
These dynamics produce three primary Aesthetics. First, Challenge—deducing the correct plant from ambiguous clues requires genuine problem-solving, especially when I care about not killing my townies. Second, Discovery—finding new plants, unlocking map locations, and uncovering the occult mystery keeps you playing. Third, Narrative—the unfolding story of the strange town and its secrets emerges through your plant choices.
From a formal elements perspective, knowledge is the primary resource—knowing which plant does what. The catalog is your tool, but it only gives you “illustrations” and names. The meaning of those names is assumed. The game’s boundaries are also notable: you never leave the shop. The map is a physical object you pull from a drawer. The outside world comes to you. This constraint creates focus and intimacy, turning the shop into a magic circle where occult rules apply.
What differentiates Strange Horticulture from other puzzle games is its cozy but deadly tone. Unlike Return of the Obra Dinn, which demands pure visual logic, or The Witness, which is abstract and sterile, Strange Horticulture asks you to feel your way through puzzles. The rain outside the window, the black cat (Hellebore) you can pet (and my inspiration for P2 Bodega cat), the flickering candle—these atmospheric details are small touches that helped deepen the theme. They don’t change the mechanics, but they change how the mechanics feel. This is the difference between a puzzle and a favorite game.
Here is where Strange Horticulture stumbles. The game assumes players have specific cultural, educational, and experiential knowledge.
First, the plant catalog uses Latin names with no pronunciation guide, no translation, no glossary. As a fan of the occult/latin etymology I sometimes recognized these names. But what about a player who doesn’t? A player educated outside the Western system?
Second, the game assumes familiarity with English folklore. A player from East Asia or South America may have no frame of reference for these ‘occult properties’ rooted in European tradition. The game explains them in brief one-liners but does little to world-build.
Third, and most subtly, the game assumes a certain emotional distance from the subject matter. Take Dranthium. The catalog describes it as having “mind-altering abilities” and notes that overdose turns the whites of the eyes green. The game treats this as a clue—a clever detail for the player to spot. But for a player with personal experience of addiction—be it their own or a loved one’s—Forest Vair isn’t just a puzzle. He’s a person. The game’s mechanical framing of addiction as a “tell-tale sign” rather than a crisis may feel dismissive. The mechanics only care about correct identification. The ethics are mine to carry, not the game’s.
The fix is simple. An optional glossary or folklore reference. Tooltips explaining plant names. And for the addiction angle, a branching choice: give Dranthium, offer a placebo, or refuse service. (I don’t know if the game allows refusal—though I searched the plant guide for an alternative to ‘ween’ him off.) Different outcomes for different choices. These additions would preserve the Discovery aesthetic for players who want mystery while making the game accessible and ethically responsible for everyone else. Without them, Strange Horticulture is a wonderful game—but can be greater so all players discover its secrets.
