The flatbread wrap is defined by containment rather than by anything inside it. A soft, pliable round of bread is laid flat, loaded along one line, and rolled into a sealed cylinder so the filling is held on every side at once. That is the entire structural argument: not the spiced meat or the salad or the sauce, but the fact that a flexible bread can fold completely around a loose, mixed, often wet load and let the whole thing be eaten in one hand while walking. A roll braces a filling between two faces and leaves the sides open; the wrap closes the sides too. The bread here is deliberately generic, a plain Middle Eastern-style flatbread chosen for how it bends, and its job is to disappear into the role of the container.
The craft is keeping that cylinder intact from the first bite to the last. A rolled wrap is a sealed tube, so the filling has to be dry enough not to blow the seam and packed evenly so the bread is not straining at one end and empty at the other. The dressing is the usual point of failure: too much and it wicks into the bread along the length of the roll and the whole thing splits down its weakest line halfway through. The flatbread is warmed before it is filled so it folds rather than cracks, and the tighter the roll the better it holds, because a loose wrap unspools in the hand and a tight one eats like a single object. It is cut on the diagonal so each half stands as a sealed parcel rather than spilling its load onto the plate.
The variations are mostly the filling swapped under the same fold. A spiced grilled meat with a garlic or chilli sauce and salad is the kebab-shop reading; a cooler chicken-and-salad build with mayonnaise is the high-street lunch one; the pitta is the same flexible-bread instinct met as a pocket rather than a roll, supported by the bread's own wall instead of a wound seam. Each is the same containment idea wearing a different filling, and they deserve their own articles rather than being crowded in here.