The Super Burrito is defined not by an ingredient but by a moisture budget, and the word Super is a precise instruction about how that budget gets spent. A standard burrito of the San Francisco mission lineage is already a sealed cylinder of rice, beans, meat, and salsa wrapped in a steamed flour tortilla. Going Super means three specific wet additions, guacamole, sour cream, and cheese, are folded into that sealed tube. The challenge is no longer assembly but containment: each addition raises the internal moisture and the volume, and the burrito has to hold a fuller, wetter load through a tight roll without splitting the seam.
The craft is in the layering and the fold, because a sealed cylinder fails from the inside. The rice goes against the tortilla as a deliberate moisture barrier, soaking what the beans and salsa shed so the wrap does not go to paste from within. The guacamole and sour cream are placed in the core rather than against the tortilla so their slickness does not break the seal, and the cheese is set where the residual heat of the rice and meat will slacken it enough to bind the fill into a single mass rather than a loose jumble. The large flour tortilla is steamed soft so it stretches around the increased volume instead of tearing, then folded ends-first and rolled tight so the structure is a closed tube under tension. The same foil wrap that holds the heat also acts as an external brace, which is what lets a Super-sized fill be carried and eaten from one end without collapse.
The variations are a question of core composition rather than form. A wet versus dry burrito argument runs on rice quantity and salsa choice; the protein swaps across the usual roster without changing the build; the addition of fries pushes it toward the California burrito reading. The breakfast version trades the savory core for egg and potato but keeps the sealed-cylinder logic exactly. Those deserve their own articles rather than being crowded in here.