The reassessment of Moses has occasioned a similar second look at his longtime nemesis, Jane Jacobs. Her landmark 1961 book, The Death and Life of Great American Cities, was a spirited defense of the vital neighborhoods that continue to give New York its singular charm—and an attack on Moses and others with a taste for the imposing gesture.

Having studied and admired Jacobs, Americans pine for walkable, human-scaled neighborhoods like her own block of Hudson Street in Greenwich Village, circa 1960. Inspired by her activism, we insist that every building and project be open to "community input." At the same time, we have a seemingly limitless appetite for breathtaking, iconic architecture. We want politicians to make strong, aggressive choices, even when they're unpopular. We see our cities as plagued by an inertia that only somebody with the power and foresight of a Robert Moses can fix. In short, we want Robert to love Jane, and Jane to love Robert. But they never got along and their ideas never will. And we are the children of their divorce.

Which brings us back to Abu Dhabi's Emirates Palace hotel and the designs of Ando, Gehry, Hadid, and Nouvel. One of their primary attractions is that they promise a sort of ideal architectural family: a gorgeously photogenic group blessed with straight roads instead of straight teeth. The contrast between that tableau and the way our own cities look—most blocks are a depressingly mismatched brood—is almost overwhelming.

But comparing Abu Dhabi with Chicago or Los Angeles or New York is like watching a sitcom family on TV and wondering why yours isn't more like the one on the screen. Real cities are messy and often chaotic places. And the sections of them that work best tend to gain their energy from a blend of smart planning and serendipity—a mixture that is ever elusive.

Like nearly every memorable example of autocratic architecture that has come before it—including those in the accompanying portfolio—the section of Abu Dhabi slated for redevelopment, Saadiyat Island, relies heavily on the power of illusion. Its very name—"Happiness Island"—echoes Walt Disney's branding of Disneyland as the "Happiest Place on Earth."

It is a more sophisticated and urbane version, of course, with Hadid and her ubiquitous Issey Miyake shawl standing in for Minnie and her oversized bow. But the idea is the same: to create a kind of dreamland—not a place in which to grapple with the complexities of contemporary cities but to leave them behind.

Palace Square
St. Petersburg was marshland in 1703, when Peter the Great deemed it just the spot for his purpose-built city. As Peter impelled Russia's nobles to set up household in his urban experiment, scores of architects, artisans, and engineers followed from across the continent. The result: a historic center that uniquely fuses Baroque, neoclassical, and Russian elements. A similar stylistic mash-up occurs around Alexander Column (commemorating the country's military victory in the war with Napoleon's France), where the buttercup­yellow General Staff Building rubs shoulders with the green-and-white Winter Palace, home to the Hermitage Museum. Toast the views from the rooftop bar at the Kempinski Hotel Moika 22, which sits so close to the Winter Palace that you can make out the Rococo details (7-812-335-9111; kempinski.com; doubles, $273-$361).