In the context of large-scale residential developments—apartment complexes and villa projects alike—the answer, sadly, is often:
an anonymous clientele.
Architects today largely cater to faceless, generalised users, imagined only through market briefs, price points, and marketing personas. In such a setting, it is hardly surprising that the act of design is reduced to geometrical abstractions and statistical probabilities. The result is a prototypical house—one-size-fits-all—with only superficial changes accommodated, and those too, only where rare interactions with the actual occupant occur.
The real tragedy is that the one who gives true value to a home—the occupant—is rarely part of the process. The architect, ideally a conduit of that person’s lifestyle, culture, and emotional values, is instead often absorbed in formal exercises and stylised branding. The home-owner is left with no real choice but to accept the space—not necessarily love it—merely because of the money they’ve shovelled out to buy it or the reputation attached to the developer.
Meanwhile, architects and builders are desperate to leave their mark—signing every corner of the building, plastering it with their language of design. Users, on the other hand, are left with little scope for personal expression—except maybe panelling a wall, sticking wallpaper, or changing ceiling lights.
What I see today is an insensitivity—sometimes even indifference—to people’s traditions, emotions, and everyday rituals. Most architects, it appears, visualise space without people. They design a blank canvas with no scope to paint—a space that’s polished but empty, composed but soulless.
In the rush to perfect building services, we have ignored the emotional, cultural, and social content of homes. There are no strong post-occupancy evaluations. Feedback from real users is often unwelcome or dismissed. As long as the plans check out and the façade looks impressive, the process is considered complete.
But is it?
In this series of articles, I want to explore the missed possibilities in how we design and plan residential projects—from the scale of master planning, to block configurations, floor layouts, and unit-level planning decisions. I will share my observations and recommendations not in dry bullet points, but through narratives that provoke reflection.
And I want to frame it with a question:
If architects, historians, or social scientists 100 years from now were to study our buildings to understand our values, cultures, and relationships—what would they find?
Would they discover warmth and belonging in our floor plans? Would they see signs of emotional connection in the way spaces relate to each other? Or would they find sterile corridors and neatly-packaged units devoid of identity?
This is not just a professional inquiry. It’s a cultural one. Let’s start asking the deeper questions—before they’re asked by history.
I’ll be posting a series of reflections, and ideas on this topic soon.
Let’s explore the layers of design—master planning, block layout, floor configuration, and unit-level nuances—one by one. Whether you’re an architect, builder, or someone simply trying to make sense of the space you live in, I invite you to read, reflect, and join the conversation.