Some Entrances Are Grand. But Do They Mean Anything?
When you think of multi-block apartment projects today—especially the large ones—it often starts with a grand gateway. Then comes an even grander lobby in each block—double-height, stylishly furnished, with a reception, notice board, and sometimes a café or waiting area. Everything looks impressive. But here’s the question: Do we really enter through them?
Let’s pause for a second.
In most apartment projects, we enter the basement or cellar, park our cars, take a lift, and reach our floor. From there, we walk into our home. Quietly. Efficiently. Privately.
So when do we actually use these grand lobbies on the ground floor?
Hardly ever.
Maybe when we’re expecting a guest.
Or when kids are taken out to play.
Maybe seniors pass through them during their morning walk.
That’s about it.
Strangely, in large apartment projects, though, the lobby is one of the few places where we could actually see our neighbours—if we ever passed through it.
Have We Built In Anti-Social Habits?
This brings me to a simple but important thought:
Are our buildings unintentionally becoming anti-social?
We talk a lot about social spaces—children’s play areas, sit-outs for seniors, jogging tracks.
But many of these are just what's left after the built-up area is fixed.
They’re treated as requirements to fulfil, not opportunities to design for people.
Even the placement of these spaces is often about what fits in the master plan—not about what connects people.
Think about it.
In most blocks, there are only 2 to 4 flats per floor. So even if you wanted to say hello to someone, you don’t meet them. You get into the lift in the cellar, go up, enter your flat. That’s it.
The whole building becomes a machine for movement, not a setting for life.
I’m not saying people don’t want to interact.
Or that we should force it.
But shouldn’t we design in a way that encourages it—even when residents themselves aren’t consciously looking for it?
A Simple Possibility
Here’s an idea:
What if the main lift started from the ground floor, and not from the basement?
What if the lift from the cellar only brought you to the ground, and from there you had to pass through the lobby—or a small shared activity zone—to go up?
What if the movement itself was designed—not controlled or restricted—but gently guided so that people naturally cross paths?
Will it need an extra lift? Probably.
Will someone argue it’s not sustainable? Maybe.
But are we only designing for sustainability measured in watts and litres?
What about emotional well-being? Social comfort? A sense of community?
I’m not suggesting a universal solution.
Site conditions, budgets, and practicalities will always matter.
But what I’m saying is this:
If we don’t even intend for people to meet, how will we ever plan/design for it?
Do We Only Plan for Cars?
We prepare a detailed parking plan in every project.
Why not a resident movement plan?
A simple plan that answers:
When do residents meet?
Where do they pause?
Can we make it feel more natural, more inviting, more human?
Some might say—architects don’t like being told what to do.
That’s fine. I’m not telling. I’m just sharing what I’ve been thinking.
The Truth We Avoid
It's plain and simple:
Many architects think they are masters of everything. But in reality, we are not.
We’re trained to think in terms of form, function, materials, structure.
But when we’re designing for hundreds of families, we’re dealing with lives—not just layouts.
Isn’t it time we involved social scientists, researchers—and even urban designers—in such projects?
Why should these aspects be seen as too small for their level of expertise?
When hundreds of families are going to live there, is it not important enough?
But here’s what we often hear:
“These are small things. We can handle it. Why invite others to intervene in my design?”
That’s exactly the problem.
What we dismiss as “small” often ends up shaping how people live, meet, or feel invisible inside the very spaces we create.
People who understand human behaviour, community patterns, movement, comfort, and safety can offer insights we don’t usually see on drawings.
And if our egos don’t allow that, then at least let’s begin with one honest step:
Prepare a resident movement plan.
See how people might move.
See where they might meet.
See if we’re designing a community—or just blocks.
After all, what is a master plan?
Is it just services, setbacks, parking slots, and built-up numbers?
Or is it a framework for daily life—movement, connection, belonging?
Make It Mandatory. Not by Regulation. But by Practice.
Let me put this clearly:
Every architectural practice must make it mandatory to include a Resident Movement Plan in the design process—whether or not it is asked for by the client or required by regulation.
This is not just about ticking a box.
It’s about thinking deeper. Designing with clarity.
Such a plan should analyse:
When and where residents cross paths
Whether shared spaces are usable or just ornamental
Whether the building encourages people to feel safe, connected, noticed
This one step will not only make buildings more liveable—it will guide how the entire project is shaped.
The Real Role of the Architect
We are not masters of everything—and we don’t need to be.
But we are meant to be masters of orchestration.
A good architect doesn’t just draw elevations or assign materials.
A good architect connects the dots: structure with movement, privacy with interaction, built form with lived experience.
We may not be trained in sociology or urban anthropology, but we must know when their voices matter. We may not specialise in open space planning, but we must recognise when design decisions affect life outside the walls.
Think of a film director.
They don’t light the set, play the music, or do the editing.
But they carry the vision, and know how each craft shapes the final story.
They don’t control everything—they integrate everything.
Likewise, architecture is not about having all the answers.
It’s about asking better questions, inviting the right voices, and creating a space where all aspects of living come together with purpose.
When we stop trying to master everything and start directing with empathy and clarity,
our buildings will stop feeling like isolated units—and start feeling like places where life connects.
A Word to Landscape Architects Too
I also appeal to landscape architects:
Please don’t treat your work as a “green cover” or a visual layer on top of the building.
Landscape is not a visual add-on. It is about people. Life. Time spent between places.
Ask for the resident movement plan. Study it. Or better, propose it.
Because how people move, sit, walk, and watch—will define whether your beautiful space gets used… or just admired from a distance.
When we design with intention, even the smallest courtyard becomes a community.
When we don’t, even the grandest podium feels empty.