KantorGG Just Built a Tropical Home That Faces the Wrong Way

Most tropical homes try to open up. Floor-to-ceiling glass, wraparound terraces, the constant push-pull between inside and outside air. It’s practically a formula at this point. So when a house comes along that deliberately turns away from that instinct, you stop and pay attention.

SE House, designed by Giovanni Gunawan of Surabaya-based studio KantorGG, sits at one of the city’s most recognizable residential corners and does something quietly radical: it pulls inward. Not to close off or shut the world out, but to create a kind of depth that most houses spend their entire floor plan actively avoiding.

Designer: Giovanni Gunawan for KantorGG (photos by Tristan Salim)

The concept is organized around a central courtyard, natural airflow, dry gardens, and the kind of deliberate voids that make space feel intentional rather than accidental. Gunawan placed dry gardens between the masses and the voids so residents experience the outdoors without sacrificing the comfort of being inside. It sounds simple enough. The execution is anything but. This is Gunawan’s stated interpretation of what tropical living can actually become, and I think he’s asking a question the design world has been skating past for years. We’ve gotten very good at making tropical homes look beautiful in photographs. We are considerably less practiced at making them feel like somewhere genuinely worth inhabiting on an ordinary Tuesday.

KantorGG’s design ethos centers on “living with nature, inside and out,” and SE House is probably the clearest expression of that philosophy yet. The existing mature trees on the site weren’t cleared to make room for clean lines. They were preserved as spatial anchors, the kind of decision that takes real confidence because it limits what you can do architecturally, and then rewards you generously in return. Shaded seating under dappled light, shifting reflections, the particular quality of sitting beneath something old and rooted. That’s not something you can manufacture after the fact.

The Australian-inflected sensibility woven through the design deserves a closer look. Gunawan studied abroad, and that cross-pollination shows up in SE House’s structure without being heavy-handed about it. The house doesn’t read as imported or imitated. It reads as absorbed and reissued through a sensibility that is distinctly Indonesian. That tension between influences, when handled well, produces architecture that belongs nowhere else and everywhere at once.

The 360-degree courtyard layout is worth sitting with on its own terms. It means the house has no single dominant view, no privileged front-row seat. Every room must negotiate with the central space, which keeps the architecture from becoming a spectacle and makes it a place to actually live inside. I find that rare, and more genuinely considered than most high-concept residential projects that pass through design media these days.

SE House has attracted the kind of attention that usually gravitates toward buildings with louder ambition. The buildings that announce themselves as you walk in. This one whispers, and that’s precisely why people are listening. Gunawan described it as a quiet manifesto for tropical living, and the word choice matters. A manifesto doesn’t have to be loud to carry weight.

The broader argument SE House seems to be making is that restraint isn’t the enemy of richness. The absence of visual noise isn’t emptiness. The voids aren’t what’s missing from the design. They are the design, or at least a fundamental part of what makes the rest of it land. That’s an architectural lesson, but it also translates well into how we think about design at every scale, from the objects we choose to live with to the spaces we build up around ourselves over time.

SE House is the kind of project that stays with you not because of one striking image but because of the underlying logic. It makes you want to look at your own spaces differently, and ask whether you’ve been opening up when you should have been pulling inward the whole time.

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This Carbon-Negative Neighborhood in the Netherlands Is Rethinking Affordable Housing

Architecture has long been one of the planet’s most significant contributors to carbon emissions. ORGA, a Dutch studio, is challenging that reality head-on with a carbon-negative neighborhood prototype built in the village of Marknesse, Netherlands — and the results are worth paying attention to.

Commissioned by housing association Mercatus, the project consists of 12 affordable rental homes designed specifically for first-time buyers and low-income households. From the outset, the goal was to minimize environmental impact at every stage — not as an afterthought, but as the foundation of every design decision made.

Designer: ORGA

Marknesse sits in a region historically defined by its ‘Delft Red’ aesthetic: red clay bricks and orange-red roof tiles. Rather than abandon that visual identity, ORGA reinterpreted it through a modern lens, swapping out high-carbon materials for natural, renewable alternatives. The result is something rare in contemporary construction — a structure that stores more carbon than it produces. The architects also wove local ecology into the design, incorporating wooden chimneys that double as nesting sites for bats.

The numbers behind the project are striking. The prototype achieves a 76% share of bio-based and circular raw materials. Nearly everything is sourced from renewable materials, with the exception of the concrete foundation and essential components like windows and fasteners. It’s an approach that echoes projects like the 3D-printed Lib Earth House Model B in Japan, which similarly replaces cement with soil-based mixtures to reduce material impact.

Construction efficiency was also a priority. The homes are built using prefabricated timber elements manufactured off-site and assembled on-site, a method that dramatically cuts construction time while reducing local disruption. This mirrors what’s been seen in mass timber projects like the 230 Royal York tower in Toronto, where prefabrication trimmed months off the build schedule.

Inside, the timber framing is insulated with wood fiber and other natural materials, enabling a completely foil-free, vapor-permeable construction. There are no synthetic plastic wrapping layers. Instead, the wall system is breathable — designed to passively regulate moisture and temperature without air conditioning or mechanical intervention. The building essentially manages its own climate.

To close the loop on long-term sustainability, each home was cataloged using the Madaster Material Passport, an online dossier that tracks all materials and their applications. Residents also received user manuals to help them maintain and eventually repurpose components of the home. What ORGA has built in Marknesse is more than a prototype. It’s a proof of concept that bio-based, affordable, and carbon-negative architecture can coexist — and that meaningful ecological design doesn’t have to come at the cost of accessibility.

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The Hive Tower That Could Change How Cities Build Tall

Vancouver just opened a building that looks like it was sketched from a bee’s imagination. Ten stories of glulam diagonal bracing arranged in a cellular honeycomb pattern, climbing above the False Creek Flats neighborhood at 2150 Keith Drive. No concrete core. No steel skeleton hiding inside. Just engineered wood, a very smart structural idea, and 106 seismic dampers quietly doing something extraordinary.

The Hive, designed by Dialog in collaboration with structural engineers Fast+Epp, is officially the tallest seismic-force-resisting mass timber building in North America. Nature’s Path Foods was an early believer in the project. The Insurance Corporation of British Columbia (ICBC) just signed on as anchor tenant, which matters more than it sounds. When an insurance company chooses to occupy a timber building designed for earthquake territory, it’s a signal about confidence, not just aesthetics.

Designer: Dialog Design (photos from Michael Elkan)

The structural decision at the center of this building is worth pausing on. Most architects building in seismic zones lean on a concrete core to handle lateral loads, then wrap wood or steel around it. Dialog chose not to do that here. Instead, the glulam diagonal braces run along the building’s perimeter, forming that honeycomb grid that reads immediately as a design statement but is actually the load-bearing logic made visible. The structure isn’t decorating the facade. The facade is the structure.

Paired with those diagonal glulam braces are 106 Tectonus damper connections, a system borrowed conceptually from how tectonic plates behave during seismic events. Rather than resisting an earthquake by brute force, the building is designed to move with it, absorbing energy through the dampers and then self-centering once the shaking stops. Testing was carried out at the University of Alberta using large physical mockups to prove the system would hold. That kind of pre-construction stress testing is not a given, and it reflects the level of scrutiny this project had to pass to exist at all.

The reason that scrutiny was so high comes down to code. Canada updated its National Building Code in 2020 to permit mass timber buildings up to 12 stories, with changes taking effect in 2022. Vancouver sits in a high-seismic zone, which added requirements beyond the base code. Getting a tall timber building approved here required not just meeting those new standards but helping to write the engineering case for them. The team received $4 million in research funding from federal and provincial governments to do exactly that, covering destructive testing, fire testing, and constructability analysis. The Hive didn’t just benefit from the regulatory shift. It helped earn it.

The comparison to other celebrated mass timber towers is instructive. Milwaukee’s Ascent is remarkable at 25 stories, and buildings like Neutral Edison have made compelling arguments for timber in dense urban settings. But neither sits in a high-seismic zone. The Hive isn’t the tallest timber building; it’s the most structurally tested in the conditions most buildings actually fear. Seismic credibility is the specific gap it fills, and filling it in a major North American city with a government-insurer anchor tenant is a different kind of proof than any design award.

The honeycomb wasn’t chosen to be pretty. It was chosen because the diagonal brace geometry at the perimeter is the most efficient seismic solution for a building this size without a concrete core. And yet the result is one of the most graphically immediate buildings to open anywhere this year. When the structural diagram and the brand identity are the same thing, something has gone right at a foundational level in the design process.

Mass timber has been in a years-long tug-of-war between its admirers and its skeptics. The admirers point to carbon storage, warmth, biophilic benefits. The skeptics point to fire risk, insurance costs, and seismic uncertainty. The Hive answers the hardest skeptic argument directly, in one of the most seismically demanding cities in Canada. Whether it fully tips the debate probably depends on what gets permitted and built next. But as an opening move, it’s a strong one.

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At 9.6 Metres, the Cabarita Might Be the Most Livable Tiny Home on Wheels

There’s a version of tiny home living that still feels like a proper home — not a camper van with aspirations, not a studio apartment on wheels, but something genuinely livable. The Cabarita by Removed Tiny Homes sits squarely in that category. It’s a two-bedroom towable built on a triple-axle trailer, measuring 9.6 metres long, 2.4 metres wide, and 4.3 metres high, totalling 33 square metres of considered space. The numbers alone don’t tell the story — the layout does.

Removed Tiny Homes is a Brisbane-based builder with a straightforward philosophy: tiny living shouldn’t mean compromise. The Cabarita is the clearest expression of that thinking. Downstairs, you get a full bedroom and a bathroom fitted with a glass-enclosed shower, vanity sink, and flushing toilet, plus a separate laundry area with a washer and dryer. The kitchen and living room flow together under a high ceiling with a large picture window that pulls the outside in — a detail that does a lot of heavy lifting in a compact floor plan. Upstairs, a generous loft functions as the second sleeping zone, giving the layout enough separation to actually feel like a two-bedroom home rather than a converted storage space.

Designer: Removed Tiny Homes

What makes the Cabarita worth paying attention to isn’t just how it looks — it’s how thoroughly it’s been thought through. The standard model includes high-efficiency air conditioning and gas hot water, and for those who want to live off-grid, Removed Tiny Homes offers three upgrade packages: solar power systems, rainwater tanks, and multi-stage water filtration. The trailer dimensions are calibrated so the home can be towed without requiring special permits, which keeps the mobility genuinely practical rather than theoretical.

The design language is unfussy — clean lines, warm timber, natural light prioritised over decoration. Nothing is trying to prove itself. The Cabarita reads as a home for someone who’s done the math on what they actually need versus what they’ve been conditioned to want. At approximately USD $97,800, it’s not cheap in absolute terms, but relative to the property market it was designed as an alternative to, the numbers land differently.

The tiny home space is crowded with concepts that photograph well and compromise everywhere else. The Cabarita isn’t that. It’s a workable, well-proportioned home that happens to be towable — and that distinction matters more than any design trend currently circulating.

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This Floating Parliament Is Built From the Ocean’s Own Trash

Most architects look at ocean plastic and see a crisis. Yufeng Tu saw a building material. Ocean Vortex, the speculative floating parliament he conceived, does exactly that — and in doing so, reimagines what civic architecture can mean when the crisis it addresses becomes the material it’s built from.

Recognized as a finalist in the 2026 YAC Ocean Parliament competition, Ocean Vortex is a direct response to the staggering scale of marine plastic pollution, particularly the vast garbage patches accumulating across the Pacific Ocean. Rather than positioning architecture as a distant observer of environmental collapse, Tu places it at the center of the problem — literally afloat within it.

Designer: Yufeng Tu

The structural logic is as deliberate as it is striking. A steel frame is combined with recycled marine waste, with discarded plastic barrels and containers repurposed as buoyancy elements. The very materials responsible for choking ocean ecosystems are transformed into the system that keeps the building alive. It’s a circular gesture that gives the concept its moral weight — not greenwashing, but genuine reuse embedded into the architecture’s bones.

From a distance, Ocean Vortex reads as an open civic platform shaped by the forces of wind and water. Up close, the spiral geometry pulls visitors inward, coiling movement toward a central pool that becomes the spatial and symbolic heart of the structure. That pull isn’t incidental — it mirrors the vortex formation of ocean currents, the same force that concentrates plastic debris in the first place. Tu turns a destructive natural phenomenon into an organizing architectural principle.

The program is expansive without being scattered. Parliament chambers, a museum, offices, hydroponic cultivation bays, energy conversion infrastructure, and desalination systems are all woven into one continuous system. Rooftop solar panels handle daily energy needs, while the submerged levels work quietly below the waterline, processing, growing, and converting. The building doesn’t just sit on the ocean — it functions as part of it.

Tu, who holds an M.Arch from UC Berkeley and has worked with practices including MAD and UNStudio, brings a rigorous design sensibility to a project that could easily have remained purely symbolic. Ocean Vortex avoids the trap of spectacle for its own sake. The rendering quality is immersive, but the ideas underneath carry the real weight — governance, ecology, and material responsibility folded into a single form. What makes Ocean Vortex resonate isn’t just its ambition. It’s the clarity of its logic. The ocean made the problem. The ocean provides the site. And the ocean’s own discarded waste becomes the solution. That’s not a design concept. That’s a manifesto.

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The World’s Longest Single-Mast Bridge Has Arrived

At the mouth of Taiwan’s Tamsui River, a new landmark has quietly redrawn the skyline. The Danjiang Bridge, designed by Zaha Hadid Architects, has opened as the world’s longest single-mast, asymmetric cable-stayed bridge — a record-breaking piece of infrastructure that manages to feel more like a gesture than an imposition on its surroundings.

The project stretches 920 meters between New Taipei City’s districts of Tamsui and Bali, held aloft by a single concrete mast rising 200 meters above the estuary. That restraint is intentional. Where most bridges of this scale rely on a sequence of towers or supports planted through the riverbed, ZHA stripped the structure down to one vertical element — tall and slim enough to leave the horizon largely intact. The main span reaches 450 meters to the west of the mast, with a 175-meter span to the east, and cables fan outward asymmetrically from the tower in a sweeping, almost calligraphic arrangement.

Designer: Zaha Hadid Architects

The 71-meter-wide deck is built for a full range of movement. It carries motor traffic, dedicated pedestrian paths, cycle routes, and has been designed to accommodate a future extension of the Danhai Light Rail network — making it less a single-purpose crossing and more a layered piece of public infrastructure. ZHA director Patrik Schumacher described the design as one that would “make a conspicuous landmark against the backdrop of Tamsui’s famous sunsets,” and the placement of the mast against open water at dusk delivers exactly that.

Getting the form right required careful environmental modeling. The original competition brief placed significant weight on protecting views of the river’s famously photogenic sunsets, and ZHA used detailed mapping to ensure the mast’s silhouette — tall and linear — would read as a marker rather than a barrier in the landscape.

Engineering had to match Taiwan’s seismic reality. The support system is built to withstand earthquakes of magnitude 7 or above, combining pier supports, cable stays, hydraulic dampers, friction pendulum bearings, and synthetic rubber pads that work together to absorb both vertical and horizontal force. The structure is doing considerable technical work beneath its clean exterior.

ZHA won the Danjiang Bridge International Competition in 2015, and construction ran from that year through to 2025. For a firm whose identity is closely tied to cultural buildings and interior spaces, the bridge represents something different — a piece of civic infrastructure where the signature fluid language has been channeled into cable geometry, seismic engineering, and a view that already mattered deeply to the city it now connects.

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A House In London Where Floors Drop, Walls Vanish, and the Garden Moves In

Many homes treat the garden as something separate from daily life, something to look at through a window or visit when the weather is good. This house in Hampstead, redesigned by MATA Architects, takes a far more connected approach. Created for a family with teenage children, the project focuses on transforming the lower ground floor and rethinking how the house relates to its south-facing garden. Rather than adding space for the sake of it, the redesign improves the way the home is lived in and how each room connects to the outdoors.

Before the renovation, the house sat well above the garden, with a long staircase creating a clear sense of separation between inside and outside. The architects solved this by bringing the main living spaces closer to the landscape. The new extension steps almost a meter lower than the original level, placing the family rooms directly alongside the garden. This simple shift changes everything. The ceilings feel taller, natural light reaches deeper into the interior, and the garden becomes part of everyday life instead of feeling like a separate area at the bottom of the plot.

Designer: MATA Architects

The surrounding trees played a major role in shaping the design. Because of root protection zones, the footprint of the extension had to be carefully planned. Instead of forcing a standard solution onto the site, the architects allowed these constraints to guide the final form. That careful response gives the project a sense of balance, as though it belongs naturally within its setting.

The materials help reinforce that feeling. The exterior is wrapped in hit-and-miss iroko hardwood battens, which add texture and warmth while softening the lines of the new addition. Above, a tapering roof stretches outward to provide shade during warmer months. Its underside is finished in mirror-polished stainless steel, reflecting the trees and sky overhead. It is a subtle detail, but an effective one, helping the roof feel lighter and less dominant in the garden.

The standout feature is the fully glazed corner facing the terrace. Large sliding glass panels meet without a visible support, allowing the corner to open completely when the doors are pulled back. When open, the living room flows straight onto the terrace and into the garden beyond. When closed, the glazing still maintains clear views and fills the interior with daylight. It is the kind of feature that looks impressive, but it also genuinely improves how the house works.

Inside, the lowered living room sits at the heart of the extension. The slight change in floor level helps define the area within the open plan layout without the need for walls. Full-height glazing keeps the space bright throughout the day, while views of greenery are visible from almost every angle. Built-in timber shelving adds warmth and prevents the room from feeling too minimal or exposed. It also provides useful storage and gives the living area a stronger sense of identity.

Dinesen ash flooring runs throughout the interior, creating continuity and a calm, natural base for the spaces above it. In the kitchen, a large island in Bianco Eclipse quartzite acts as both a working surface and a gathering point. Positioned centrally, it allows clear views across the living room and out to the garden, helping the kitchen feel connected to the rest of the home.

Next to it, the dining area brings a slightly more intimate atmosphere. A wood-lined alcove, fireplace, and built-in bar make it equally suited to family dinners or hosting friends. Smaller spaces have been given the same level of attention. The powder room features a sculptural stone sink, combining rough texture with clean detailing, softened by warm timber and subtle lighting.

The private rooms continue the same thoughtful approach. The primary suite combines sleeping, working, and bathing in one cohesive space, complete with an integrated study area and an ensuite with a timber soaking tub, concrete sinks, and stainless steel fittings. Another bedroom includes its own fireplace, adding warmth and character.

What makes this home successful is that every design decision feels purposeful. Nothing is there just to impress. By lowering the main rooms and opening them fully to the garden, MATA Architects have turned a once disconnected outdoor space into the natural center of the home.

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The Surya Is the Tiny House That Finally Makes Single-Level Living Worth It

I love a home that fits everything you need into 256 square feet without making you feel like you’re compromising. The Surya tiny house by Florida-based Simplify Further Tiny Homes does exactly that — a single-level, 32-foot build that sits somewhere between a well-considered home and a design statement.

Named after the Sanskrit word for “sun,” the Surya carries that warmth through every inch of its interior. Where most tiny homes lean heavily into the loft layout, the Surya takes a different route — keeping the bedroom on the main level with enough room for a queen-sized bed. It’s a practical choice that makes the space feel less like a cleverly packed suitcase and more like an actual home you’d want to live in full-time.

Designer: Simplify Further Tiny Homes

The layout reads cleanly. A well-equipped kitchen anchors one end of the build, a full bathroom sits in the middle, and a spacious living area opens up toward the other end — offering a flexible 5×7-foot floor plan that works as a lounge, a workspace, or an extra sleeping area depending on how you configure it. There’s no loft in the standard model, though Simplify Further offers the option to add one or two for households that need the overhead real estate.

At 8 feet wide and 13.6 feet tall, the Surya is built on a bumper-pull trailer with a hand-built chassis, thick-gauge steel, double axles rated at 7,500 pounds each, trailer brakes, and DOT-approved highway lighting. It ships nationwide and carries NOAH certification as a recreational vehicle — a detail that matters when it comes to parking, financing, and insurance. Starting at $75,000, the price reflects the build quality, with a one-year limited warranty on workmanship included.

Simplify Further isn’t a newcomer to the space. The Lake Butler, Florida-based builder holds a BBB Accredited A+ rating and has taken home the Best Tiny House award at Florida’s Tiny Home Festival — not once, but twice. Their builds have also been featured across media outlets and the broader tiny home community, which speaks to a level of craft that goes beyond the spec sheet.

The Surya isn’t trying to be everything for everyone. It’s designed for couples or small households who want full-time livability, a guest house with real presence, or a short-term rental that actually converts bookings. For those drawn to the single-level lifestyle, it makes a convincing case that a smaller floor plan doesn’t have to mean less life.

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This Is What a Theater Looks Like When Architecture Gets Out of the Way

For decades, Hudson Valley Shakespeare performed under a simple tent — seasonal, transient, and entirely at the mercy of the elements. That changed this May with the completion of the Samuel H. Scripps Theater Center in Garrison, New York, designed by Studio Gang. The project marks the first-ever permanent home for Hudson Valley Shakespeare (HVS), and it delivers on every promise the setting demands.

Perched on a 98-acre campus overlooking the Hudson Highlands, the theater is less a building than a landscape intervention. Studio Gang organized the design around a curved, timber-framed grid shell that encloses a 451-seat open-air auditorium. The structure is only partially enclosed, so the rolling hills of the Hudson Valley become a literal backdrop to every performance — a design move that makes the scenery non-negotiable. You don’t look past the landscape here. You look into it.

Designer: Studio Gang

The material choice is where the project becomes truly considered. The domed roof is constructed from mass timber — a prefabricated laminated-timber structure that harmonizes with the site’s natural character while sharply reducing its carbon footprint. Environmental performance was central to the entire design and construction strategy, not an afterthought. The gently curved shell reads differently depending on the hour — warm and structural at midday, almost canopy-like as the light drops. It is the kind of material that gets better with time, not worse.

Founding partner Jeanne Gang put it plainly: “The building’s curved mass timber structure harmonises with the natural beauty of the site while modelling a more sustainable future for cultural and performing arts spaces.” That word — modelling — is doing real work. The Scripps Theater isn’t just a venue upgrade. It’s an argument for what publicly facing cultural architecture can look like when sustainability and site responsiveness aren’t treated as constraints.

Beyond the main auditorium, the 14,850-square-foot venue folds in rehearsal, administrative, education, and public gathering spaces within a landscape-oriented master plan. Accessibility was expanded. The bird-safe design was factored in. Nothing feels incidental. What Studio Gang has built here is rare — a theater where the architecture earns its place in the landscape rather than competing with it. The Hudson Valley finally has a stage worthy of the view.

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90,300 Empty Offices Are Becoming Apartments Across the US. “Adaptive Reuse” Just Hit Critical Mass.

Across America, downtown office towers sit half lit and half leased, their elevators still running, their HVAC systems still humming, their floorplates waiting for people who are never fully coming back. At the same time, rents keep climbing, vacancy stays tight in the places people actually want to live, and homelessness pushes further into public view in city after city. The contradiction is so stark it barely needs interpretation. The office building has too much space and hardly any occupants. Millions of prospective homeowners, however, have no permanent place to call their residence.

More than 90,300 apartments are now planned through office-to-residential conversions across the U.S., marking a dramatic expansion of adaptive reuse at the exact moment cities need housing most. For years, adaptive reuse lived in architecture circles as a smart, sustainable idea. If you’ve ever seen an old warehouse repurposed into a club, a factory into an office space, or a tiny rural church into a quaint home, that’s adaptive reuse – the ability to take a structure and adapt your needs around it without demolition and rebuilding. Now it is entering the market at national scale, and forcing cities, developers, and designers to answer a blunt question. When housing demand is urgent and office demand has collapsed, how long can empty office buildings maintain the status quo instead of transforming into meaningful housing?

From Virtue to Volume

RentCafe’s March 2026 report confirmed what a lot of people in real estate and architecture had been watching build for years: 90,300 U.S. apartments are currently mid-conversion from former office buildings. That figure is up 28% year over year from 70,600 units in early 2025, and it is nearly four times the total recorded in 2022. New York City alone has 16,358 units in the pipeline. Washington, D.C. follows with 8,479. Chicago has 4,360. Los Angeles, 4,340. Dallas, 3,966. Denver, 2,991. Philadelphia, 2,697. Atlanta, 2,642. Cleveland, 1,771. Cincinnati, 1,770. Three cities, Philadelphia, Denver, and St. Louis, more than doubled their pipelines in a single year, recording year-over-year jumps of 119%, 114%, and 110% respectively. Office conversions now account for 47% of all 193,900 future adaptive reuse projects nationwide, up from 42% the year before. The pipeline is approaching 100,000 units and shows no sign of slowing.

The real-estate press has covered this exhaustively, and fairly, as a finance story. Vacancy rates hovering near 20%, physical occupancy in office buildings sitting around 50-55%, loan maturities forcing owners to act. The incentives are real. New York City offers tax exemptions of up to 90% for converted buildings that designate at least 25% of units as affordable housing. Los Angeles passed its Citywide Adaptive Reuse Ordinance in February 2026, rewriting zoning rules to make the process significantly less painful. The policy environment is, for the first time, actually moving in the same direction as the market.

But here is the thing almost nobody is writing about: this is, at its core, a design problem. A brutal, fascinating, genuinely unsolved design problem. And the 90,300 number only looks tidy from the outside.

The Floorplate Doesn’t Care About Your Floor Plan

Image Credits: Gensler

Walk into a typical Class B office building from the 1980s or 1990s, and you are standing on a floorplate that might run 25,000 to 40,000 square feet. The structural core, housing elevators, stairwells, and mechanical shafts, sits somewhere in the middle. Windows ring the perimeter. Everything between the core and the glass is open, column-interrupted, and completely indifferent to the concept of a bedroom.

Residential building codes in most U.S. cities require natural light and ventilation in every habitable room. That is a reasonable ask for a building designed around people sleeping in it. It is an architectural puzzle when your building was designed around people sitting at desks under recessed lighting for eight hours and going home.

The further you get from the perimeter windows, the darker and more unusable the space becomes for residential purposes. Architects working on these conversions are solving this in a few different ways. Some carve light wells through the floorplate, essentially punching holes through multiple stories to bring daylight deep into the plan. Others reorganize the unit layout so that bedrooms and living spaces claim the window line, while kitchens, bathrooms, corridors, and storage absorb the windowless interior. Some projects rezone that dead center space entirely, turning it into shared amenity areas, lobbies, or co-working zones that don’t require natural light by code.

None of these solutions are clean. All of them require an architect to fundamentally rethink what a floor plan can be when the building has already decided its own geometry.

Pipes, Cores, and the Part That Really Costs Money

Office buildings run their plumbing infrastructure in centralized wet walls, concentrated near the core, because nobody on a 30,000 square foot trading floor needs a bathroom in the southeast corner. Apartments, by contrast, need kitchens and bathrooms distributed across every unit, which means new drain lines, new vent stacks, and new penetrations through concrete slabs that were poured without any of that in mind. On a large building, this is closer to surgery than renovation. The structure has to accommodate changes its engineers never anticipated, and every floor compounds the cost.

This is partly why the conversion wave took so long to arrive despite the office vacancy crisis being years in the making. The economics only started making sense when office asset values dropped far enough that the acquisition cost left room for the renovation budget a real conversion actually requires.

What Kind of City Does This Build?

The embodied carbon argument for adaptive reuse is well established at this point. Demolishing a building and rebuilding it releases all the carbon locked into its existing steel, concrete, and glass, materials whose production already happened and cannot be undone. Keeping the structure and changing its use is, from a climate accounting standpoint, one of the most effective things the construction industry can do.

There is a longer-term design question buried inside the 90,300 number, though. Office buildings were placed, massed, and programmed for a specific kind of urban life: daytime population density, ground-floor lobbies designed for badge-tap arrivals, parking structures calibrated for 9-to-5 peaks. Converting them into housing changes the rhythms of the neighborhoods around them. Ground floors that were lobbies become storefronts, or stay lobbies and deaden the street. Parking structures sized for daily commuters become oversized and awkward for residents who do not own cars.

The cities that will get this right are the ones treating conversion as a neighborhood redesign project, not a building-by-building transaction. Los Angeles’s new ordinance is a start. New York’s tax incentives are a start. The design discipline this moment actually demands, though, is urban, not just architectural.

Adaptive reuse at 90,300 units is no longer a niche. It is the dominant form of new housing supply in several major American cities. The question the industry spent two decades asking, whether it works, has been answered. The question now is whether it produces cities that are genuinely good to live in, and that one is still very much open.

Data sourced from RentCafe’s 2026 office-to-apartment conversion report, based on Yardi Matrix data.

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