Designing with Awe: Can Built Environments Replicate the Sublime?

You know that feeling when you step into a space and just… pause? Your breath catches. Your shoulders drop. The noise in your mind quiets down. That moment, fleeting, visceral, unmistakable, is awe.

Not “oh, that’s pretty” awe. Not the Instagrammable kind. We’re talking about the real deal: the deep, soul-shifting, time-slowing experience of the sublime. The kind of awe that feels like standing under a cathedral of redwoods, or watching the northern lights ripple over an empty field.

Now here’s the question: Can architecture do that? Can we design buildings, interiors, cities, even small moments within them, that actually trigger awe? That evoke the sublime on purpose?

This post is a long, immersive dive into that question. Buckle up. We’re about to explore philosophy, neuroscience, design principles, cultural cues, and emerging technologies all in the service of something profoundly human.

What Even Is Awe, Really?

Awe is slippery. Ask a philosopher, and they’ll start with Edmund Burke’s 18th-century definition: a mix of fear and admiration in the face of something vast and unknowable. Immanuel Kant saw it as the mind’s confrontation with limits, where we realize how small we are in comparison to something infinitely large.

Ask a psychologist, and you’ll hear terms like “perceived vastness” and “need for cognitive accommodation.” Translation? Awe happens when you encounter something so big or complex that it breaks your brain a little, and forces it to rebuild itself.

Ask a neuroscientist, and they’ll point to changes in brain activity: a quieting of the default mode network (that chatty voice in your head), a heightened sense of connection, a slower perception of time.

Ask an architect? Well… we’re still figuring that one out.

Nature Does It Best - Here’s Why

If you’re looking for a masterclass in awe, nature is the original architect. Think of standing on a cliff edge, ocean roaring below. Or staring up at a thunderstorm cracking open the sky. Or stepping into a quiet snow-covered forest at dawn. These places don’t need signage to say “you’ve entered a sacred space.” You feel it.

So why is nature so good at awe? For starters: scale and complexity. Mountains. Skies. Root systems. Coral reefs. Nature overwhelms the senses in the best possible way. There’s depth, movement, texture, sound, scent, all happening at once. It’s multisensory. It’s dynamic. It’s bigger than us.

There’s also pattern and unpredictability. Nature has rhythm, seasons, tides, sunrises - but it’s never static. It surprises you. That unpredictability is crucial for awe.

And then there’s the emotional contrast. In nature, we’re small. Vulnerable. But not insignificant. We feel part of something much, much bigger. That tension, between fear and connection, is awe’s sweet spot.

Designing awe means learning from this natural blueprint.

Awe and the Brain: What Science Tells Us

Let’s geek out for a minute. When researchers at UC Berkeley’s Greater Good Science Center studied awe, they found something fascinating: people who frequently experience awe tend to be more generous, more humble, and more likely to help others. Their sense of “self” becomes quieter, and they feel more connected to a greater whole.

That’s right. Awe isn’t just pretty. It changes us.

Neuroimaging shows that awe reduces activity in the default mode network, the part of the brain associated with self-referential thoughts (aka: the endless inner monologue). This gives us that “lost in the moment” sensation.

Awe also seems to activate the vagus nerve, which supports prosocial behavior and calm. And it expands our perception of time, making people feel like they have more of it.

This means awe is biologically calming and socially connective, a potent mix in the environments we live, heal, work, and gather in. So what does that mean for built space? It means we have an opportunity: not just to impress, but to heal, connect, inspire.

Okay, But What Does Awe Look Like in Architecture?

Let’s get visual.

Awe doesn’t come from shiny materials or massive lobbies alone. (Though yes, those help.) Awe emerges from a cocktail of sensory cues and psychological triggers. Here are a few design moves that tend to evoke it:

1. Compression and Release

   Start small, then open up. Think of a narrow hallway that leads into a vast sanctuary. The contrast creates an emotional jolt. It’s drama, but with purpose.

2. Verticality and Light

   Soaring ceilings. Skylights. Beams of light breaking through shadow. Vertical space cues transcendence. We look up instinctively, just like we do under a starry sky.

3. Silence and Sound

   A quiet space in a noisy world feels sacred. Alternatively, a resonant space that amplifies sound can evoke awe, too. Acoustics matter more than we give them credit for.

4. Material Honesty

   Materials that feel rooted in the earth - wood, stone, clay -carry emotional weight. Pairing them with unexpected materials (glass, metal, water) adds a poetic tension.

5. Intentional Complexity

   Geometry, layering, asymmetry. When done right, complexity isn’t confusing, it’s captivating. It asks the brain to pay attention, to slow down, to take it in. Now layer in movement, scent, touch, temperature, and suddenly awe isn’t just visual. It’s full-body.

Awe Is Not One-Size-Fits-All

Here’s where things get interesting (and tricky): not everyone experiences awe the same way. Cultural background, personal history, spirituality, all of it influences what feels “sublime.”

A minimalist concrete chapel in Japan might evoke deep stillness in one person, and cold emptiness in another. A glowing LED tunnel in Seoul might feel futuristic and exciting to some, and overwhelming to others.

Designing with awe means understanding your audience, your context, your place. It means tapping into local symbols, cultural narratives, and emotional memory. It also means avoiding the trap of awe-as-spectacle of mistaking scale for depth.

Awe Can Be Weaponized (Let’s Not Do That)

Here’s something we don’t talk about enough: awe can be used to intimidate. Historically, it often has been.

Think of vast bank buildings meant to project power. Gilded government halls built to dwarf citizens. Even some religious architecture was designed not to connect, but to control.

When awe becomes about control, ego, or exclusion, it stops being transcendent and starts being oppressive.

So here’s a design ethics question: Are we creating awe to elevate people, or to elevate ourselves?

Designing awe should be generous. It should offer space for others to enter, to feel, to breathe. It should invite, not overwhelm.

What’s Next? The Frontier of Designed Awe

Now for the juicy part. We’re entering an era where technology, science, and design are finally converging, and it’s opening wild new doors for awe.

Imagine:

• Sensorial cities that shift lighting, sound, and scent based on environmental conditions or emotional cues.

• Biometric-responsive environments that adjust in real time to your heartbeat or stress levels.

• Immersive rooms that replicate awe-inspiring natural experiences, without leaving the city.

• Neuroaesthetic-informed design, where we understand exactly how color, light, form, and material affect the human brain.

We’re just beginning to scratch the surface.

VR and AR experiences are also pushing boundaries, blurring the line between built and imagined space. But the real magic happens when these tools support, not replace, our physical environments.

Awe is not a gimmick. It’s a language of care, of connection, of wonder.

So… Can We Really Design the Sublime?

Here’s the honest answer: not exactly. We can’t guarantee awe. It’s too personal, too contextual, too alive. But we can design for the possibility of awe. We can create the right conditions. We can remove barriers, spark curiosity, invite pause, ignite the senses.

We can craft thresholds: moments where people cross from “just a building” to “something happened here.” And when we do? We give people the chance to remember their place in the world, not above or below it, but within it. Connected. Alive. Small, but never insignificant.