Escaping the trap of average in Korea’s public architecture

Lim Yeong-hwan 

The author is the dean of Hongik University's Graduate School of Architecture and Urban Design and a professor of architecture.

Public architecture in Korea is often shaped by consensus, caution and procedural certainty. Yet the safest decisions do not always produce the most meaningful spaces. Sometimes the buildings that leave a lasting mark are those willing to challenge conventional expectations.

"People are watching us, so we have to be even more precise."

That was what firefighter Taniguchi told me during a recent visit to the Nishi Fire Station in Hiroshima, Japan. I had asked whether working in a building with such transparent interiors felt uncomfortable. He paused, smiled and gave an answer I had not expected.

Unlike most fire stations, which restrict public access for security reasons, the Nishi Fire Station allows residents to enter freely and observe firefighters at work and in training.

The building was designed by Japanese architect Riken Yamamoto, winner of the 2024 Pritzker Architecture Prize, whose work emphasizes relationships between people and architecture.

I assumed such openness would place firefighters under constant pressure. Instead, Taniguchi explained that transparency represented responsibility rather than surveillance. The public's gaze did not intimidate him. It encouraged him to perform his duties with greater care and professionalism.

Not every public building should be completely open. Some spaces require privacy. The real question is not openness itself but whether a building fosters trust and responsibility.

What defines good public architecture? Is it simply a building that functions efficiently, or one that gradually changes how people behave and interact? Many public buildings praised by architects are criticized by those who actually use them. Conversely, structures that architects consider ordinary often become beloved civic spaces. Which standard, then, should determine whether public architecture succeeds?

Public architecture inevitably faces difficult demands. Because it is funded by taxpayers, it must reflect citizens' needs and remain accessible to everyone. Planning therefore involves collecting countless opinions and reconciling competing interests. In that process, ambitious architectural ideas often lose their force.

The problem is what might be called the trap of the average.

Average solutions feel safe. They generate fewer complaints and appear less likely to fail. Yet this seemingly sensible principle frequently becomes an excuse for producing architecture in which nothing memorable happens. The process appears rational, but when everyone voices only the safest opinions, buildings are the first to lose vitality.

Experimental ideas are gradually trimmed away in the name of practicality. Questions that a space was meant to raise disappear because of operational concerns. What ultimately remains is architecture that nobody opposes but nobody remembers.

Many public spaces now taken for granted were once controversial, including open libraries, community-oriented schools and pedestrian-friendly streets. Though initially criticized as impractical, they later became models for successful public architecture.

The fundamental challenge facing Korean public architecture lies less with individual architects than with the institutions and decision-making systems surrounding them. Responsibility for failure is unmistakable, while rewards for success remain vague.

If an innovative project falls short, public officials, commissioning agencies and architects quickly become targets of criticism. When the project succeeds, however, its value is rarely recognized through institutional incentives. Rational individuals therefore avoid taking risks, not because they lack courage but because the system offers little reason to be courageous.

Within this structure, public architecture increasingly becomes architecture that is merely safe rather than genuinely good. It complies with regulations, stays within budget, minimizes complaints and passes audits without controversy. Those goals certainly matter. Yet if procedural perfection becomes the sole objective, it is difficult to create spaces capable of transforming cities.

In Korea, original design concepts rarely survive intact from competition to completion. Even award-winning proposals are repeatedly revised through design reviews, budget adjustments and responses to public complaints. Innovative ideas that might generate controversy are removed one by one until the project becomes something few people object to. Ironically, Korea often preserves the design intent of celebrated foreign architects while readily revising that of domestic designers.

None of this suggests that innovation alone justifies every decision. Public buildings have essential functions that cannot be compromised, whether ensuring rapid emergency response at fire stations, protecting children in educational facilities or providing barrier-free access in welfare centers. Architectural ideals that ignore users' needs are equally problematic. Protecting functionality, however, should never become a blanket justification for rejecting new ideas.

Public architecture should aspire to more than meeting today's practical needs. Because the private sector often cannot shoulder the risks involved, public institutions should lead social experimentation and use architecture to propose new ways of living that citizens have not yet experienced.

"People are watching us, so we have to be even more precise."

For firefighter Taniguchi, transparent architecture created responsibility rather than discomfort. Perhaps truly successful public architecture is not the kind that satisfies everyone equally but the kind that gradually changes how people think and behave. Buildings that remain safely average may reduce conflict. Yet the spaces that move society forward are often born from the courage to venture just beyond the average.