Why Biophilic Design Makes More Sense in Southeast Asia Than Almost Anywhere Else
By Des Res Bali
Spend enough time travelling through Southeast Asia and you begin to notice something.
The buildings people remember aren’t always the most expensive. They aren’t necessarily the tallest, the smartest or the most technologically advanced either. More often than not, they’re the places where a morning coffee turns into an afternoon, where tropical rain becomes part of the experience rather than an inconvenience, or where a gentle breeze drifts through an open pavilion and makes air conditioning feel almost unnecessary.
Nature doesn’t feel like decoration in these places. It feels inseparable from the architecture itself.
Today, we’d probably call that biophilic design. It’s become one of architecture’s favourite buzzwords, appearing everywhere from luxury hotels and wellness retreats to office towers and apartment developments around the world. But while the terminology may be relatively new, the underlying principles are anything but.
Long before biophilic design found its way into conference presentations and architectural awards, many communities across Southeast Asia had already been building in ways that embraced rather than resisted the natural world. Not because it was fashionable, but because it made sense.
There is, perhaps, no better place to understand biophilic design than somewhere it never needed a name. Maybe the reason biophilic design feels so convincing in Southeast Asia is because, here, it’s not asking nature to come back. In many places, it never really left.
Why the Tropics Change Everything
Climate isn’t simply another consideration for architects in the tropics. It’s the design brief.
Heat, humidity, monsoon rains, changing light, seasonal winds and dense vegetation influence almost every decision worth making. Ignore them and buildings quickly become uncomfortable, inefficient and expensive to operate. Work with them, however, and architecture starts to feel almost effortless.
Tropical architecture has always faced a very different challenge from architecture in other parts of the world. In colder climates, buildings evolved to protect people from nature. Thick insulation, sealed windows and enclosed interiors create refuge from freezing temperatures and harsh weather. In places like Southeast Asia, the goal has rarely been to keep nature out. It’s been to find a way to live comfortably alongside it.
The most successful buildings in the tropics learn how to negotiate with nature. Shade becomes more valuable than glass, cross ventilation often matters more than another layer of mechanical cooling, and a mature tree can completely change the way a space feels on a humid afternoon. Roofs stretch further, eaves become deeper, and walls start to dissolve into courtyards, gardens, and open-air living spaces, creating buildings that respond to the climate instead of pretending it doesn’t exist.
Climate isn’t the enemy. It’s a collaborator. And for most of human history, that’s exactly how we designed.
Perhaps that’s why these spaces feel so instinctively comfortable. For more than 99% of human history, we evolved outdoors rather than inside sealed, mechanically controlled boxes. Tropical architecture doesn’t ask us to reconnect with nature. It simply remembers something we’ve only recently forgotten.
Before Biophilic Design Had a Name
For all the attention biophilic design receives today, very little of it is actually new. Across Southeast Asia, many of the ideas now being packaged into a design philosophy have quietly existed for centuries. Long before anyone gave them a name, people were building in ways that responded to climate, landscape, and the rhythms of everyday life.
Traditional Balinese compounds, for example, were never conceived as a single enclosed building. Instead, separate pavilions were arranged around landscaped courtyards, allowing air, light, vegetation and daily life to move naturally between indoor and outdoor spaces. Across Java, the iconic joglo developed its soaring roof not simply because it looked beautiful, but because it encouraged hot air to rise while creating generous shaded spaces beneath.
Travel a little further and the same conversation continues. Traditional Malay kampung houses were elevated above the ground to improve airflow, respond to seasonal flooding and create cooler living spaces. Vietnamese courtyard houses drew light and ventilation deep into dense urban neighbourhoods, while traditional Thai houses embraced raised platforms, deep verandahs and generous overhangs that softened long, humid summers and monsoon rains.
The details changed from one culture to another, but the underlying philosophy remained remarkably consistent. Buildings weren’t expected to conquer the climate; they were expected to understand it. Air should move. Shade matters. Gardens belong beside daily life. Local materials weren’t a design statement—they were simply the obvious choice. Architecture worked with its surroundings because, frankly, it had little choice.
None of this was driven by aesthetics alone, although the buildings are undeniably beautiful. These were practical solutions refined over generations through observation, experimentation and lived experience. Perhaps that’s why they still feel so relevant today.
Good ideas have a habit of surviving long after the buzzwords that eventually describe them.
Where Does the Building End?
One of the more subtle differences between many tropical buildings and their Western counterparts is that it’s often difficult to say exactly where the architecture ends and the landscape begins.
In much of the Western world, the sequence feels familiar: garden, house, fence. Everything has its place, and the boundaries are usually easy to read.
Across much of Southeast Asia, those edges tend to blur. Gardens become courtyards, courtyards become living rooms, living rooms spill onto terraces, and terraces drift into pavilions. Trees become part of the ceiling, while rain is treated less like an inconvenience and more like part of the atmosphere. Even birdsong, insects, shifting light, and the occasional afternoon breeze become everyday features of the space.
The result isn’t simply more greenery. It’s a different relationship with nature altogether, one where the landscape isn’t viewed through a window so much as lived alongside.
It's About More Than Plants
If biophilic design has an image problem, it’s probably this: people hear the term and immediately picture green walls, indoor trees, and enough designer greenery to keep the local nursery in business.
Plants certainly have their place, but good biophilic design runs much deeper than vegetation alone. It’s just as much about daylight that shifts throughout the day, materials that weather gracefully, textures that feel authentic rather than manufactured, and natural airflow that makes a space feel alive instead of mechanically controlled. It lives in the sound of rain on a roof, the movement of leaves beyond a window, the dappled shade cast by a mature tree, or the quiet presence of water.
Sometimes a single, beautifully framed tree outside a window creates a stronger connection with nature than an entire lobby filled with ornamental plants. Biophilic design isn’t really measured by the number of plants inside a building. It’s measured by how naturally people experience the world around them.
Singapore's Next Chapter
If there’s one city quietly redefining what biophilic design looks like at an urban scale, it’s probably Singapore.
For decades, Singapore built its international reputation as the Garden City. Today, it’s aiming for something even more ambitious: a City in Nature. At first glance, it might sound like a subtle change in wording, but it reflects a much bigger shift in thinking.
Nature is no longer being treated as something to add once the city has been built. Increasingly, biodiversity, ecological corridors, rainwater management, and green infrastructure are becoming part of how the city functions from the outset.
Projects like PARKROYAL COLLECTION Pickering, CapitaSpring, and Gardens by the Bay understandably attract most of the attention. They’re spectacular, and for good reason. But the more interesting story is happening beyond the postcard moments, in neighbourhood planning, public housing, streetscapes, and long-term environmental policy.
Instead of asking how nature can make cities look greener, Singapore is increasingly asking how cities can function more like nature. It’s a subtle shift, but one that many rapidly growing tropical cities will be watching closely over the coming decades.
Where These Ideas Come to Life
Hospitality has quietly become one of the clearest demonstrations of biophilic design in practice. Across Southeast Asia, luxury hotels, boutique resorts, and wellness retreats have embraced ideas that make spaces feel comfortable, calm, restorative, and closely connected to their surroundings. Most guests would never describe them as examples of biophilic design, but they’re often drawn to the feeling these places create.
Whether it’s an open-air restaurant underneath mature trees in Ubud, somewhere on the cliffs of Uluwatu where the sea breeze keeps things surprisingly comfortable, or a jungle retreat tucked into the hills of northern Bali, the places people remember usually have one thing in common. They work with the environment instead of trying to shut it out.
Some of Bali’s best restaurants illustrate this beautifully. Zest, in Ubud, feels almost inseparable from the surrounding landscape. Natural materials, filtered light, and generous planting blur the line between architecture and garden, while the cooler temperatures mean there’s rarely any need for air conditioning. Moksa follows a similar philosophy, with gardens, open pavilions, and productive landscapes shaping both the setting and the experience.
Further north in Munduk, Desa Eko takes the idea even further. Perched high in Bali’s misty mountains, the retreat is designed around the landscape rather than imposed upon it. Glamping tents, timber cabins, open communal spaces, and walking paths sit lightly within the hills, encouraging guests to slow down and reconnect with the rhythms of the surrounding village and forest. At The Botanist, its farm-to-table restaurant, bamboo, timber, valley views, and cool mountain air create a dining experience that feels inseparable from its setting. Here, the landscape isn’t simply something to look at—it becomes part of everyday life.
Even the rain becomes part of the experience. With well-designed roofs, generous overhangs, and good drainage, a tropical downpour adds atmosphere instead of bringing everything to a halt. The architecture isn’t fighting the climate—it’s working with it.
The Psychology of Shade
You don’t need to be an architect to notice how people naturally use space. Given the choice, most of us head for the shade. We pull our chairs towards the edge of a veranda, find a seat underneath a tree, or spend more time in places where the light is soft, the air moves, and the temperature feels comfortable.
There’s growing evidence that spending time in nature can reduce stress, improve concentration, and contribute to overall wellbeing. But long before researchers started measuring those things, people already understood something much simpler. Some places just feel good to be in.
They’re the kinds of places where conversations stretch a little longer, lunch somehow turns into the afternoon, and nobody seems in much of a hurry to leave.
Maybe that’s why so many memorable spaces across Southeast Asia share similar qualities. Filtered sunlight, moving air, water nearby, natural materials, and plenty of shade aren’t there because they’re following a design trend. They’re there because they respond to the way people have always experienced the world around them.
A Lesson Worth Remembering
Biophilic design may be enjoying a moment in the global spotlight, but across Southeast Asia its underlying principles have been quietly shaping architecture for centuries. Long before the term appeared in design conferences and development brochures, builders throughout the region were responding to climate, landscape, and daily life in ways that naturally encouraged stronger connections with the environment around them.
As Southeast Asia’s cities continue to grow, those lessons feel more relevant than ever. Buildings will undoubtedly become smarter, materials more sophisticated, and technology more deeply embedded in the built environment. Yet some of the most enduring innovations may not be the newest ones at all. They may simply be long-established ideas viewed through a contemporary lens.
It’s no coincidence that biophilic design feels so at home here. Nature has never really been something to keep outside. At its best, architecture doesn’t compete with the landscape or try to dominate it. It simply makes room for it, creating places where people can enjoy the climate instead of hiding from it. And that’s probably the biggest lesson of all: the buildings we remember most aren’t always the ones that stand apart from their surroundings, but the ones that feel like they couldn’t exist anywhere else.
