Imagine driving through the vibrant streets of your favorite city. As you navigate familiar neighborhoods, the city awakens: the enticing aroma of local cuisine mingles with the sound of lively conversations, and every building seems to tell its own story. Historic storefronts and charming family-run shops stand side by side with modern establishments, each structure resonating with the community’s unique character. Every brick and facade feels intentional crafted over time by the hands and hearts of those who call this place home.
Now, picture yourself on the interstate, where cities blur into one another. The landscape is dominated by generic strip malls and roadside plazas, their uniform design marked by the logos of national chains. This sameness offers only a vague, collective memory devoid of the vibrant, personal connections sparked by truly unique spaces.
This stark contrast lies at the heart of vernacular architecture—a term derived from the Latin vernus, meaning native. Unlike one-size-fits-all blueprints, vernacular architecture creates spaces that reflect the distinct history, culture, and needs of a community. These buildings are not merely constructed; they are organic expressions of local traditions and experiences.
For example, adobe dwellings in the American Southwest use locally sourced earth not only for natural insulation against intense heat but also to forge a deep connection to the land. Similarly, stilt houses in Southeast Asia are a thoughtful response to frequent flooding, showcasing a design that is as much about survival as it is about beauty.
Adobe walls in the Southwest
stilt houses in Southeast Asia
Before diving into the world of design systems, I practiced architecture—working on both large-scale enterprise projects and intimate, small-scale designs. This dual background has taught me that the true power of design lies in its ability to serve a community and reflect its unique character. Yet, in the realm of physical architecture, we’ve witnessed a troubling trend: an over-reliance on standardized designs that yield soulless, uniform structures. Many architects have struggled to claw their way out of this trap, asking, "If every building looks alike, what is the point of having an architect?"
The same risk exists in digital design. Just as a building must be a tailored response to the needs of its community, a design system should be a carefully crafted framework that addresses the unique challenges and opportunities of its product and its users. If we default to a one-size-fits-all approach—reducing our creative work to a series of adjustable levers—we risk producing digital experiences that are generic and devoid of character. We must be vigilant and intentional, ensuring that our design systems not only achieve consistency and efficiency but also resonate with the people they serve.
A common challenge in design systems is navigating the tension between uniformity and originality. In the pursuit of consistency, many systems end up producing outputs that feel overly homogenized—echoing the bland sameness of strip-mall architecture. Conversely, attempts to inject innovation can sometimes seem forced, disrupting the cohesive patterns that users have come to trust.
Too often, designers and developers look outward—borrowing best practices from global standards, third party systems like bootstrap mui and more —rather than delving into the unique challenges of their own products. Research from the University of Indiana, in Investigating the Homogenization of Web Design: A Mixed-Methods Approach ((Link to research), confirms this trend, showing that websites are increasingly converging on the same visual identity. While efficiency and usability are enhanced, creativity can be stifled, resulting in a digital landscape that feels generic.
Source: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/why-does-everyones-website-look-same-chris-wadsworth-1d/