Scale and function are two of the most common metrics used when people discuss a building’s significance.
        If a building is larger or taller than the norm, it becomes at least a piece of news and a marketing point. If a building is meant to serve as a cultural hub or a gathering place for the public, it naturally attracts attention and raises expectations. Developers, architects, engineers, contractors, and every other discipline in the construction industry want to be part of such projects—to share in the public attention and to view the opportunity as a kind of honor.
        Behind this sentiment lies an unspoken assumption: that these kinds of buildings are great architecture destined to last a long time, possibly even become part of history. After all, no one willingly participates in something hideous or undesirable, and no one feels proud of being associated with low quality. Significance is granted only to what is perceived as great. In this way, people seek architecture that endures and inspires. Scale and function have become the two standards by which greatness is judged.
       Yet when we think about architecture, we usually think of the cathedrals, churches, palaces, and gardens that span Western and Eastern cultures—the ones that have endured the test of time. We do not tend to categorize them primarily by scale or function.
        So what truly makes architecture endure?
        Is it scale? No. There are countless shopping malls and stadiums measuring tens of thousands of square meters that never enter people’s minds through their presence alone.
        Is it function? No. There are countless so-called cultural centres and galleries that rarely capture attention without the exhibitions they contain.
        Many of the most influential works of modern architecture are private houses or modest structures. The Villa Savoye by Le Corbusier (completed 1931) remains one of the defining icons of modernist architecture. Fallingwater by Frank Lloyd Wright (completed 1937) embodies the ultimate expression of “Organic Architecture.” The Azuma House by Tadao Ando (1976) has become a cultural landmark, its central courtyard inviting nature into a dense urban lot. The Bruder Klaus Field Chapel by Peter Zumthor (2007), formed through the controlled burning of timber, creates a spatial experience of such intensity that visitors often fall silent; born out of fire, it invokes deep reverence for nature through its unique atmosphere. Even in the pre-industrial era, Villa La Rotonda by Palladio (begun 1567) continues to inspire architects worldwide with its symmetrical geometric layout and pure, almost divine posture.
        Sometimes a building not even intended to last is preserved because of its exceptional design quality. The Barcelona Pavilion by Mies van der Rohe (1929) was meant only as a temporary exhibition structure, yet it was reconstructed in 1986 and is now preserved indefinitely. Tadao Ando’s MPavilion received a commitment from the Melbourne City Council to keep it at least until 2030, even though it was designed and built as a temporary structure.
       The list could go on, but the point is clear. None of these buildings are monumental public complexes. None claim the greatest height or the largest floor area. Some were never meant to be permanent. Yet all of them capture attention, invite study, and remain in the conversation decades—or centuries—later. Scale and function clearly do not explain their power.
       What does explain it is the spatial experience they create: the way light falls, the way materials meet the body, the quiet sense of rightness or mystery that settles on a visitor. These buildings evoke feeling, prompt reflection, and establish an emotional and spiritual connection. In short, they possess a spirit—a presence that people recognise and respond to.
       This is the architecture worth building and the architecture worth living in. Enormous quantities of energy, material, and human effort are poured into construction. Why settle for anything less than spaces that elevate daily life?
       To ignore the spiritual dimension of architecture is to ignore the full nature of the people who inhabit it. Soulless shiny boxes may satisfy practical requirements, yet they leave the mind and spirit unnourished. Over time they demoralize. A space with genuine spirit, by contrast, offers rest—the possibility of truly being at ease inside one’s own surroundings.
       Architecture must shelter both the body and the mind. Scale and function are physical metrics; they cannot, by themselves, meet spiritual needs. Spirit is the more decisive element. People can adapt to modest compromises in size or program, but they cannot thrive in the prolonged absence of spaces that speak to them.
       We should therefore turn greater attention to the spiritual quality of architecture, for that is what truly makes architecture great and enduring.