Spatial storytelling

Apr 17

Imagine this: You're walking down Main Street at Disney World. There's a faint smell of vanilla in the air. The music subtly shifts as you move between themed areas. The sidewalk changes color just before a new story begins. You don’t notice all these things consciously—but your body does. Your nervous system knows: something magical is happening.

Now contrast that with a sterile, cold dentist office. Flickering fluorescents. The smell of antiseptic. A waiting room filled with outdated magazines and silent discomfort.

Both are spaces. But only one is telling a story that has been intentionally designed—a coherent narrative woven through every detail.

We move through environments every day assuming they're just background. But they’re not. They’re narrative engines—sensory scripts that shape what we feel, think, and remember. And the wild part?

Most of us aren’t slowing down long enough to ask: What story do I want this space to tell?

But environments are always speaking—whether you’ve chosen the script or not.

Whether you’re running a business, designing a product, hosting a retreat, or shaping a conversation—you’re creating an environment. And those environments are shaping perception, emotion, and behavior. Every environment tells a story—the only question is whether you're choosing what it says.

The Brain Craves Story

In the early 2000s, Steve Jobs was deeply involved in designing Pixar’s headquarters. One of his boldest moves was insisting that the building’s most essential spaces—bathrooms, mailroom, cafeteria, and meeting rooms—all be located in a central atrium.

At first, people thought it was inefficient. Inconvenient, even. But Jobs had a vision: create a space where people from different teams would bump into each other naturally. Where chance encounters could become the spark for new ideas.

John Lasseter later recalled, “Steve’s theory worked from day one. I kept running into people I hadn’t seen for months.” And Brad Bird, director of The Incredibles, said that what once looked like a design flaw became Pixar’s greatest creative engine. The atrium turned into a hub of spontaneous collaboration, where casual hallway chats turned into storytelling breakthroughs.

So why did it work?

We Don’t Experience Spaces—We Interpret Them

Our brains are hardwired for meaning. We don’t passively observe a space—we decode it. From the first glance, we’re asking: What kind of place is this? What’s my role here? What story am I stepping into?

Just like Pixar’s atrium, every environment is telling people what’s possible—and what isn’t.. Is this safe? Do I belong here? Should I be alert or at ease?

These aren't abstract questions. They're primal. And we answer them instinctively, using information like light temperature, ambient sound, spatial flow, even scent.

The Deep Stories People Carry Into Every Space

People walk into every space carrying invisible scripts—deep emotional questions they’re not even aware they’re asking. The environment either affirms those stories or contradicts them.

Belonging – "Do I fit here?"
Worth – "Am I valued here?"
Transformation – "Will I change or grow here?"
Mortality – "Does this moment matter?"
Wonder – "Is this bigger than me?"
Control vs. Chaos – "Can I predict what comes next, or am I overwhelmed?"

The best-designed spaces—like Pixar’s atrium—don’t just function. They respond. They say, “Yes, you belong here. Yes, you’re part of something bigger.” That’s what makes a space unforgettable.

Designing Begins with Empathy

If you're designing an experience—whether a room, a product, or a conversation—the most important question isn't "what should I build?" but "who am I building it for?"

Understanding the deep, human stories that people carry allows you to build an environment that meets them where they are—and invites them somewhere new. That's the art of transformation.

Design, at its best, is not about control. It's about creating conditions—the emotional, spatial, and sensory cues that gently guide someone from their current story into a better one.

And it starts by listening, deeply, to the stories people are already telling themselves.

And Jobs understood this. The Pixar atrium didn’t just improve logistics—it told a story: this is a place where ideas collide, where you matter beyond your team, where creativity lives in connection.

It wasn’t just a building. It was a narrative engine. And it worked.

The Neuroscience and Psychology of Designed Experience

Let’s break down the research that explains why environments affect us so deeply.

Neuroaesthetics: Beauty That Builds Trust

Neuroaesthetics studies how the brain processes beauty. It turns out our brains are wired to respond positively to harmony, symmetry, and emotionally congruent design. When a space feels beautiful and intentional, we feel safer—and more open.

In the 1980s, a researcher named Roger Ulrich discovered something remarkable: patients recovering from gallbladder surgery healed faster if their hospital room had a window view of trees. Compared to those facing a brick wall, these patients had shorter hospital stays, required less pain medication, and received fewer negative evaluations from nurses.

Why? Because that view of nature changed the emotional tone of their environment. It invited calm. It evoked a sense of safety. And, according to UC Berkeley’s Greater Good Science Center, environments that inspire awe and wonder—like a forest view—can actually lower inflammation, improve mood, and increase prosocial behavior.

This isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s biology.

Embodied Cognition: We Think With Our Bodies

Our minds aren’t disconnected from our physical experience. Embodied cognition shows that posture, movement, touch, and rhythm shape thought and emotion. A space that encourages slowness can make people more reflective. One that invites movement can foster creativity.

Environmental Psychology: The Impact of Surroundings

This field explores how our built environment affects behavior. Some key findings:

Warm, natural materials reduce stress. Think wood, stone, or linen—used intentionally in Scandinavian offices and boutique hotels to create a sense of calm and humanity.
Curated scent increases brand trust. High-end retail and hospitality brands often use signature scents to create emotional recognition and familiarity—triggering positive associations that deepen brand loyalty.
Lighting and ceiling height influence thinking styles. Bright, overhead lighting and high ceilings have been shown to promote abstract thinking, while dim lighting and lower ceilings encourage focus and introspection.
Color sets the emotional tone. Cool hues like blue and green promote calm and focus; warmer colors like red and orange can energize—or overstimulate—depending on their context and intensity.
Even floor texture changes how people behave. Rough or echoey surfaces make people move more cautiously, while soft, consistent textures promote ease and flow.
Spaces with dissonant sensory input (bad lighting + loud sound + poor layout) increase cognitive load and reduce engagement. Think chaotic open-plan offices—our brains struggle to focus when too many signals are competing.

When the Calm app launched, users raved not just about the meditations—but about the sound of a digital waterfall on the home screen. That ambient water noise? It wasn’t just background. It was design with purpose.

Research shows that soundscapes like flowing water or birdsong stimulate the parasympathetic nervous system, reducing stress before any content is even consumed. The Calm team knew this. They were designing trust from the very first second.

These examples—one physical, one digital—point to the same truth:

Design isn’t about decoration. It’s about shaping emotion. And when you shape emotion, you shape perception, memory, and behavior.

Designing With Story in Mind

Let’s turn insight into practice.

In Portland, a small coffee shop struggled to get people to stay. Customers would order, wait, and leave. The energy felt transactional, not communal. The owner didn’t have a massive budget—but she had intuition.

She made subtle changes: replacing cold metal chairs with warm wooden ones, infusing the space with a light cinnamon scent, swapping out the playlist for soft acoustic music. Within weeks, people started staying longer. Conversation bloomed. Regulars emerged.

The space hadn’t just become more comfortable—it had started telling a different story. One of welcome. One of belonging.

By this point, maybe you’ve started noticing things—spaces you’ve walked through that felt oddly uplifting, or jarringly dissonant. This is where it gets practical. Because the same principles behind Disney parks or meditation retreats can apply to your world—if you start seeing the space as part of the story.

You don’t need to be a designer to shape better environments. You just need better questions.

Step 1: Start With Emotion

What do I want someone to feel the moment they enter this space?
What do I want them to feel when they leave?
What transformation should this space hold?

Step 2: Audit the Senses

Sight
- Light, layout, color→ Is the space warm or clinical? Is it easy to navigate?
Sound
- Music, ambient noise→ Is it calming, energizing, or distracting?
Touch
- Materials, interface, surfaces→ Do textures communicate comfort or tension?
Smell
- Fragrance, freshness→ What memory or feeling does the scent evoke?
Movement
- Flow, pacing, transitions→ Is the path intuitive or confusing?

Step 3: Eliminate Cognitive Dissonance

Are the visual and emotional cues aligned?
Is anything unintentionally jarring or off-message?
Does the environment reflect the brand or story I want to tell?

Step 4: Create Narrative Anchors

This is where we take a cue from great storytelling. Just like in film or literature, powerful experiences have a structure—an opening that invites you in, a moment that anchors your memory, and a closing that leaves a lasting impression.

Opening Scene: What’s the first sensory cue someone experiences? Is it warm light through a window? A handwritten welcome sign? The smell of coffee or the sound of soft music? Think of this as the emotional "doorway" into your space.
Memorable Detail: What’s one unexpected element they’ll remember and maybe even share? A quirky mural in the bathroom? A note tucked into their shopping bag? A well-timed piece of microcopy that makes them smile?
Closing Moment: How does the space say goodbye? Is it a thank-you note on the screen? A shift in music as they leave? A soft light guiding them out? Think of this as the final line of your story—it should echo the tone and intention of the whole experience.

When these anchors are thoughtful and congruent, they shape not just how people move through your experience—but how they feel about it afterward. And that’s the story they’ll tell others.

Step 5: Apply to Real Life

So what do you actually do with all this?

By now, you’ve seen how environments tell stories—and how the elements we often overlook (light, layout, scent, materials, sound) can completely shift how a space is experienced.

This step is about applying that awareness with intention. Not just in big, showy redesigns, but in the quiet, everyday environments you influence—offices, shops, event venues, studios, classrooms, lobbies, even your home.

Ask these questions of your physical spaces:

Retail: What’s the first impression when someone walks in? What emotion does the layout provoke—curiosity, overwhelm, calm?
Hospitality: Are your sensory cues aligned with the story of rest, welcome, or belonging? What speaks louder—the visual decor or the noise level?
Offices & Team Spaces: Does the environment invite collaboration, trust, and deep work—or noise, urgency, and distraction?
Gatherings & Events: What’s the emotional tone before the first word is spoken? How does the space support presence and transition?
Wellness or Reflective Spaces: How do light, texture, and flow affect someone’s ability to rest or focus? What story does silence tell here?

You don’t need to be an architect to start seeing like a storyteller.

Start by noticing. Start by listening to what your space is already saying.

Storytelling in the Real World

Graduate Hotels — Designing for Nostalgia and Place

Each Graduate Hotel is tailored to its host city, blending collegiate themes with local folklore and cultural references. In Ann Arbor, you’ll find nods to the University of Michigan’s football legacy. In Nashville, the lobby feels like a honky-tonk dream.

They’re not just designing rooms. They’re telling stories—crafted for travelers who want more than just comfort. They want context. A narrative that makes them feel like they belong to the place they’re visiting, even just for a night.

Esalen Institute — Designing for Inner Transformation

Perched on the cliffs of Big Sur, the Esalen Institute isn’t just a retreat center—it’s a carefully curated spatial story. Natural hot springs overlook the Pacific. Stone paths wind through native gardens. Classrooms open to the ocean breeze.

Everything about the space whispers: Slow down. Come back to yourself.

Esalen doesn’t rely on screens or slogans to tell its story. It relies on space—on awe, texture, rhythm, and stillness—to guide people into deeper transformation.

Sacred Spaces — Story in Ritual Architecture

Walk into a centuries-old cathedral, a Zen temple, or a desert mosque, and something happens before a single word is spoken. Your breath slows. Your shoulders drop.

These spaces use light, scale, acoustics, and material to shape reverence. They don’t just house spiritual experiences—they provoke them.

From arched ceilings that draw the eyes upward to echoing silence that invites reflection, sacred architecture has always been a masterclass in spatial storytelling.

These are reminders that powerful environments don’t just support experience—they create it. The best ones don’t ask for your attention. They invite your presence.

Designing with Story is a Practice

You might be thinking: This sounds powerful, but I don’t have time for this. Or maybe, How do I convince my team or leadership to care about things that feel intangible?

That’s fair. The pace is fast, and culture often rewards the quickest path to execution. But storytelling isn’t about slowing everything down—it’s about building with more intention.

And intention doesn’t require a big budget or buy-in from the top. It starts with one shift:

Ask better questions before you build.

What do we want people to feel?
What story are they already telling themselves?
What story do we want them to leave with?

You don’t have to answer everything all at once. You just have to begin.

Because everything we create—spaces, products, moments, teams—is already telling a story. The question is: Is it the story you want told?