Let's Talk About Cities #10 — The Dogma of Urban Density

We're told that denser cities are better for the environment, for the economy, even for our happiness. But is that the whole story? On this episode of Let's Talk About Cities we dive into the debate about urban density and add nuance to dogma.

Intro to density

Urban density is often described as the concentration of people or dwellings within a given area. It forms a core component of urban planning and urban studies. Measuring and analysing density offers critical insights into how cities function and how people utilise them, and can point to avenues for potential improvement.

Understanding urban density requires a collection of measurements. Population density, measured in persons per square kilometre (km²), captures the concentration of inhabitants within broader regions, offering a baseline of population distribution but overlooking localised differences in housing. In contrast, the metric of residential space per person – calculated in square metres of living space per person (m²/person) – offers a finer view of actual living conditions, illuminating potential disparities in housing standards and issues of overcrowding. Additionally, dwellings per hectare (dwellings/ha) provide planners with a gauge for the potential demand for urban services and commerce. This helps guide informed decisions around the provision of essential amenities like shops, schools, and other local institutions.

Density thresholds are the idea that there is a certain level of density or concentration of people, buildings, and activities within a certain area that is necessary for a city or area to function effectively and thrive. The concept of density thresholds was popularised by the urban theorist Jane Jacobs, who argued that a minimum level of density is necessary for an area to have a diversified and vibrant economy, a sense of community, and a feeling of safety.

In her book "The Death and Life of Great American Cities," Jacobs argued that a density of between 25 and 50 dwelling units per hectare can be suitable for suburbs, but only as long as they retain their location outside the city and in direct connection to the countryside. According to Jacobs, at least 247 dwelling units per hectare are necessary for an area to have a critical mass of people and businesses, which in turn would create a diversified and vibrant economy and a sense of community. She also argued that a certain level of "eyes on the street" was necessary for a neighbourhood to feel safe and to prevent crime.

She considered the absolute maximum limit to be around 680 dwelling units per hectare, as in the North End neighbourhood of Boston. She considered just over 500 dwelling units per hectare, as in her Greenwich Village in New York, to work as long as there was sufficient variation in building ages and styles.

Eduardo Lozano, a Mexican urban planner and researcher, also developed the concept of density thresholds in his research on urban sustainability. In "Community Design and the Culture of Cities," Lozano argued that approximately 29 dwelling units per hectare is a lower threshold for close community services. Lozano saw about 180 dwelling units per hectare as necessary for a city to be efficient in terms of transportation, land use, and resource consumption. He also argued that higher densities are necessary for a city to support a variety of land uses and for residents to have access to a variety of amenities and services.

It is worth remembering that Jane Jacobs wrote primarily about 1950s and 1960s New York, and Lozano compared cities from different countries of different sizes and with different cultures. The culture of a country or region is also crucial for how urban life becomes - achieved density thresholds are thus far from sufficient to guarantee an intensive, attractive urban life.

Beyond metrics focused on people and residences, measures exist to quantify the density of the urban fabric itself. The floor area ratio assesses gross building area relative to total plot area, indicating the efficiency of land use by developers. Net development density expands upon this by incorporating a portion of adjacent infrastructure  (sidewalks, adjoining greenspaces), giving planners a stronger sense of built density and how structures within a block relate to one another. Gross development density, encompassing all land within a given zone – both built and undeveloped –  provides an overarching view of density on a wider district or city scale.

Floor area ratio on its own says quite little. Consider a plot 80x80 metres. The same FAR can be achieved whether the plot is developed with a perimeter block, covered in row houses or if one tower is built. The density in terms of floor area is the same, but the urban form varies.

For more information on the relationship between different measures of density I recommend reading Space, Density and Urban Form - a doctoral thesis written by Meta Berghauser Pont and Per Haupt at TU Delft. They developed the Spacemate matrix, a graphical tool for comparison of morphologies, taking into account several different measures which combine to place a given project or area on the graph.

The measurement and analysis of density retain profound importance for several reasons. Compact urban patterns with higher densities can promote sustainability through efficient land use, reduced travel-related emissions, and lower overall energy footprints. Density is deeply intertwined with social dynamics, influencing community interactions, potentially fostering a sense of connection, and impacting access to resources. On an economic level, denser urban fabrics often support thriving local economies, creating favourable environments for businesses and employment opportunities. Additionally, density is linked with factors like air quality, noise levels, and green space availability – fundamental contributors to residents' overall health and well-being.

The matter of density isn't a question with a simplistic answer. Optimal density is contingent on context, including a city's unique character, goals, and resident needs. Planners face a challenging balancing act, continually seeking to find the equilibrium between efficiency, community cohesion, and the individual quality of life. Urban density becomes a powerful planning tool when its multifaceted nature is understood. Careful measurements across several dimensions facilitate informed design strategies, helping urbanists create desirable, equitable, and resilient cities – crafted with both present and future generations in mind.

In current urban discourse, in fact for the last 30 years or so, high density is heavily favoured as the correct approach. We have mentioned its upsides on this podcast, I have suggested it to some degree in many of my projects and it’s often a default goal of urban planning strategies.

There are several reasons why density has become the dominant model. Environmental concerns about unsustainable sprawl, with its associated car-dependence and impact on climate change, make dense, walkable urban configurations seem like an eco-conscious choice. Add to this a popular image of ‘ideal’ cities associated with bustling downtowns,  lively cultural scenes, and diverse experiences  – images closely aligned with dense configurations.

Powerful economic forces also align behind density, as businesses crave larger markets easily accessed within denser populations, potentially offering a richer pool of labour and greater profitability. Cities benefit from the increased tax base potential promised by greater density. All this is further boosted by influential think tanks and well-funded urban planning bodies actively promoting higher-density models. The effect is powerful: density gains a veneer of inevitability, silencing oppositional voices.

However, strong counter-arguments in favour of lower-density urban models or more dispersed development do exist but frequently find little traction.  Advocates for such models are less organised than pro-density groups, often operating on a hyper-local level focused on individual community issues. There's a lack of a large-scale, unified message about the advantages of less density, which contributes to their marginalisation in the wider discourse. The word 'sprawl' carries a lot of negative baggage, so critics of high density find it difficult to disassociate themselves from this undesirable form of uncontrolled development.  Since 'smart' low-density development is a poorly defined concept with few successful model cities, an alternative vision to challenge the dense-is-superior image simply fails to materialise. There's also the fact that lower-density plans could threaten development profits and may constrain powerful real estate interests, ensuring these voices meet strong headwinds from entrenched industry  lobbies.

It's worth questioning if some agendas remain masked within the pro-density clamour. Since developers directly profit from relaxed restrictions with a bias towards large-scale, tall structures, concerns over whether profit takes priority over smart planning linger. Some view dense cities as potentially easier to manage and control from a governance perspective, appealing to centralising structures who resist dispersed decision-making. Further, ideological bias creeps in as well, where dispersed or small-town living can be viewed as less sophisticated or desirable on a cultural level, influencing decisions made by elite stakeholders in urban planning.

It's vital to emphasise that this doesn't render density intrinsically negative. Its potential for good, when combined with responsible planning, shouldn't be discounted. However, an honest, nuanced conversation must explore all voices, acknowledge potential hidden agendas, and challenge biases to ultimately design the best, most diverse cities we can for our evolving needs.

To unlock a broader understanding of the complexities around urban density today, it's vital to grasp its dynamic trajectory since the pivotal moment of the Industrial Revolution.  This watershed event profoundly altered how we work, live, and shape the very spaces we inhabit. By taking a journey through history, we can trace the evolving forces that drive density increases, uncover motivations behind planning approaches throughout different eras, and identify the challenges and consequences arising from a rapidly changing urban landscape.

The analysis will begin by exploring how cities transformed themselves under the pressure of industrialization.  Early urbanisation was frequently chaotic and spurred by the relentless push to concentrate the industrial workforce close to centres of production. We'll examine the living conditions during this time,  unravelling how they reflect the priorities – or lack thereof – placed on workers' well-being and equitable access to space.

From there, the evolution of planning responses across different socio-economic structures will come into focus. We'll dissect the rise of various city planning movements, like the planned, spacious Garden City movement offering an answer to the earlier period's dense, unhealthy quarters, alongside the stark pragmatism of Modernist towers aimed at efficiency above all else.

Finally, we'll trace the trajectory of density from the postwar years into the present. The impact of suburbanization, the ongoing allure of dense megacities, and the challenges and innovations stemming from a globalised, rapidly developing world will be analysed. Throughout this journey, the underlying motivations behind density will be scrutinised: be it  driven by economic ambition, technological progress, or even social aspirations.

By charting this course through history, we can better comprehend the context within which modern debates surrounding urban density arise. It exposes the deeply rooted challenges planners still grapple with as they seek to balance innovation, sustainability, and a commitment to ensuring human-centric livability within our built environments.

Density and urbanisation in the 19th Century

The Industrial Revolution wasn't merely a shift in production methods; it upended the very meaning of urban existence. Advancements in agriculture, medicine, and sanitation fueled explosive population growth. Lured by factory jobs, and sometimes pushed by hardship in rural areas, a swelling workforce streamed into cities. From Manchester to Berlin to the gritty mill towns of New England, cities found themselves woefully unprepared to handle this unprecedented influx.  With housing in short supply, living conditions rapidly deteriorated. Workers found themselves crammed into poorly constructed tenements, often in the most undesirable zones adjacent to factories, their streets choked with pollution and waste. 

This period of urban crisis set the stage for fundamental shifts in how we perceive, plan, and intervene in our cities. In Paris, Baron Haussmann, acting under the direct commission of Napoleon III, initiated a sweeping campaign of renovation. The city's heart – a tangle of medieval streets – was methodically carved apart. Magnificent boulevards emerged, lined with imposing civic buildings and luxurious apartments. Proponents praised the improvements to sanitation, circulation, and the creation of grand public spaces. However, history casts a harsher light on this transformation. As  Haussmann himself reportedly claimed, his renovations were favoured for their "disembowelment" of the old Paris –  a strategic tactic for suppressing uprisings by creating wide avenues where barricades and street-fighting became untenable.

Across Europe, cities found themselves under the planner's scalpel. Vienna initiated one of the era's most iconic projects: the Ringstrasse. Built on the site of the city's demolished fortifications, it encircled the historic core with stately museums, governmental buildings, and the opulent palaces of the rising bourgeoisie. Yet, even within this carefully orchestrated splendour, inequality lay bare. Beyond the Ringstrasse, working-class districts epitomised the era's housing woes.

As in the rest of Europe, new property laws and urbanisation created a highly speculative market for housing, in which the bourgeoisie could invest beyond their own needs. Tax breaks for rapid construction of new buildings made it a very profitable market. As a result of increased building activity, prices rose, which were passed on to tenants, and rents were also raised on older buildings in order to bring their profitability closer to that of new buildings. But despite high profitability and demand, as well as amendments to building codes to reduce production costs, the housing supply could not be adequately ensured. Although there were even significant vacancies at times, politicians and economic experts assumed that the construction industry was simply producing too few apartments.

In Vienna, the working-class tenement houses were massively overcrowded. In 1856, an average of 55 people lived in each house in Vienna, compared to 45 per house in Berlin, 35 in Paris, and 10 in London. This was because, despite the low standards, rents were high for lower-income groups - they paid between 20 and 40% of their household income, while 10% was more normal for middle-class families - and accordingly they had to share their living space with subtenants and lodgers. And this in so-called "Bassena apartments" - with only one small room and a kitchen that was lit and ventilated via the corridor, and a shared toilet and washbasin on the corridor for several apartments, they were often occupied by more than 6 people. Around 1900, this type of apartment made up about 50% of all apartments in Vienna.

Although the population density may not be the same today, the structural density of these neighbourhoods still largely exists. The building code of 1859 only stipulated that street widths should be at least 15 m and building heights should not exceed 25 m. It was not until 1883 that the permitted floor area ratio and minimum sizes of courtyards were determined. However, a maximum permitted floor area ratio of 85% and courtyards of 12 m2 and 6 m2 for living and ancillary rooms respectively did little to improve the cramped conditions. Reactions to these conditions came in the period of Red Vienna, as explained in our previous podcast episode about that period. 

Similar patterns occurred in cities like Berlin, where James Hobrecht's expansion plan laid out a rigid grid to accommodate rapid growth. Here, developers filled lots with densely packed tenement blocks known as Mietskasernen, leading to overcrowded living conditions and further speculation.

In Barcelona, Ildefonso Cerdà designed a highly regular grid that enveloped the old city. All streets were to be 20 metres wide, buildings 20 metres high, and corners cut with a diagonal width of 20 metres. Cerdà planned for almost all blocks to be built on only two sides, alternating in rows, with green space in between.

However, in Barcelona, as in other cities, the market ultimately shaped the city's form. Cerdà's envisioned dimensions were exceeded, with the number of stories in some areas increasing from 4 to 12 and the floor area ratio (FAR) rising from 0.28 to 0.90. This transformation hints at the complex interplay between planning and market forces.

Camillo Sitte, in his book "Der Städte-Bau nach seinen künstlerischen Grundsätzen" (City Planning According to its Artistic Principles), responded to the way Haussmann and others were building cities according to rational principles. As the title suggests, he focuses on the aesthetic weaknesses of his time’s city planning. He deplored the soullessness of straight lines, oversized blocks, and monuments isolated within vast  plazas. He did not write about social conditions. Sitte was concerned with the culture of the city in the sense of its history and spatial perception in the public, representative space. 

He wrote about the Viennese tenement houses:

"... in this general, but therefore most desolate and characterless formation, everything can be accommodated: workshops, workers' dwellings, commercial houses, palaces, etc. The tenement block can accommodate everything, but only barely, without completely satisfying any of the special needs."

Sitte called for a human-centred approach, echoing the Romantic emphasis on history, intimacy, and a visual richness inspired by pre-industrial cities. Yet, as critics like Sitte  advocated for alternative cityscapes, truly radical visions challenged the established order

The upheavals caused by industrialization led to reactions from social reformers such as Charles Fourier, Robert Owen, and Ebenezer Howard. They saw the very fabric of the industrial city as fundamentally flawed.  In their eyes, it was the source of misery, exploitation, and a profound disconnect from nature. So they sought to replace the cramped and miserable conditions of the cities with new units that were small-scale, egalitarian, and connected to nature. They rejected private ownership of land in favour of collective ownership, and also experimented with collective forms of housing.

In 1800, Owen founded New Lanark in Scotland, a community with a school, hospital, community centre, and housing, all organised around his cotton mill. It was a very successful example of a focus on the well-being of workers rather than primarily on profit, and Owen continued to develop the concept in the years to come, gaining a great deal of influence.

His geometry was that of a square, with residential buildings on all four sides and the collective buildings in the centre: schools, churches, and a dining hall. Workshops and farms were located outside the square. Owen presented these plans to rulers such as Napoleon I and Tsar Alexander I, as well as to American presidents.

Charles Fourier, in his model, appropriated the Palace of Versailles for the people. His "Phalanstères" consisted, like the Palace, of several large buildings that were connected to each other as wings. They were intended for about 2,000 people of all ethnicities, classes, genders, and ages. This idea was implemented on a smaller scale by Jean-Baptiste Godin between 1859 and 1870 in Guise, northeast of Paris. His "Familistère" was designed for 400 families.

Meanwhile, Howard's "Garden Cities" offered blueprints for small-scale, intentionally planned towns set amidst farmland, promoting a balance between urban necessities and rural life.

Each of these pioneers grappled with the profound problems of their time, proposing visions that dared to rewrite social and spatial arrangements.

20th Century planning ideals

As society hurtled into the 20th century, city planning embraced a new utopianism – one heavily influenced by the machine age. The Modernist movement, with figures like Le Corbusier at its helm, advocated for radical functional separation in his 'Ville Radieuse' concept. Cities were reimagined as regimented zones: housing towers interspersed with parks, industrial districts neatly segregated, and efficient transport networks defining movement patterns.  This vision promised light, air, and a rational answer to the squalor of earlier cities. Yet, in practice, its realisation created its own woes. In cities across the globe, swaths of dense urban fabric were razed, their communities displaced to make way for high-rise housing estates. While providing modern amenities,  these planned developments  often fostered  alienation and an unsettling anonymity.

The aftermath of World War II left an indelible mark on cities worldwide. With housing shortages and an urgent need to rebuild, the question of urban density became a matter of both practical necessity and utopian vision. The functionalist, rationalist principles espoused by the Charta of Athens and the Congrès Internationaux d'Architecture Moderne (CIAM) profoundly shaped how density was addressed during this era.  Yet, simultaneously, a contrasting trend unfolded, fueling the rapid expansion of suburbs and redefining the relationship between individual housing and dense urban cores.

CIAM proponents advocated for a clean break from the perceived disorder and density of pre-war cities.  They idealised distinct zoning – separating residential areas from industrial and commercial hubs – all interconnected by transportation networks. The goal was to increase sunlight, improve hygiene, and promote a sense of order. It found concrete expression in large-scale housing estates, where repetitive tower blocks or slab apartment buildings stood surrounded by open, carefully planned green spaces. These modern environments prioritised smaller but efficiently designed units boasting amenities often unavailable in older urban environments.

The appeal of suburbanization emerged in parallel. Driven by a desire for more space, individual homeownership, and a perceived escape from inner-city problems, families flocked to these sprawling new developments characterised by low-density detached houses. Subsidies aimed at war veterans desiring homeownership and massive highway building programs accelerated this transition. Suburban growth offered the promise of an idealised lifestyle– one with open lawns, a driveway, and space for families to grow.

Despite aiming for density that would provide more hygienic and rational living environments, modernist housing estates faced serious critiques. Their scale and stark, functional design sometimes created a sense of alienation and social isolation. Critics argued that while physical comfort was prioritised, the psychological needs of communities were overlooked.  Zoning that strictly segregated work, life, and leisure ironically limited the organic connections that give cities their vitality. In some cases, this approach could inadvertently concentrate social or economic problems rather than resolve them.  Moreover, the rigidity of planning meant estates frequently proved unable to adapt to the evolving realities of urban economies and changing social needs.

Critics like Jane Jacobs, author of "The Death and Life of Great American Cities," sounded the alarm on the erosion of traditional streetscapes, vibrant mixed-use neighbourhoods, and the complex social ties they nurtured. Under the Modernist lens, they argued, the organic city became a mere object of design, neglecting the needs of those who made cities pulsate with life.

The post-war era highlights a profound tension between the pursuit of planned urban density and a powerful desire for the lower-density ideal of suburban living. Modernist architects attempted to imbue a positive value into high-density environments, promising efficiency, hygiene, and social progress. Nevertheless, many saw escape in the promises offered by the expansive suburb. Ultimately, both trends had lasting impacts on how density is approached in contemporary urban planning debates. It reveals the need to go beyond mere numbers when discussing density, prioritising livability, diverse housing styles, and an ongoing understanding of the intricate relationship between how we build and how we live.

Between the 1960s and 1990s, cities worldwide navigated a period of immense social and economic transformation. The critiques levied by Jane Jacobs and others spurred a re-examination of Modernist planning doctrines. Many of the grand visions for remaking cities fell out of favour as their unintended consequences, from social isolation to the disruption of communities, became increasingly apparent. Meanwhile, growing environmental awareness, triggered in part by Rachel Carson's seminal work "Silent Spring," brought the ecological impact of urban planning into sharper focus. This period was also marked by deindustrialization in many western cities, leaving gaping wounds in the urban fabric as factories closed and jobs disappeared.

These shifts laid the groundwork for experimentation with alternative planning approaches. Some focused on historic preservation, advocating for the adaptive reuse of old buildings and a gentler, more context-sensitive approach to urban revitalization. New Urbanism, gaining traction in the 1980s, championed walkability, mixed-use development, and a revival of traditional neighbourhood design principles. The concept of  "placemaking" gained currency, shifting the emphasis away from purely abstract plans and towards fostering a sense of belonging and identity within urban spaces.

Nevertheless, cities continued to grapple with the legacy of past choices. Urban freeways, built to ease congestion,  instead often exacerbated sprawl and carved destructive paths through inner-city neighbourhoods. In response, some communities fought back against further freeway development, successfully halting proposals that would have damaged urban cores. Public participation in planning processes, once unheard of, became increasingly commonplace, driven by both a desire for greater community control and an acknowledgment by some in the planning profession that a broader range of voices was needed to shape the future of cities.

Yet, as cities in the developed world sought to find their footing, globalisation was rapidly transforming the urban landscape. Cities in Asia and Latin America experienced massive growth, often grappling with sprawling unplanned settlements and severe urban poverty. New megacities emerged, dwarfing those in the developed world and testing the limits of traditional planning approaches. Meanwhile, the decline of industries that had defined traditional Western cities fueled competition – pushing them to reimagine themselves anew.

21st Century challenges

The notion of urban density as a solution to a wide range of challenges—environmental degradation, the needs of post-industrial economies, and the creation of lively urban spaces—has gained prominence since the 1980s and 1990s. However, a thorough examination reveals density to be a multi-faceted phenomenon laden with potential benefits alongside substantial critiques.

One of the core promises of urban density lies in environmental protection. Compact cities consume less land, curtailing urban sprawl that can encroach on vital ecosystems. The concentration of residents within a given area makes walking, cycling, and public transportation more viable, offering alternatives to the emissions associated with car-centric lifestyles. In theory, a shift towards densely-populated living should help mitigate our impact on the environment.

Beyond sustainability, density is seen as an engine for post-industrial economies. Businesses providing education, healthcare, creative services, and more thrive in the close proximity facilitated by cities.  Denser urban cores draw talented workers, foster collaboration, and provide fertile ground for the innovation central to modern economies.  Simultaneously, proponents praise the unique vibrancy density promotes—bustling street life, a wide array of cultural and dining options, and a sense of constant excitement often lacking in less concentrated suburbs and towns.

Yet, these ideals of density clash with the stark realities of urban development. Housing affordability emerges as a primary casualty. Densely packed residential districts, especially in desirable city centres, drive land values higher, increasing prices for both rental and ownership properties. This creates a cycle where workers in essential service industries are effectively priced out, increasing commute times and straining social equity. In the absence of deliberate countermeasures, density amplifies economic disparities rather than reducing them.

Furthermore, the quality of the built environment can suffer within the profit-driven pursuit of density. The pressure to maximise returns pushes developers towards smaller living spaces, standardised designs, and the marginalisation of green spaces vital for health and well-being. Overcrowding can amplify noise pollution and create a diminished sense of privacy. Density without a focus on livability creates urban environments that, though vibrant on the surface, risk alienating and displacing segments of the population.

Crucially, we must examine the underlying forces shaping how density is implemented. Neoliberal paradigms encouraging privatisation and deregulation frequently result in cities where property developers rather than public welfare interests hold significant sway. The financial pressures on local governments exacerbate this. Selling public land is an enticing source of revenue, and zoning rules permitting greater density become financially essential. The resultant high-density projects increase revenue rather than prioritise affordability or a genuinely balanced improvement in quality of life.

Urban density is neither inherently positive nor negative. Its implementation, and the consequences it generates, are largely determined by the underlying social, economic, and political context. If the driving force is profit without public safeguards, we risk turning city centres into playgrounds for the affluent while ignoring the needs of working-class and marginalised communities. Instead, to harness the genuine potential of density, affordable housing strategies, investment in public infrastructure, preservation of green space, and community participation in planning must become non-negotiable elements of the process. The challenge for cities lies in embracing density as a tool, not an end in itself, shaping the built environment through thoughtful design and equitable policies that support livability for a broad spectrum of residents.

These debates remain vital as we face the  complexities of the 21st century. Cities bear the brunt of interconnected global challenges: climate change, resource scarcity, and ever-increasing urbanisation. Today's planners and policymakers must grapple with  unprecedented questions : Can cities mitigate their environmental impact, promote adaptation to climate stress, and still provide decent, affordable housing for their growing populations? Can notions of equity, diversity, and truly inclusive participation replace the top-down approaches of the past? What does a city prioritising well-being look like? And importantly, can we reimagine urban development and planning to forge a better future, acknowledging past mistakes and evolving needs?

Perhaps it is crucial to move beyond an "either/or" mentality when seeking answers. The pendulum of planning history has swung between visions of rigid control, idealistic social reform, and utopian urban forms. The reality is likely to be a combination of adaptive reuse of what we've inherited, careful planning for new growth, and sensitivity to the specific environmental, cultural, and economic pressures faced by individual cities. Today, cities like Copenhagen, Stockholm, Vienna and Paris offer glimpses of alternative models. They attempt to somewhat prioritise pedestrian and cyclist-friendly streets, energy-efficient buildings, and a careful entwining of urban development with nature. In Latin America and some parts of Asia, community-driven upgrading of informal settlements provides inspiration outside the European context. Each case reveals that successful approaches rely on collaboration: urban design professionals, social scientists, policy experts, and engaged citizens must come together to craft solutions.

This isn't simply about constructing better buildings or street layouts; it's about forging social contracts within our cities.  What is the "right to the city" in the 21st century? Can cities act as spaces for innovation, addressing income inequality, environmental stresses, and the deep yearning for belonging in an increasingly fractured world? Urban planning can no longer exist in a vacuum. It demands an understanding of social systems, economic forces, ecological limitations, and the potential technology holds to address our challenges – or exacerbate them.

Urban Density examined and Dogma questioned

Having explored the strategies and critiques surrounding urban density, we realise that its effects run far deeper than maximising inhabitants per square kilometre. Urban form shapes our experience and influences our behaviour. It's time to explore how the physical spaces we design can impact the psychological experience within the metropolis.

In his seminal work,  "The Condition of the Working Class in England," Friedrich Engels painted a harrowing picture of London in the 1840s:

"…The brutal indifference, the unfeeling isolation of each in his private interest becomes the more repellent and offensive, the more these individuals are crowded together, within a limited space. And, however much one may be aware that this isolation of the individual, this narrow self-seeking is the fundamental principle of our society everywhere, it is nowhere so shamelessly barefaced, so self-conscious as just here in the crowding of this great city. The dissolution of mankind into monads, of each which one has a separate principle and a separate purpose, the world of atoms, is here carried out to its utmost extreme.…"

Engels' bleak observation speaks volumes about the potential risks of poorly planned urban density. Cities designed without thought for human interaction and shared experience do, indeed, risk the atomization he describes. In such metropolises, despite physical proximity, individuals remain isolated, a juxtaposition cruelly visible in the disparities created by economic inequality. Of course that’s not only attributable to the physical form of cities themselves, but the economic and social systems which create and are created by them.

It’s essentially a question of how we live our lives as individuals and groups, and the relation between that and the built environment.

Georg Simmel emerged as a groundbreaking sociologist and philosopher in late 19th and early 20th-century Germany. Simmel departed from earlier thinkers, who had often focused on cities through economic or political lenses. Instead, he pioneered a focus on the lived experience of individuals within urban environments, laying the foundations for urban sociology.

The opening statement of Simmel’s seminal essay "The Metropolis and Mental Life" (1903) reads:

“The deepest problems of modern life flow from the attempt of the individual to maintain the independence and individuality of his existence against the sovereign powers of society, against the weight of the historical heritage and the external culture and technique of life. This antagonism represents the most modern form of the conflict which primitive man must carry on with nature for his own bodily existence.”

At the heart of Simmel's observations lies the idea that the sheer multitude of people, ceaseless barrage of stimuli, and intricate mesh of interactions within the city inevitably overwhelm the human senses. To cope with this constant onslaught, city dwellers cultivate what Simmel terms the "blasé attitude." This isn't a form of indifference, but rather a calculated numbness, a strategic filtering of experiences to avoid being consumed by the city's intensity. Simmel posits that this defence mechanism manifests as a dulling of emotional responses, preserving functionality by shielding the individual from the full intensity of urban life.

This constant stimulation, coupled with the impersonal nature of so many urban encounters, forces a shift towards a more intellectual mode of interaction. Faced with countless fleeting exchanges, city dwellers rely on quick assessments and the efficient exchange of information to navigate their social world. Relationships become increasingly transactional, evaluated in terms of utility rather than the deep emotional bonds  cultivated within smaller communities. Simmel observes how the rise of a money economy, as diagnosed in "The Philosophy of Money" (1900), contributes to this phenomenon. Money, with its quantifiable exchange value, becomes the great leveller, reducing the subjective qualities of human connection to stark calculations of worth. 

Yet, even as Simmel identifies these potentially alienating elements within the city, he also acknowledges the allure of anonymity. In "The Stranger" (1908), he explores how city life allows individuals a degree of freedom unimaginable in small towns where everyone knows your name, history, and social standing. The metropolis liberates the individual from the watchful eyes and judgement of traditional communities, paving the way for a greater variety of identities and life choices.  However, this freedom brings a peculiar social distance. One might rub shoulders with hundreds of strangers daily, yet remain profoundly removed from any deep understanding of their lives.

Simmel explores a diverse range of social types in “The Stranger”,, meticulously illustrating how these roles are formed by societal perceptions and expectations. The mediator gains authority due to their perceived impartiality, while society defines "the poor'' through reactions of pity or calculated charity, often obscuring individual capabilities. The adventurer embodies a thrilling disruption of norms, existing outside societal constraints, while the "man in the middle'' is forced to navigate conflicting expectations arising from their ambiguous social position. Finally, the renegade signifies a sense of betrayal, the rejection of a previous group identity,  evoking feelings of unease and challenges to the established order within their former community. Each social type highlights how preconceived notions held by society can both offer liberties and constrain  individual expression and growth.

While Georg Simmel thoroughly analysed the psychological adaptations spurred by the density and dynamics of urban life – the blasé attitude, the turn towards calculated interactions –  Sigmund Freud's "Civilization and its Discontents" transcends the specific metropolitan context to expose a fundamental tension at the core of the civilised condition.  Yet,  the modern city, as it emerged during Freud's lifetime, provides a unique amplification of the conflicts he theorised. Its inherent anonymity, coupled with the relentless emphasis on logic and transactional encounters, could intensify the Freudian struggle between the untamed impulses of the id and the rigid demands of the superego.

Within the vast network of urban interactions, the individual grapples with a profound lack of rooted connection. This anonymity might further complicate the already fraught process of sublimation, wherein civilization directs instinctual drives towards socially acceptable avenues. The fleeting nature of city encounters might not satisfy primal needs for genuine interaction and emotional expression, creating a simmering sense of unfulfilled desires beneath the surface of civilised behaviour.  Moreover, the urban focus on rationality and the efficiency of exchanges mirrors the constant conflict within Freud's model of the psyche. The city seems to mirror the very struggle of the ego to impose external rules and societal control over the instinctive chaos of the id.

Departing from Freud's analysis of the internal struggle between desires and civilization, Herbert Marcuse argues that modern, capitalist forces within cities exploit these tensions for profit and, ultimately, societal control. Urban spaces transform into hyper-saturated landscapes of temptation, imbuing commodities with promises of social status, belonging, and emotional fulfilment. In Marcuse's view, this constant striving to acquire and consume creates a false sense of need and an illusion of freedom within the urban dweller.

This cycle of "repressive desublimation" is laid out in Marcuse's seminal work "One-Dimensional Man" (1964). Public spaces overflow with advertisements and displays, meticulously designed to trigger ever-evolving desires. Shopping districts become carefully constructed stages for promises of self-improvement and instant gratification. This relentless exposure blurs the line between genuine needs and those crafted by manipulative market forces, diverting focus from more authentic self-realisation through creativity, relationships, or critical thought.

While offering the illusion of liberation and individuality, urban consumerism instead stifles dissent, fueling passivity and conformity. Individuals obsessed with the quest for the latest product or trend have little inclination to challenge a system rooted in exploiting these very desires. This concept is powerfully explored in both "Eros and Civilization" (1955) and "Counterrevolution and Revolt" (1972), where Marcuse analyses how even leisure and sexuality are commodified, serving to uphold existing power structures rather than offering true liberation.

Marcuse's work builds upon Marxist foundations: urban centres epitomise the labour exploitation, alienation, and fetishism of commodities that lie at the heart of Marxist critique. Through Marcuse's lens, however, we witness an intensified and evolving manifestation of these forces, deployed to pacify potential dissent by turning consumer desires into the foundation of social control.

The elevation of shopping, bars, and cafes within cities aligns with Simmel's observations in  "The Metropolis and Mental Life" (1903). Overwhelmed by the density and stimuli of urban life, individuals seek solace in consumption. It becomes a method of both differentiation and a fleeting sense of control.  Yet,  the city, ever shaped by "The Philosophy of Money" (1900), reduces all interactions, even leisure, to transactional terms. The allure of 'belonging' purchased through experiences or status products masks the anonymity and isolation inherent in  this urban model.

From a Freudian perspective, as explored in "Civilization and its Discontents" (1930), this relentless acquisition serves to pacify inner desires rather than offering liberation. It's a carefully orchestrated form of sublimation – channelling urges towards 'acceptable' avenues while strengthening the very system suppressing genuine fulfilment. Marcuse in "One-Dimensional Man" (1964) sees this as the pinnacle of social control. Cities morph into sites of 'repressive desublimation', their design  ensuring dissatisfaction is channelled back into further fueling the cycle of consumption, precluding critical thought or true rebellion.

The work of David Harvey, particularly  "The Urbanization of Capital" (1985), reveals a shift in capitalist  imperatives underpinning this transformation. As traditional modes of production faced crises, cities transitioned into arenas for new modes of 'accumulation'. This process also shapes cafes as brands selling image.

The push for density hinges on an insidious transformation: consumption emerges as the primary mode of identity construction and social engagement.  A reliance on externalised experiences in commercial spaces is subtly encouraged, as traditionally rooted forms of community within dense living become strained. Residents begin to differentiate themselves less through meaningful relationships, and more through carefully curated acquisitions.

Urban branding strategies become instrumental in perpetuating this cycle. Cities vie for attention by crafting images of themselves as centres of curated excitement.  Branding uses  concepts of 'spectacle' and 'lifestyle' to mask potential downsides of highly dense models. Deep anxieties often accompanying urban anonymity are disguised and repackaged to promote an allure of endless excitement and choice, fueling individual acquisition to assuage those unspoken discontents.  This relentless marketing generates a deceptive impression of individual freedom within a highly managed framework.

Crucially, we must ask: who does dense development centred around consumption ultimately benefit? Here, the works of David Harvey are illuminating. His analysis shows how such "dogma" aligns with larger economic shifts  where development benefits property interests and a transient consumer base, often at the expense of those most deeply invested in the community's social fabric. Cities can easily devolve into settings focused on superficial indicators of activity, rather than on fostering genuine belonging and empowerment for long-term residents.

The modern city's overemphasis on density and the resulting transformation into a consumerist arena raises fundamental questions about who cities are truly designed  to serve.  We should question whether this relentless push for curated spectacle truly fosters a  rich  human  experience –  or whether it's a form of subtle coercion, masking alienation and substituting genuine connection with fleeting transactions.

Henri Lefebvre's demand for the "Right to the City" (1968) provides a  crucial rallying point. It goes beyond physical access to urban spaces, and posits that true freedom is not merely about choosing which cafe to patronise, but about exercising an active role in shaping the city and its inherent social dynamics. He calls for cities built for inhabitation, not mere consumption.

Our challenge now is to move beyond  the role of passive spectators.  This transformation starts with reflection: consciously interrogating our own reliance on externalised consumption as the default mode of urban  engagement. Do we fall into the trap of seeking fulfilment through pre-packaged experiences and status symbols within these manufactured "vibrant" urban landscapes? Where do we find authentic belonging and community?

Furthermore, Lefebvre reminds us that cities aren't just pre-existing stages on which we act, but products of human will and political struggle. Engaging in urban planning conversations, advocating for spaces that aren't solely defined by retail, and resisting the branding that glosses over  inequity become central acts of reclamation. It's through these actions that we  break down the density-centric dogma that perpetuates consumption as the singular purpose of our cities.

Ultimately,  whether cities cater to our deepest human needs for self-expression, exploration, and genuine connection isn't a foregone conclusion. It depends on whether we become conscious urban inhabitants actively reclaiming this space.  Only then can we begin to reshape our cities  so that they  nurture our full potential, both individually and as a true community.

The dominance of density and its transformation of cities into consumer arenas profoundly shapes our lived experience. We risk mistaking curated spectacle and acquisition for true urban fulfilment.  The very concept of the "everyday" within this model becomes problematic, requiring urgent examination, something Lefebvre deeply understood.

Lefebvre's "Critique of Everyday Life" exposes how seemingly mundane urban routines can subtly perpetuate systems of social control. Constant distraction, passivity, and the normalisation of commodifying leisure time alienate us from our agency in shaping our surroundings. When this alienation dovetails with hyper-dense living, anxieties and desires for connection can easily be exploited, fueling addictive patterns of engagement and identity crafting online.

The ubiquity of devices and social media acts as a disturbing extension of this control into the remaining pockets of daily life,  previously free from pervasive consumption. Moments of downtime once filled with quiet introspection are now colonised by targeted marketing and manufactured desire. Social media functions as a virtual extension of the consumerist cityscape – promoting comparison, the illusion of belonging through 'likes' and  brands, and the endless scrolling as a substitute for  authentic exploration within our physical lived world.

True reclamation of our cities and lives from these insidious forces starts with an almost rebellious examination of the 'everyday'. Lefebvre's "Right to the City" encompasses a right to break free from these imposed rhythms. Can we carve out spaces where devices recede and genuine human interaction  resurfaces? Can we rediscover the joys of urban strolling without pre-determined consumer goals?

Moreover, it's this awareness that makes active participation in planning vital. The city is not simply a backdrop for our individualistic ambitions, but a complex arena shaped by policy and design choices. Lefebvre urges us to be co-creators, advocating for cities prioritising spontaneous community spaces, fostering non-commercial public activities, and pushing back against urban design solely oriented towards retail and fleeting "experiences".

The routine walk to the favourite café, the same work routes, the ritualised reading of the morning newspaper - all these actions may seem banal. Nevertheless, Lefebvre argues, they can force the individual into a rut that hinders critical thinking. They uncritically reproduce a status quo that subtly internalises the values of consumption and passive participation.

When dense urban spaces are primarily conceived as backdrops for consumption, everyday life also runs the risk of adapting to this logic. Residents are silently encouraged to construct their identities through "lifestyle" decisions. The individual begins unconsciously to define himself or herself through the type of newspaper consumed, the market frequented, or the cultural events selected. These decisions, often guided by urban advertising and branding campaigns, create the illusion of control and genuine self-realisation.

Lefebvre's thinking can be linked to the work of Guy Debord, who in "The Society of the Spectacle" (1967) paints a harsh picture of life shaped by commerce. Like Lefebvre, Debord is concerned about the transformation of everyday experience into an endless series of spectacular events that distract us from real interaction and a meaningful life. The urban space within the density-centred consumption model becomes another stage for this social staging.

To sell this spectacle of the city, urban planners and marketers increasingly rely on the idea of "urban renaissance." This term conjures up images of revitalization and promises to make previously worn-out areas attractive through a mixture of development, cultural offerings, and a curated leisure industry. At first glance, this may seem like a positive transformation. However, critics point out how "urban renaissance" often paves the way for gentrification and more subtle forms of displacement. The development of areas is primarily aimed at temporary visitors and not at the local population, which in the long term has a lasting impact on the social composition of neighbourhoods.

The sociologist Neil Smith, and in particular his work "The New Urban Frontier: Gentrification and the Revanchist City" (1996), provides a detailed study of this phenomenon. He shows how economic imperatives are often at the forefront under the guise of "renaissance." The city becomes another business model in which residents are not respected in their uniqueness, but are targeted as consumers.

This development raises worrying questions in the sense of Lefebvre's "Right to the City." The displacement of long-term residents, the neglect of social infrastructure in favour of commercialised "feel-good oases," and generally the preference for short-term visitors over a genuine strengthening of neighbourhoods - all this makes real participation impossible.

Density, in itself, isn't the enemy. But when it becomes a fetish, an unquestioned mantra driving urban design, we lose sight of the crucial question: what kind of lives are we creating within that density?  Cities built solely around consumption, prioritising fleeting spectacle over genuine connection, ultimately leave us alienated and unfulfilled.  The urban experience can be so much richer, but it requires a fundamental rethinking.

This is where Lefebvre's call for the "Right to the City" becomes vital. It's about exercising our power – as individuals and communities – to shape the spaces we inhabit.  Resisting the purely consumerist city starts in our daily choices: opting for the local shop over the chain, reclaiming parks and squares as spaces for leisure rather than pre-packaged 'vibrancy', and pushing back when confronted with "urban renaissance" that masks gentrification.

It's important to be sceptical of urban branding that sells us an illusion. Let's instead seek out those pockets within our cities where a genuine sense of community thrives – often against all odds. Support grassroots movements fighting against displacement, and those creating inclusive spaces centred around shared interests instead of shared brands.

Ultimately, we need to challenge the narrative that density is interchangeable with progress.  Let's demand cities that foster connection, creativity, and genuine belonging for all inhabitants. True progress lies not in packing more bodies in a square mile, but in ensuring every person within that space feels valued, has a voice, and has the resources to build a thriving and meaningful life.