The Architecture of Policy

By Micah Wright-Taylor

Photography: Sean Fennessy | Styling: Jessica Lillico

Recently I came across a short video on Instagram that posed one of those ideas that is both slightly profound, yet also unsurprising and perfectly suited for the algorithm: that a house isn’t truly cool unless it remains cool without any furniture, art, or decorations.

The creator argued that good design — design that is human-centred, anticipates our needs, and reduces the need to compensate with external additions — is what makes a home genuinely remarkable.

The video flicked through photos of living rooms and communal spaces all empty of furniture, leaving you struck by the fall of natural light through the windows onto the built-in bench seat, or the roof line that rises at an angle, creating spaciousness in a smaller floorplan.

Or the cleverer ways storage is built into the very architecture of the home, discretely keeping items close at hand but out of sight. Whilst I personally don’t feel the need to have the “coolest” house out of all my friends, I am fascinated by beautiful spaces — by architecture that inspires, uplifts, and enhances human potential.

As someone currently searching for a new home for my family, I’ve become increasingly attuned to the difference between homes that are well designed and those that are simply built or remodelled to meet price-point expectations.

Some houses feel effortless, almost inevitable in their form; others feel like someone simply ensured there was the right number of bedrooms and bathrooms without ever considering who might want to live there.

The ease of some houses has really stayed with me — and, perhaps unexpectedly, it’s made me think about my work in policy development.

I’ve long believed that good policy, like good design, should be human-centred. Whether we’re talking about something as seemingly mundane as procurement guidelines for stationery or something as consequential as housing, innovation, or national security frameworks, policy should begin and end with the people it seeks to serve, the people who inhabit it.

Too often, though, policy is built like those “cookie-cutter” houses: designed around compliance rather than experience, structured for control rather than creativity.

We rely on heavy governance frameworks, sprawling templates, and prescriptive guidance to give shape to systems that lack inherent coherence.

It’s as if we’re filling empty rooms with oversized furniture, hoping no one notices that the walls were never quite straight, or actually tall enough to allow for adequate air flow.

What would it look like if we approached policy the way an architect approaches a home?

The best architects of the early 20th century — from Frank Lloyd Wright to Australia’s own Robin Boyd — didn’t simply design structures; they designed environments for living. Their homes were economical yet graceful, practical yet inspiring.

They anticipated how light would fall through a window, how people would move through a space, how a family’s needs would change over decades. A well-designed home feels intuitive — every element serves a purpose, yet the whole feels effortless.

Australia’s post war houses took many of these elements and made them easily and readily available to everyday Australians building the suburbs of our great cities.

Policy can (and should) do the same. Imagine a regulatory framework or procurement process that feels intuitive to navigate — where the logic of its design leads you naturally toward good outcomes.

Where the structure doesn’t need to be propped up by endless layers of guidance and oversight because it already fits the people and outcomes it serves.

This isn’t about making policy “cool” or ornate or philosophically abstract. It’s about acknowledging that humans inhabit policy spaces — that every rule, form, and approval process shape behaviour and, ultimately, the culture of institutions.

When we build policy without thinking about its inhabitants, we create systems that may be technically sound but emotionally sterile — the bureaucratic equivalent of a white-box apartment with fluorescent lighting.

The most enduring homes were built to evolve. The architecture we still enjoy and use today from generations past was built with the capacity to change and be renewed for new needs. They were designed not just for the family who first moved in but for generations who would adapt the space.

My personal experience in house hunting shows that those built around the Great Depression and post war are now some of the most sought-after houses across Australia; flexible floorplans, great airflow, abundant natural light, and room to expand and remodel as family and generational needs change.

Likewise, policy should be built for time — not for a single government or initiative, but for the evolving needs of the people and systems it governs. That means designing with flexibility, clarity, and empathy.

So as I continue my search for a home — one that feels right even before it’s furnished — I find myself asking a parallel question in my professional life:

Are we building policy that can stand on its own, or are we decorating hollow frameworks to disguise their flaws?

If we truly believe people inhabit the worlds our policies create, then we must become architects — designing with foresight and care for the humans who will have to navigate the policy spaces we build.