Today's housing crisis is a global phenomenon that can be broadly divided into two major problems: a shortage of residential buildings and barriers to accessing those that already exist. The deficit is real and concrete when it comes to what the UN calls "adequate housing for all." According to UN-Habitat, an estimated 96,000 new housing units would need to be built per day to meet population needs by 2030. Climate change and forced migration are broadening the gap. But 2.8 billion people worldwide, representing nearly 40% of the global population, lack access to stable shelter, secure land, and basic sanitation services not only because of underproduction, but also due to an economic barrier: an affordability crisis. As demand grows and prices rise, housing, now increasingly functioning as a form of social security, becomes a target for rental income and real estate speculation. As adequate housing is a human right, pressure on governments and private entities is increasing worldwide to limit speculation and ensure fair access to existing dwellings. Below, we present four examples of initiatives in Spain, Australia, France, and the United States that aim to urgently expand housing access while limiting speculation.

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Architecture has traditionally been described as a discipline concerned with space, form, and material presence. Yet this understanding becomes increasingly limited when confronted with the conditions that shape contemporary construction. Buildings no longer emerge from a stable relationship between site, program, and material. Instead, they are produced within a dense web of technological systems that operate across territorial, ecological, and temporal scales. Energy networks, data infrastructures, extraction processes, and global logistics shape architecture as decisively as climate or urban context.

Seen from this angle, architecture is less a discrete object than a moment within a larger technical field. Supply chains, data systems, automated maintenance, and energy grids do not sit "behind" the built environment. In a certain way, they influence what can be built, what is affordable, how buildings perform over time, and what kinds of waste they produce. When architecture is assessed primarily through form, it risks overlooking the systems that condition its production and afterlife.

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Every architecture student knows what it's like to spend sleepless nights working away, rushing to finalize a project as a deadline looms ahead. Revising every detail, putting the finishing touches and hoping for the best. The pay-off? Seeing the finished project, talking about it with your classmates, and getting to dream about your perfect idea of what a space should look and feel like.

While making the shortlist selection throughout the past two weeks, the ArchDaily jury panel was well-aware of what it feels like to be an architecture student. Comprised of architects, the panel carefully studied, considered and debated each individual project, with an understanding of what goes into each and every submission. The result is a shortlist that exemplifies the spirit of the Student Project Awards and its mission to recognize the creativity and vision of students who are redefining architectural practice and discourse.

Symbols of technological development and urban density, tall buildings as we know them today emerged in the late nineteenth century, particularly in the United States, as a response to the rapid expansion of urban commerce and the need to grow cities without occupying additional land. The term skyscraper, for instance, was coined in the 1880s and originally referred to buildings with around 10 to 20 stories—an impressive height for the time.

However, the idea of building vertically is much older than the steel-and-glass skyscrapers of modern cities might suggest. Long before the Industrial Revolution, some societies were already experimenting with forms of vertical urbanization as a response to limited space, territorial defense, or environmental adaptation.

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Barcelona is a city where architecture has long served as a laboratory of urban experimentation, each era leaving its mark on the city's fabric. From the dense streets of the Gothic Quarter to the ornate interiors of the Palau de la Música Catalana, the city expanded outward through Ildefons Cerdà's Eixample, a stage where Gaudí and his contemporaries challenged the rules of form, scale, and ornamentation. These experiments defined a local identity and culminated in the Sagrada Família, a vision that continues into the 21st century through the integration of advanced technology.

The city's twentieth-century transformation forged an architectural language with global influence. The principles of International Modernism are embodied in Mies van der Rohe's Barcelona Pavilion, while later developments—from Bofill's explorations in collective housing to the urban interventions of the 1992 Olympics—reshaped the skyline and the city's relationship to its waterfront. Subsequent contemporary projects continue to negotiate form, landscape, and urban scale, contributing to a layered and evolving city.

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In recent years, earthen construction has gained renewed attention in architecture. Materials such as adobe, rammed earth, and compressed earth blocks, once mainly associated with vernacular traditions, are increasingly being explored by contemporary architects. Rather than representing a simple return to the past, this renewed interest reflects a broader reconsideration of how architecture engages with materials, local resources, and environmental conditions.

For centuries, building with earth was part of everyday construction across many regions of the world. Techniques such as adobe, rammed earth, cob, and other soil-based systems developed gradually through adaptation to climate, available resources, and local construction practices. These methods responded directly to environmental conditions while shaping cultural ways of building. This knowledge circulated through collective practices rather than formal architectural education, allowing techniques to evolve through continuous experimentation.

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The 2026 Pritzker Price Award has been awarded this year to the Chilean architect of Croatian descent, Smiljan Radić Clarke. Born in Santiago, Chile, in 1965, his practice evokes a geography of extremes, shaped by the tectonic tension between the staggering weight of the Andes and the seismic instability of the territory. After graduating from the Pontifical Catholic University of Chile and pursuing further studies in aesthetics in Venice, Smiljan Radić Clarke established his base in Santiago. From there, he has developed one of the most singular visions in contemporary architecture. His work privileges the intensity of the moment through a fragile architecture. Within it, the building operates as a temporary and tactile refuge that places the spectator in a state of aesthetic uncertainty, oscillating between ancestral ruin and avant-garde artefact.

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Smiljan Radić Clarke, the 2026 Pritzker Prize winner, is a contemporary Chilean architect known for his experimental approach to design, with a practice that balances the elemental with the intimate, the monumental with the fragile. Over the course of more than three decades, Radić has developed an architecture that resists repetition and conventional stylistic categorization, favoring instead deeply site-specific, materially attuned, and culturally reflective interventions.

His work negotiates between permanence and impermanence, memory and imagination, creating buildings that are as much about human experience and emotion as they are about structure and form. Across residences, cultural institutions, and temporary installations, Radić's architecture foregrounds the interplay between context, materials, and the subtle gestures that shape how spaces are inhabited and perceived.

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Videos

Amid the rapid build-out of data centres and AI economies across the Greater Bay Area—and alongside the celebration of AI as a tool and "author," as featured in 2025 Hong Kong–Shenzhen Bi-City Biennale of Urbanism\Architecture (Hong Kong)—a parallel question becomes unavoidable: how do the planning and construction of AI infrastructure actually begin to shape everyday life? Many of the facilities already built remain intentionally distant from daily experience. The "cloud" may be marketed as immaterial, but its architecture is profoundly physical: high-power, high-heat, service-heavy environments that are often sited in remote or low-density areas to take advantage of lower land costs and to minimize friction with nearby communities. Security and risk management further reinforce this logic. Data centres hold sensitive, privileged information—corporate assets, legal records, government and institutional data—and remoteness becomes part of their operating model, keeping the infrastructures of AI both spatially and socially out of sight.

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Every city contains two transportation systems. One is the visible network of roads, rail lines, sidewalks, and bus routes mapped in planning documents. The other is the invisible geography of privilege and exclusion embedded within it: the neighborhoods that received highways instead of parks, the communities whose bus routes were cut, the sidewalks that abruptly end at the edge of a district. For many years, built-environment professionals have treated infrastructure as a technical challenge. Mobility justice insists it is, fundamentally, a political one.

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