Shaping Spaces for Children

Aldo van Eyck and Lina Bo Bardi were two subversive figures. Their visions of collectivity and playfulness—though applied to very different kinds of structures—shared a common ground: an idea of architecture that goes beyond design. For both, architecture was a living space, animated by appropriation, movement, and exchange. From Dutch playgrounds to thw São Paulo Museum of Art, their ideals intertwined, reinforcing the notion of an architecture where anyone could become a child again.

What if the best kind of play isn't the safest? For decades, cities have built playgrounds to be clean, colorful, and easy to supervise. Yet these spaces—designed more for adult peace of mind than for children's curiosity—often strip away what makes play truly transformative: risk, unpredictability, and self-direction. Rising safety standards, shrinking public space, and the commercialization of play equipment have only further narrowed the possibilities for children's independent exploration. From a junkyard in 1940s Copenhagen to the concrete landscapes of postwar Amsterdam, a handful of architects, planners, and activists have challenged the idea that play must be neat and controlled. Their unconventional playgrounds—made of loose parts, raw materials, and abstract forms—gave children the freedom to build, demolish, explore, and get dirty.

Kindergarten architecture has long stood apart as a realm where design and imagination converge. Unlike most building typologies, these spaces are conceived not only to shelter and function but to shape the earliest experiences of curiosity, play, and social interaction. Throughout history, the design of kindergartens has evolved alongside pedagogical shifts, moving from modest, utilitarian beginnings to highly intentional environments that stimulate both learning and wonder. In this context, architecture becomes more than a backdrop — it becomes a silent educator, capable of nurturing emotional, cognitive, and physical development.

Children encounter space differently from adults. For them, the world is not yet rationalized into function and circulation but is experienced through emotion and curiosity. Where adults may navigate rooms through habit, children inhabit them through immediacy. A patch of sunlight becomes an event. The curve of a hallway invites wandering. The sound of footsteps on wood or the softness of fabric beneath fingertips is not background but information. What adults may dismiss as peripheral moments quietly mediates their sense of safety, autonomy, belonging, and possibility. Architecture is an opportunity for pedagogy to become physical.

How do nature and landscape dialogue within spaces designed for children? How are architecture and urban design capable of shaping natural atmospheres that integrate practices of play, participation, and exploration? From participatory projects that involve children in the design process to built environments that incorporate furniture adapted to their needs, the conception of spaces for childhood entails the creation of places for encounter, learning, and coexistence. At times, these spaces are able to strengthen the relationships between interiors and exteriors, connecting their users with nature and the surrounding environment. Depending on their cultures, customs, and histories of attachment to place, several contemporary projects deploy tools and strategies that integrate architecture, nature, and pedagogy to form broad experiences of learning, play, and discovery.

In contemporary Japanese and Chinese kindergarten design, architects are transforming the interior spaces from a simple container into an active, multi-sensory environment. This shift seems to follow Studies in developmental psychology that suggest that a child's experience of space begins with a sensorimotor engagement through touch and manipulation. Thus, they place a strong emphasis on the use of materials and the approach of learning through play. Architects seem to be moving beyond traditional classrooms, into environments that are tactile, stimulating, and rooted in their specific contexts. The buildings themselves become tools for education, encouraging children to learn and explore through direct physical engagement.

In South American Indigenous communities, a child’s place is wherever they choose to be. Babies crawl on the earthen floor, approach the fire, investigate anthills, and experience the world with their whole bodies. They learn by feeling: discovering limits, recognizing dangers, and gathering lessons no manual could ever teach. In urban contexts, by contrast, children are often confined to spaces designed for adults, filled with rules that—though well-intentioned—tend to distance them from essential experiences. Rather than judging which model is “better,” what matters is recognizing that when cultures observe one another, there is always room for learning.

Play extends beyond its recreational dimension, unfolding as a social act that encourages children to learn, interact, be creative, and engage with their spatial context. As Johan Huizinga notes in Homo Ludens, it is a fundamental element of culture, where kids form bonds and explore ways of coexisting. When the architecture of play spaces excludes certain bodies or modes of participation, the collective experience becomes fragmented and loses part of its meaning. Designing with inclusion in mind, therefore, means recognizing that the actual value of play lies in its potential to be shared by everyone.

By Jeanette Fich Jespersen, MA, Head of the KOMPAN Play Institute, Head of the steering committee of the World Playground Research Institute, University of Southern Denmark, Vice-president of International Play Association, Denmark.

Urban playgrounds are evolving from simple swing sets and slides into dynamic, multi-faceted urban landscapes. These new designs are more than just places to play; they are thoughtfully integrated spaces that address urban challenges, promote community, and inspire creativity. A key trend is the intentional use of color and pattern. Designers are utilizing vibrant color zones to segment different functional areas, creating a visually dynamic experience that contrasts with natural surroundings. This approach can also be used to establish a cohesive urban identity, with thoughtful color palettes that complement the existing cityscape.

Playgrounds are spatial instruments through which society projects its expectations on childhood, testing the boundaries between control and autonomy, exposure and protection. They regulate how children relate to space, to others, and their bodies — encoding, often invisibly, social norms, fears, and aspirations. In this sense, playgrounds are not peripheral spaces of leisure; they are political constructs shaped by specific ideologies about what childhood is and how it should unfold. Since 1989, the right to play has been formally recognised in the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child, affirming that play is a fundamental part of human development. To design a playground is not only to draw lines on a plan or to install equipment in a park; it is to define the conditions under which play is permitted, imagined, or constrained.

When it comes to designing for a child's imagination, the architectural landscape presents two different philosophies. Disneyland and Studio Ghibli, both masters of imaginative storytelling, represent this core division. Their approaches, far from being accidental, reflect different views on how children experience and engage with space. One provides a spectacle of constructed fantasy, while the other offers a landscape for potential magic. These two models present architects with a fundamental choice for tackling these sorts of projects: to design spaces that cater to children's innate need for sensory and personal discovery, or to create a fantasy that appeals to their growing ability to understand narratives and more complex spaces.

Historically, the concept of childhood as we know it today simply didn't exist and, until the Middle Ages, children were viewed as miniature adults. According to historian Philippe Ariès, it was only from the 17th century onward that childhood began to be understood as a distinct stage of development, requiring specific care, education, and protection. However, this evolving recognition has not been consistently reflected in the design and organization of urban space.

A good design should be adapted to the user's needs, and participatory design aims to reduce the distance between architects and those for whom the project is made. In this sense, projects for children that welcome them as central actors in the design process demonstrate how the potential of active listening and co-designing is reflected in spaces adapted to a smaller scale and to an audience in a phase of intense learning.

When we think about cities and urban life, we often focus on infrastructure, culture, commerce, nightlife, and density. In metropolises where there seems to be an endless array of activities—especially for adults—play rarely enters the conversation. Yet, the act of playing should be considered a vital part of urban life. Play directly influences how we shape our future cities—starting with how children engage with their environments. The experience of play, and more specifically, the design and presence of playgrounds, leaves lasting impressions on how young people grow up in cities. These spaces form a child's first, physical connection to the urban landscape. In this way, play deserves far more attention in conversations around urban wellness, livability, and the design of public space.