Between Designing and Daydreaming: A Hospitality Architect’s Inner Journey

I’m never sure whether I spend more time designing resorts - or daydreaming about inhabiting them. But perhaps that’s the essence of hospitality design: it demands not only technical precision, but also the ability to slip fully into the imagined guest experience.

LUXURIA MALDIVES PAVILLION

When I sketch a lobby, I don’t just see floor plans and ceiling heights. I imagine stepping barefoot into that space after a long flight, greeted by an ocean breeze funneled through open arches. I listen for the rustle of palm leaves and the distant laughter from a poolside cabana. My pencil only pauses once the scene feels alive.

Every material choice becomes a tactile memory. I run my fingers across the imagined grain of reclaimed timber beams, feel the cool touch of terrazzo beneath my feet, and trace the weave of hand-loomed fabric draped over lounge chairs. These aren’t just specifications - they are emotional anchors, designed to stir delight in the people who will one day inhabit the space.

In my mind, I am already a guest at the resort I am designing. I sip coffee as morning light filters through carved latticework. I wander along pathways that bend naturally with the land, watching shadows shift across textured stone walls. At night, I retreat to a villa where the rhythm of the waves becomes part of the architecture itself - nature and design converging into one seamless experience.

RITZ CARLTON, FIJI STANDARD VILLA

When I picture a guestroom, I don’t only see proportions or finishes. I imagine the guest slipping inside for the first time, kicking off their shoes, running a hand along a textured wall, and collapsing into a bed that seems to swallow them whole.

One of my mentors once told me:

“If you want to design a hotel room, you must understand how a couple uses a bed.”

ANANTARA RESIDENCE SKETCH

He wasn’t talking about sleep. He meant the bed as a stage for desire, intimacy, and romance. But it doesn’t stop there. The chaise lounge draped in afternoon light, the ottoman turned impromptu perch, the edge of the bed where one sits to be undressed - all of these elements become part of the choreography. Then there’s the oversized bathtub built for two, the couples’ shower where water and bodies collide. Every detail is a secret acknowledgment that these spaces are not only for rest, but for pleasure.

So when I design, I play out the story in my head. I see the couple stealing kisses on the balcony as the ocean swells beneath them. I hear laughter spilling from the shower. I imagine the tangled sheets of a bed that has known passion. These aren’t idle fantasies - they are experiences we are entrusted to shape.

That’s why I live the spaces I create long before they exist. I imagine how fabric feels against bare skin, how marble cools beneath a hand, how late-afternoon light turns a room to amber. To design hospitality is to dream indulgence, intimacy, and escape into reality.

This blurred line between designing and daydreaming isn’t indulgence - it’s necessity. To create authentic hospitality, I must first live it in my imagination. I become both architect and storyteller, weaving narratives that guests will one day step into and make their own. And perhaps that’s why I chose this profession. Not for the blueprints, nor the deadlines, but for the chance to build places that feel like dreams - dreams I have already walked through a thousand times before the first stone is ever laid.