There is an interesting phenomenon happening in the field of architecture. As we progress further with new societal and economic structures, architecture progresses but in a different way; rather than trying to fit new concepts into more easily understandable bits, architects tend to further drift away from the intuitive reality and begin overcomplicating the language. Academic lectures, conference talks, and theoretical writings often produce more fog than light, leaving students, practitioners, and even architects themselves confused about what was actually said. This is what I call the phenomenon of overcomplicatism.

Occasionally I stumble upon lectures uploaded by renowned universities on YouTube about topics that at first glance seem very interesting: the promise of insight into urban regeneration, sustainability, or design philosophy. However, more often than not, watching these lectures doesn’t bring much except for confusion and vagueness. It happens a lot that I try to summarise what the speaker has been saying for the past 30 minutes and I realise that I actually have no clue what they’re talking about. The speaker has woven a patchwork of abstract terminology, borrowed philosophical references, and fragmented sentences, but without offering clear arguments or practical conclusions. After a few lectures I start noticing patterns. Certain language that repeats itself over and over again: tectonics, typology, discourse, morphology, liminality – all words that are used liberally, sometimes interchangeably, and often without explanation. The result is a form of academic gaslighting: the sense that if I cannot follow, the problem must be my lack of sophistication, rather than the speaker’s lack of clarity.

In the past that was not the case. Reading “Ten books on architecture” by Vitruvius is a very pleasant read that gives practical advice in a very straightforward manner. His goal was to equip builders and patrons with clear principles for proportion, structure, and utility. Centuries later, Palladio in The Four Books of Architecture wrote with similar directness, offering practical examples and logical reasoning. Even Le Corbusier’s “Toward an Architecture”, though radical in its ideas, communicates in simple, accessible language. New publications however are complex, covering topics that are hidden behind complex lexicon, alluring readers with buzzwords in their titles such as artificial intelligence, digital age, vernacular architecture, sustainability, and so on. The aforementioned authors, however, although separated by centuries, all share one quality: clarity. Their writings can be understood by both scholars and laypeople because the purpose was never to impress with intellectual jargon, but to teach, to argue, and to persuade.

So what changed? Why is much of contemporary architectural discourse wrapped in linguistic complexity?

One reason is the difference between the role of the architect today versus in the past. In Vitruvius’ time, the architect was simultaneously engineer, designer, and philosopher. Today, however, technical expertise is often delegated to engineers, contractors, and developers. To distinguish themselves, architects increasingly emphasize their intellectual and cultural authority. Abstract terminology and theoretical references serve as tools for elevating architecture above “mere building” and securing its identity as an important cultural discipline.

Another reason is academic culture itself. Since the mid-twentieth century, architectural theory has absorbed the language of philosophy, particularly poststructuralist and postmodern thought. Derrida, Foucault, and Deleuze became frequent references, and their famously dense style had a strong influence on architectural writing. In academia, sounding “theoretical” is often falsely confused with intelligence. Simplicity risks being dismissed as naïve or unsophisticated. Over time, this has produced a self-referential cycle: professors train students in jargon-heavy discourse, and those students keep using it when communicating with each other.

But beneath these structural explanations lies a psychological dimension. Overcomplicatism often signals professional insecurity. Because architecture lacks the hard certainties of engineering or the measurable outcomes of medicine, architects sometimes compensate with elaborate intellectual performance. And here is my problem with it – Architecture is not as sophisticated as architects try to make it seem. Using obscure terminology creates a protective shield that guards architects from their insecurities: if few people can understand you, then perhaps you must be profound. Yet in reality, this is often pseudo-intellectualism — the appearance of depth without the substance of clear ideas.

The irony is that clarity has historically been architecture’s greatest strength. When Vitruvius explained the principles of proportion, when Le Corbusier advocated for the house as a “machine for living,” when Alejandro Aravena speaks about incremental housing — the power of their words lies in their accessibility, not in their diction. Their ideas spread precisely because they were expressed plainly, allowing them to resonate beyond the walls of academia.

Don’t get me wrong, architecture is undeniably complex. It must balance function, aesthetics, social needs, environmental concerns, and economic constraints. But complexity of the subject does not justify complexity of language. On the contrary, the harder the problem, the more important clarity becomes. Trial and error, critical reflection, and collective learning only work when the issues are presented in a way that can be widely understood, not sugar coated with dozens French words that sound sophisticated. If architectural knowledge remains trapped in a maze of jargon, it risks becoming irrelevant — a discourse about architecture rather than architecture itself.

Overcomplicatism, then, is not just irritating; it is an obstacle to progress. If we want architecture to genuinely advance, its knowledge must circulate openly, in words that both practitioners and citizens can grasp. A society cannot build better cities if its architects cannot explain, in plain terms, what a better city means. I believe that the path forward may lie not in inventing new terminologies but in recovering an old virtue: clarity. Architects should not fear that plain language diminishes intellectual depth. On the contrary, clarity is the highest mark of intelligence. Vitruvius knew this. Palladio knew this. Le Corbusier knew this. And it remains just as true today.