Why Do Luxury Homes Keep Getting Bigger — Yet Feel Less Like Home?

I don't remember how big my grandmother's house was.

I don't remember what the walls were made of.

I couldn't tell you the ceiling height, the floor plan, or even how many rooms it had.

But I remember exactly how it felt.

There was a small front yard where my grandmother raised a few chickens beneath a pomegranate tree. In the summer, my cousins and I would chase each other through the yard, picking fruit long before it was ripe. My grandmother never seemed bothered. She would simply stand in the doorway, smiling as if she already knew these would become the memories we'd carry for the rest of our lives.

Behind the house was another courtyard.

It couldn't have been more than one hundred square feet.

There was no landscape design.

No expensive materials.

Just a wood bathtub, a few walls, and a quiet sense of privacy.

On summer afternoons, my grandmother would bathe us there.

We laughed loudly.

We splashed water everywhere.

We sang at the top of our lungs because, somehow, that little courtyard made us feel like the world couldn't see us.

Years later, I've walked through homes worth ten million dollars.

I've studied city and architecture.

I've become a real estate developer.

And yet, whenever someone asks me,

"What's the happiest home you've ever known?"

I still think of that tiny house.

For a long time, I thought I missed my grandmother.

Or the pomegranate tree.

Or childhood itself.

But I don't think that's the whole story anymore.

What I really miss...

was a space whose proportions felt exactly right.

A place that quietly held love.

A place that quietly held freedom.

The house was small.

But somehow, life inside it felt limitless.

Designing 6623 Residence has made me ask myself the same question over and over again:

How big does a home actually need to be?

Luxury homes continue to grow.

Higher ceilings.

Longer hallways.

More bedrooms.

More square footage.

Yet many families spend less time together than ever before.

Children disappear into their own rooms.

Parents retreat to home offices.

Everyone has space.

But fewer moments belong to each other.

And I wonder if we've mistaken size for generosity.

Because perhaps the most generous home isn't the one with the most rooms.

Perhaps it's the one that quietly keeps bringing people back together.

One word has become increasingly important to me over the years.

Not size.

Scale.

Scale isn't measured in feet or inches.

It's measured in how a space makes you feel.

Whether a child feels safe enough to run barefoot.

Whether a parent can cook dinner while watching their children play outside.

Whether conversations naturally last ten minutes longer because no one feels ready to leave the table.

The most comfortable homes are rarely the biggest.

They're simply...

just right.

Close enough to see one another.

Close enough to care for one another.

Close enough that love doesn't have to travel so far.

I've also noticed something children understand instinctively.

Adults admire finishes.

Children remember feelings.

They won't remember where the marble came from.

They'll remember the beam of sunlight that crossed the floor every afternoon.

The tree they tried to climb.

The path they ran barefoot.

The quiet corner where they felt safe enough to laugh without holding back.

Perhaps that's why childhood memories rarely begin with architecture.

They begin with how a place made us feel.

As we've designed 6623 Residence, we've found ourselves debating surprisingly ordinary things.

Should the kitchen be one step closer to the family room?

Can parents see the backyard without leaving the island?

Does the courtyard feel protective rather than performative?

These conversations rarely make headlines.

But I believe they quietly shape the life a family will live for decades.

Because luxury isn't measured by how much space you own.

It's measured by how much life that space makes possible.

"A home is not remembered for how large it was. It's remembered for how deeply it made us belong." 「一个家，最终不会因为它有多大而被记住，而会因为它曾让我们如此有归属感。」

I'd love to ask you something.

When you close your eyes and think about your childhood...

What is the first place that comes to mind?

Not the biggest room.

Not the most beautiful one.

Just the place where, somehow, you felt completely yourself.

I'd love to hear your story.