PROGRESS REPORT

ISSUE #151

High on Creative Responsibility

Last year, I took a small dose of magic truffles in Amsterdam (totally legal, by the way) and wandered, letting the city tickle my soul like a 4D experience. Somewhere along this psychedelic stroll, it hit me: the classic and renaissance architecture made me feel nourished and inspired, whereas the bland, post-war rijtjeshuizen (row houses) made me feel muted. There was a meaningful difference in experience—but why?

I'm far from the first to notice this. As German philosopher Martin Heidegger observed in “Building, Dwelling, Thinking,” what we build shapes human experience. English polymath John Ruskin made a similar case, arguing that care and beauty in creation are moral acts—and that neglect or purely functional design erodes the spirit. Every choice, every detail matters.

I’ve started to call this “Creative Responsibility”—the weight we carry as makers for how others inhabit the world. It’s as relevant with brands and products as it is in architecture. While we can't literally inhabit our work—or observe others do so—the experiences we create embed themselves in daily life and the psyche in similar ways. As strategists and designers, the brands we define and the products we bring to life shape culture for better or worse—elevating people or bringing them down.

The question now is “how.” How do we employ Creative Responsibility well? How do we feel it so viscerally that it threads through all of our work? I have some thoughts—all courtesy of one very illuminating afternoon in Amsterdam.

Build things that speak to the spirit…

The day began in De Oude Kerk, the city’s oldest building. The Gothic arches, time-worn gravestones, and stained-glass windows weren’t just objects from a time past; they were highly intentional constructions, crafted to induce thoughts and conversations stretching across centuries. Historian Nikolaus Pevsner once observed that Gothic architecture “elevates the spirit” precisely because it is crafted for human wonder, not merely shelter. As the psilocybin and the architecture put on a show, I understood what he meant: the building was alive, and I was part of it.

The thoughts it left me with:

• Could I name one thing I've built that someone still thinks about?

• What's the last brand or product that made me feel something—and why can't I name one easily?

Build things that are functionally beautiful…

From there, I drifted along the Herengracht to De Gouden Bocht, where canal houses built by the former Dutch East India Company magnates line the water like jewels. Every detail erupted in vivid color: the subtle asymmetry of a cornice, the texture of glazed-over brick, the delicate gevelstenen (facade stones) that listed the professions of residents long ago—their details steeped in civic pride and personal identity. As architectural historian Carol Strickland outlines in “The Annotated Arch,” architectural styles often reflect broader cultural values and priorities. This suggests that buildings can embody both utility and civic expression—and demonstrates that functionality and beauty were never mutually exclusive. This architecture told stories. It invited me to imagine the lives of its original inhabitants, their triumphs and anxieties crystallized in brick and stone.

The thoughts it left me with:

• Should beauty itself be considered an essential function of our work?

• Have I ever fought for beauty in a room that was optimizing for something else?

• Can I name a brand that makes function feel like a pleasure, not just a feature?

Because what we build, builds us.

Now it was time to head back to my apartment. I was peckish, you see, and I didn't want to alarm a waiter with pupils the size of dishplates. On the tram home, the contrast landed like a hammer. As I rattled through post‑war neighborhoods of mass‑produced rijtjeshuizen, the eclectic energy of the city center dissolved. Concrete, brick, and repetitive rows replaced detail and storytelling. Suddenly, the city felt flat, almost nameless. It was numbing, a kind of emotional atrophy. Architect and theorist Christopher Alexander argues in “The Timeless Way of Building” that when architecture prioritizes efficiency-based repetition over human-centered living patterns, it produces spaces that feel cold, impersonal, and disconnected from the people who inhabit them. The result is an erosion of identity and lack of belonging. Over time, indifference sets in—compounding quietly until there is less care, less pride, less meaning in how people show up.

The thoughts it left me with:

• Where is our industry actively cultivating indifference—and am I part of it?

• When did I last audit my work for what it takes away, not just what it delivers?

These questions have lived beyond this one memorable day—I’ve started to revisit them as I set out on new projects. Because Creative Responsibility is too important to be relegated to special moments; it needs to be embedded in how we work. Not just for ourselves or our clients—but for every person who engages with what we create. That's worth obsessing over.

About the writer

Rory is a senior strategist at SYLVAIN, based out of Amsterdam. As a third culture expat, born and raised in Dubai with the good fortune of traveling all over the world, he has developed a well-rounded perspective on culture. He is deeply drawn to macroeconomics, geopolitics, history, and theology—especially where they intersect and reveal the forces shaping societies. Outside of work, Rory is a self-proclaimed gym junkie; miss a session and you'll probably notice the squishy crease on his forehead.

About Progress Report

Progress Report is a bi-weekly newsletter of business considerations, cultural conversations, and fun recommendations from around the world and web.