Fear of heights and the desire for a helicopter view

Whenever I am interviewed in my role as Chief Government Architect, I’m asked a
variation of the same two questions:

Why did I become an architect?
And what made me take the step toward the position of Government Architect?

The truth is, I never wanted to become an architect. I wanted to be a helicopter pilot.
A combat helicopter pilot, to be more precise.
That dream ended rather abruptly: the selection process was simply too demanding.
In hindsight, perhaps for the best. I had to choose a new path. One that led
me, unexpectedly, towards architecture.
Ironically, it was a journalist who once pointed out to me that the work of a
Government Architect and that of a helicopter pilot may have more in common than
one might assume. Both require an elevated perspective, an ability to operate and
advise from a helicopter view.

And even more ironic? I must admit, I have a fear of heights.
And yet, I can’t seem to stay away from high places.

Recently, I visited Tirana, the capital of Albania. At the very heart of the city stands
the Pyramid of Tirana: a bold, uncompromising staircase, demanding to be
climbed. From the top, the entire city unfolds in a 360-degree panorama.
I would wish every city in the world such a perspective: one that offers clarity in
complexity, that allows us to see structure in chaos and perhaps most importantly,
that helps us connect the fragments.

I have a few favourite places I return to, viewing points that offer a unique
understanding of our living environment.

Or Centre Pompidou in Paris. The exhibitions are usually worth the visit, but the
rooftop never disappoints. The Parisian roofscape is one of the most captivating in
the world: people live there, work there, grow gardens on small balconies, power is
being generated.

Paris embraces the future, while its monuments—the Eiffel Tower, Sacré-Cœur,
Notre-Dame, and the 210-metre Montparnasse Tower—literally anchor its past.

And, there are many more places I love to go:

• The Mauritstower in The Hague, overlooking the 800-year-old
  Binnenhof—currently being transformed to future-proof our parliamentary
  democracy.
• The Rockefeller Center in New York, offering a view over the most
  capitalistic society one can imagine. It inspires, but also confronts us with
  inequality.
• The Forum building in Groningen, surveying the countryside — and the
  inspiring city-roofscape that has developed over the past centuries.

So yes, rooftops offer a helicopter view of society.
But today, they are much more than observation platforms. They have become
contested terrain in the search for scarce space in the city.

[Let’s take a step back]
A roof is, fundamentally, a protective surface—sheltering what lies beneath. But from
the mid-20th century onwards, new materials and technologies made the flat roof a
dominant typology. Water-tight layers made it multifunctional. Modernists saw the
roof not only as a logical necessity, but as an enabler of spatial efficiency.
Suddenly, the façade became a place of potential.
Rooftops now generate energy, they collect water, support biodiversity, carry
installations, reduce heat stress, became terraces, viewing platforms—or even new
development sites for additional housing.

Recently, I had the honour to attend a lecture by Chimamanda Adichie. Adichie is an
African writer and thinker. And she said:

“A city is the proof of a human dream.”

Cities are never finished. They invite us to build upon — literally and metaphorically.
Urban life depends on new functions, new networks, new narratives.

I believe rooftops have a crucial role to play in providing space for future needs.

Cities must grow. They must densify. And they must do so sustainably.

We’re adding new buildings in city-centers. We are topping up our existing building
with new extensions. We are increasingly reusing what already exists. This is not just
spatial logic—it is an ethical necessity.

So, where do we continue to build our cities? On the roof.

Increased population density ensures the viability of essential and vital services.
Dutch cities are nowhere near their tipping point when it comes to liveable density.
There is room for many more people.
But more people does not necessarily mean more housing—yet the current
demographic shift toward single-person households increases the housing demand
putting pressure on other urban functions.
Where rooftops once held solar panels, greenery, or terraces—they are now
competing with the demand for more living space. The individualised society is
literally colonising the skyline.
Still, building up is logical. The roof has shifted from financial liability to strategic
asset.

In future urban valuation, the value of the roof—as contributor to climate resilience,
biodiversity, social cohesion — may well rival that of the land beneath.

In my team, At the Atelier of the Chief Government Architect, we
increasingly focus on making better use of the existing building stock. Doing more
with what already is there. Rearranging, to retain more—together. Faster, more
flexible, less disruptive.
Rethinking the rooftop must start with rethinking our existing buildings.
Because by activating what already exists, we can rapidly unlock space for functions
our society urgently demands.
Of course, this approach comes with consequences.
The choices we make today will determine what our cities will look like for decades to
come.
Adding roof extensions, rooftop parks, or what have you are radical interventions in
our architectural culture raising the question is: are we ready for this?

We know what not to do. Rotterdam’s urban renewal projects in the 1980s offer
cautionary tales. We need new examples—ones that inspire and persuade both
policymakers and designers.

And these examples exist around us.

• The Blue House project by MVRDV in Rotterdam
• Pakhuis Meesteren by AWG Architects in Rotterdam
• And Het Raam by Urban Climate Architects in Groningen
  These examples show us how to add value—sometimes with surgical precision,
  sometimes with bold gestures—through rooftop transformation.

Let me conclude.
We are in need of an architecture of permanent transformation. An architecture
that does not freeze in copyright blueprints—but allows adaptation and accepts
change.
This doesn’t mean unchecked experimentation.
It requires professional restraint. Not everything, everywhere, all at once. Not
every rooftop is suitable for bold additions.
Still, despite that restraint, there is a whole world to gain.

Even here in the Netherlands, in the centre of The Hague, the city I spend most of my
time now, you find many examples of the huge potential of roofspace — and: we are
reminded of what is at stake.

Rooftops are no longer passive surfaces. They are vital social infrastructure for a
society in transition.
It is up to us to handle this responsibility with care, with craftsmanship, and with
courage.
The helicopter offers perspective—but it must also land.
And so do architects and urban planners. We move between vision and execution,
between imagination and professional precision.
Rooftops confront us with both:
They invite us to think big—to take that helicopter view.
But they also demand down-to-earth solutions, built on expertise.
Perhaps that’s the true fear of heights:
The tension between ambition and responsibility.

But we must not shy away from that.

Because precisely in the space between imagination and craftsmanship — there lies
the future of our cities.

There is a world to gain.