Two weeks and over 85,000 nominations later, the finalists of this year's Building of the Year Awards are in. The selection is much like the ArchDaily audience that chose it: diverse in geography, generous in ideas, and precise in intent. With projects from 46 countries, in a variety of typologies and scales, they present a beautiful snapshot of the current architectural moment.
We invite you to sit back, browse, and vote for your ultimate favorites. Below, you will find all of the 75 finalists in their respective categories. Voting is open until February 18th at 18:00 EST. Thank you—your participation is key to making this the world's largest community-driven architecture award.
Perched above the cliffs of Crimea, the Druzhba Thermal Sanatorium appears less as a building than as a landed spacecraft. Its circular forms, suspended decks, and spiraling ramps evoke a scene from Andrei Tarkovsky's Solaris (1972), where architecture and psychology merge into a single landscape. Built between 1978 and 1985 by Igor Vasilevsky, the complex was conceived as a thermal resort for workers of the oil industry, part of the Soviet Union's extensive network of sanatoria dedicated to health and recreation.
Beyond its function as a place of recovery, Druzhba, meaning "friendship", embodied a broader political and aesthetic ambition. It sought to merge technological prowess with the restorative ideals of socialist modernity, translating collective well-being into concrete form. Rising from a steep coastal slope overlooking the Black Sea, its massive structure defies gravity, supported by a central concrete core from which radial wings extend like the blades of an enormous gear. Seen from a distance, it feels simultaneously mechanical and organic, a hybrid of infrastructure and landscape.
In the coastal and jungle regions of Costa Rica, high humidity and intense solar radiation dictate an architectural strategy centered on permeability rather than enclosure. Unlike the airtight envelopes required in cold climates to retain heat, Costa Rican architecture uses the building envelope as a climatic filter to maximize air exchange. The primary mechanism for managing these thermal gradients seems to be the oversized roof overhang. By extending the roof plane significantly beyond the floor plate, architects create a permanent buffer of deep shade that reduces solar gain and lowers the ambient temperature before air enters the structure. This strategy, combined with permeable or non-existent walls, allows for constant airflow. This is a critical technical requirement for humidity control and the prevention of material degradation through mold and rot.
What if industrial leftovers weren't waste, but the start of architectural design? At Rieder's headquarters in Maishofen, Austria, over 1,300 cubic meters of timber, 180 ceiling elements, and hundreds of upcycled glassfiber-reinforced concrete fragments come together in a building shaped as much by reuse as by planning. The new production hall, designed by Kessler² Architecture, treats material leftovers as a design resource. Developed as part of a long-term investment in sustainable manufacturing, the timber-concrete hybrid building introduces a facade technique that inverts conventional architectural workflows: instead of designing first and producing components afterward, the building envelope is generated from the material remnants already available on site establishing a new language for industrial architecture.
Preserving historic buildings requires simultaneously addressing technical, environmental, and regulatory demands while maintaining the material, cultural, and symbolic continuity of what already exists. As the understanding consolidates that the most sustainable building is the one that is already standing, and that preservation also involves construction knowledge, material traditions, and the social fabrics from which they emerged, these same buildings are increasingly confronted with more rigorous contemporary parameters. Energy efficiency, safety, carbon emission reduction, and regulatory compliance have become unavoidable references, placing architecture before a central tension: how to update what already exists without breaking the continuity that sustains its heritage value.
Educational architecture remains an exploratory ground for unbuilt exploration, offering insight into how learning environments can evolve alongside changing social, ecological, and pedagogical values. In this Unbuilt edition, submitted by the ArchDaily community, the selected projects bring together a range of proposals that examine schools, libraries, nurseries, and academic centers as spatial frameworks for care, knowledge, and collective growth. Rather than treating education as a fixed program housed within singular buildings, these projects approach learning spaces as adaptive environments shaped by landscape, climate, and human interaction.
Across varied geographies, from Mediterranean hillsides and Central European courtyards to tropical cities and distributed campus models, the proposals explore diverse architectural responses to contemporary education. They range from child-scaled kindergartens organized around trees and cloisters to libraries conceived as civic landscapes, biodiversity-centered academic buildings, and schools imagined as walkable urban systems.
Can architecture be built from food? Between the fire that warms, the smells that spread, and the bodies that gather around the table, the apparent banality of cooking and eating reveals itself as a choreographed dance of spatial appropriation and belonging. These gestures organize routines, produce bonds, and transform the built environment into lived place. The kitchen—domestic, communal, or urban—thus ceases to be merely a functional space and affirms itself as a territory of encounter.
Second Prize Winner + Buildner Student Award: Silent Equilibrium
Buildner is pleased to announce the results of its Architect's Chair Competition Edition 4, an annual international competition that invites architects and designers worldwide to submit designs for a signature chair. Following in the footsteps of iconic figures like Charles and Ray Eames, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, Marcel Breuer, and Arne Jacobsen, participants are tasked with creating custom chairs that reflect their unique design philosophies and visions.
Invenção da cor by Hélio Oiticica. Image via Carlos Reis Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0
Many of the spatial ideas we now associate with contemporary architecture, collective use, and bodily experience did not originate in buildings alone. In Latin America, these ideas were often explored first through art, at a moment when artists were actively questioning how space could be occupied, shared, and experienced beyond traditional forms.
During the mid-20th century, the region underwent rapid urbanization and profound social change. Architecture was increasingly expected to respond to public life, collectivity, and new ways of inhabiting space. At the same time, art offered a more flexible ground for experimentation, one less constrained by function, regulation, or permanence. As a result, many spatial questions were tested through artistic practices before becoming part of architectural thinking.
In the picture: F128 PA Black Ambiance Granite, U590 PM/TM Deep Blue, U705 PM/TM Angora Grey, U755 PM/TM Havanna Grey, H1708 ST17 Brighton Chestnut. Image Courtesy of EGGER
Designing an interior is, in many ways, an exercise in orchestration. Just as a conductor coordinates instruments, timbres, rhythms, and intensities to compose a coherent piece, the architect brings together materials, color, light, texture, and proportion to define the spatial quality and atmosphere of an environment. None of these decisions operates in isolation: the choice of a surface influences how light is reflected; a given material can shape how a room ages over time; color, in turn, directly affects the perception of scale.
Wood-based materials such as decorative particleboards, MDF boards or laminates can therefore be understood as more than simple finishes. Industrially produced, they combine decor selection, surface texture, and technical substrate, defining both their appearance and the way a space responds to use, light, and time. Factors such as dimensional stability, ease of maintenance, and resistance to wear become integral to design decisions, particularly in interiors subject to intensive use.
Cities around the world share a common goal: to become healthier and greener, supported by civic infrastructure that restores ecosystems and strengthens public life. The question is how to reach this. Global climate targets, local building codes, and municipal standards increasingly guide designers and planners toward better choices. Still, many cities struggle to translate these frameworks into everyday, street-level comfort and long-term ecological protection. What happens if the city is no longer treated as a traditional city, but as a national park?
National parks operate through systems of protection that treat land as a network of ecological relationships rather than a collection of isolated sites. They establish a shared baseline for what must be preserved, maintained, and made accessible over time. When this logic is applied to the urban environment, success can inspire pride and a sense of shared responsibility among designers, policymakers, and residents, fostering a collective commitment to health, habitat, and civic infrastructure.
Artist representation of Orion's lunar flyby. Image via NASA under license CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
It was July 1969, and people on planet Earth were about to witness a historical moment for humanity: the first time a human being stepped on the surface of the Moon aboard the Apollo 11 mission. After this event, NASA landed five more times on the lunar surface, with the last one being Apollo 17 in 1972. Since then, humans have not attempted to return to the Moon until this year, 2026, when they will launch the Orion spacecraft as part of the Artemis II Mission. Planned to set off between February and April 2026, Orion will not yet land people on the Moon, instead it will make a flyby, in order to allow testing of the software and systems. This will set the base for an actual human landing on the Moon's South Pole as part of Artemis III sometime between 2027 and 2028, eventually opening a brand new era in Extraterrestrial architectural design.
Shou Sugi Ban is a traditional Japanese technique for wood preservation that involves charring the surface of timber to create a protective layer. While its origins are rooted in practical durability, the method has been widely adapted into the modern built environment and shapes a unique and distinctive aesthetic. It is a material of contradiction: it remains bold in its visual language due to its dark tones, yet it simultaneously borrows from and complements its natural surroundings, allowing houses to settle quietly into their sites.
The charred finish among the 22 residences featured here across Canada and the United States serves as a common thread for navigating extreme climates. From humid lakefronts to dense forests, the carbonized skin acts as a resilient shield against diverse conditions. Beyond mere protection, these houses demonstrate how the material's texture changes with exposure to light, transforming from a flat matte in the shade to a silver-flecked, shimmering surface in direct sun. These projects also showcase the technique's ability to define architectural volumes, using the dark cladding to create sharp, monolithic silhouettes or to highlight the voids in a building's mass, such as recessed entryways and sheltered terraces.
What matters more: looking to the past or to the future? Recognizing established trajectories or fostering paths still under construction? Perhaps this is not a question with a single answer. Traditionally, architecture awards have operated as devices of consecration, recognizing completed works, established careers, and already tested solutions, most often through a retrospective lens. But what would happen if recognition ceased to be an end in itself and instead began to operate as a catalytic agent, investing less in what has already been done and more in what is still yet to unfold?
For decades, heritage has been easiest to recognize from the street. We protect facades, skylines, and monuments because they are visible, stable, and legible as cultural assets. Yet most of what we remember about living is how we eat together, withdraw, argue, care, and rest, which happen far from view. It happens inside rooms. As open plans quietly give way to thresholds, corridors, and enclosures, a deeper question emerges: what if cultural memory survives not in what architecture shows, but in how it is lived?
Coastal development in major cities has long been a terrain of opportunity and contention—shaped at once by the pursuit of capital (premium views, scarce land, and the promise of reclamation), by civic demands for public access and collective waterfront life, and by contemporary aspirations for sustainability and place-defining urban identity. Precisely because these agendas rarely align, extracting the full potential of waterfront sites is never straightforward.
Yet in New York City and Hong Kong, we can trace each city's ambitions—despite differing strategies, priorities, and political logics—through a set of keystone projects that anchor their coastlines. Read together, these projects reveal not only what each city chooses to value, but also what it is willing to trade off in order to build at the edge.
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Architectural heritage is often described as what survives time. Yet survival does not explain why certain buildings are preserved while others disappear. Many works now protected as cultural heritage were once criticized, contested, or openly rejected; they were accused of being socially misguided, materially flawed, or symbolically excessive. Over time, however, these same shortcomings have become central to their meaning as heritage emerges as a slow and unstable process of interpretation.
Contemporary architecture operates under intense scrutiny, pressured by environmental responsibility, social equity, economic volatility, and accelerated technological change. Buildings are expected to perform ethically, efficiently, and symbolically, often simultaneously. As a result, architectural failure is no longer an exception but an increasingly common condition. Projects age faster, materials reveal limitations sooner, and urban strategies quickly fall out of sync with shifting political, social, and environmental realities.
Situated along the historic Silk Road in Central Asia, Tashkent is a city with a long history spanning thousands of years. Its historic architecture is known for its courtyards, domes, and blue ceramics, typical of its Timurid heritage. The capital of Uzbekistan today, it was absorbed into the Russian Empire in the 19th century, before becoming a Soviet republic. While part of the Soviet Union, the city became an example of modernization, celebrating socialist achievements in Asia. A devastating earthquake in 1966 accelerated this modernization as the city was reconstructed, leading to many of the modernist monuments for which Tashkent is known today.
Suzhou Museum of Imperial Kiln Brick. Image Cortesía de Jiakun Architects
The Pritzker Prize is the most important award in the field of architecture, awarded to a living architect whose built work "has produced consistent and significant contributions to humanity through the art of architecture." The Prize rewards individuals, not offices, as happened in 2000 (when the jury selected Rem Koolhaas instead of his firm OMA) or in 2016 (with Alejandro Aravena selected instead of ELEMENTAL); however, the Prize can also be awarded to multiple individuals working together, as was the case in 2001 (Herzog & de Meuron), 2010 (Kazuyo Sejima and Ryue Nishizawa from SANAA), and 2017 (Rafael Aranda, Carme Pigem, and Ramon Vilalta from RCR Arquitectes).
"We know we are not born to die," often said Brazilian architect Paulo Mendes da Rocha. "We are born to continue." In architecture, this idea of continuity lies at the heart of heritage, not as a static inheritance, but as something that endures, transforms, and is constantly reinterpreted. Yet what continues, and what is allowed to disappear, is never neutral. Decisions about preservation are shaped by power, memory, and value, raising a fundamental question for contemporary practice: who defines what is worth carrying forward, and for whom?
"In various regions of the planet, nature imposes adverse conditions on the human body. In these places, designing a building is almost like creating a garment: an artifact that protects and offers comfort. This challenge requires technological performance that must be combined with aesthetics. Making human beings feel good involves more than just meeting notions of comfort and safety; it's also a question of working with spaces in their symbolic and perceptual dimensions." This is the beginning of the description for the design of the Brazilian Antarctic Station in Antarctica, by Estúdio 41, located on the Keller Peninsula, where the surrounding sea freezes for around six to seven months of the year, where everything and everyone arrives by plane or ship and the nearest hardware store is days away. If designing a building in normal circumstances already presents numerous complexities, it's not hard to imagine the additional challenges when developing something in an extreme environment, such as locations with very high or low temperatures, or in places susceptible to corrosion, radiation, and more. In this article, we will explore the difficulties, the main solutions and the materials used in these contexts.
"Feeling at home" is more than just an expression—it is the sense of warmth and comfort that transforms a space into a true refuge. To achieve this, elements like color, texture, lighting, and materials play a crucial role in shaping an environment that fosters relaxation and well-being. Backed by research in environmental psychology and neuroscience, the connection between physical spaces and human behavior highlights how architecture can directly influence the atmosphere, turning chaos into tranquility.
Across South America, environmental comfort is understood not as an interior condition, but as one shaped through space. In regions marked by heat, humidity, intense sunlight, and seasonal variation, architecture has long relied on spatial decisions to moderate climate and support daily life. Comfort emerges from how interiors are opened, shaded, ventilated, and inhabited over time.
Rather than isolating interior spaces from their surroundings, many contemporary projects across the region cultivate comfort through depth, porosity, and intermediate zones. Light is filtered rather than maximized, air is guided through aligned openings and voids, and thresholds become active spaces of use rather than residual edges. These strategies do not seek uniform environmental control, but produce interiors that remain temperate, adaptable, and closely attuned to changing climatic conditions. In this context, environmental comfort becomes inseparable from spatial experience.
