The Unseen Labyrinth: How the Architecture of Severance Controls the Mind

A surreal architectural scene featuring a solitary building rising amidst an expansive maze-like structure, with an abstract, vertical design element extending into the sky, set against a cityscape backdrop.

Have you ever watched a show that made you feel deeply unsettled, yet you couldn’t pinpoint exactly why? It wasn’t the jump scares or the chaotic dystopian scenes. It was the space itself—the geometry, the colors, the relentless repetition. This is the subtle, masterful power of the Apple TV+ series, Severance. As an architectural designer, I couldn’t help but see the show through a unique lens, and what I discovered is an architectural language meticulously crafted to manipulate the human psyche, blur identity, and enforce a chilling form of corporate control.

The world of Lumon Industries is not just a backdrop; it is a character, a tool, and a cage. Its design is a deliberate study in environmental psychology, drawing on principles from brutalist architecture to the psychological effects of color and light. Let’s dissect the secret architecture that makes the world of Severance so profoundly disturbing.

The Office as a Labyrinth: A Space of Disorientation

The core of the show’s setting is the Lumon office—an intentionally sterile, maze-like space. Production designer Jeremy Hindle and his team didn't just design a set; they built a physical labyrinth. The office was constructed without ceilings, allowing the camera to follow the characters in an almost voyeuristic, top-down view, emphasizing their endless, repetitive journey through the white hallways.

This design is more than just a stylistic choice. The use of a labyrinth taps into deep-seated psychological symbolism. Historically, labyrinths have been used to represent a loss of control, a journey into the unknown, or a test of one’s resolve. In the context of a modern workplace, this disorienting circulation is a form of psychological pressure. Environmental design studies, such as those conducted at Cornell University, have shown that spatial disorientation in workplace environments can increase stress levels and diminish a person's sense of autonomy. By designing a space that feels endless and confusing, Lumon fosters a state of cognitive fatigue, making the "innies" more compliant and less likely to question their reality. The endless, identical hallways are a metaphor for their partitioned lives—a path with no clear beginning or end, only constant, monitored motion.

Brutalism Reborn: The Authoritarian Facade

While the interior is a maze, the exterior of Lumon Industries is a monument to corporate power. The show uses the iconic Bell Labs Holmdel Complex in New Jersey, a building designed by the Finnish-American architect Eero Saarinen. Saarinen was a master of corporate monumentality, and this building is a prime example of softened brutalism.

Brutalism, an architectural style that emerged in the mid-20th century, is known for its raw, unadorned concrete, imposing scale, and strong, symmetrical forms. Often associated with post-war government and institutional buildings, brutalism conveys a sense of permanence, control, and resilience. The style is meant to inspire awe but can easily morph into a feeling of oppression. By using a brutalist structure for Lumon, the show cleverly juxtaposes this sense of overwhelming, institutional power with the company’s seemingly benign, wellness-focused corporate message. The building’s language whispers a message that is anything but kind: you are a tiny, insignificant part of a grand and unyielding machine, something far bigger and more powerful than you can ever comprehend.

The Palette of Control: Color, Light, and Subliminal Messaging

Step inside Lumon, and you are met with a restricted and deliberate color palette. The interiors are dominated by institutional whites and a sickly, sterile green. This is not a mistake; it's a powerful tool of psychological manipulation. The white walls create a clinical, almost laboratory-like atmosphere, while the green—often associated with nature, growth, and tranquility—is stripped of its positive connotations. Instead, it evokes the sterile, dated green of 1960s government offices and outdated hospitals, creating a sense of intentional, coded nostalgia that lulls the inhabitants into a state of false comfort and complacency.

The lighting further compounds this effect. There is no natural daylight in the Lumon office, only harsh, relentless fluorescent light. This constant, artificial illumination prevents employees from establishing a natural circadian rhythm. Research from the Lighting Research Center has demonstrated that a lack of daylight can negatively affect mood, memory formation, and overall cognitive function. By keeping its workers perpetually disoriented and emotionally flat, Lumon ensures they are more pliable and less likely to form a sense of self outside of their work.

Spatial Dehumanization: Furniture and Scale Mismatch

The scale of the Lumon office is intentionally jarring. Characters navigate massive, open rooms where their small desks appear isolated and insignificant. This open-plan layout, instead of fostering collaboration, achieves the opposite effect: it increases feelings of isolation and depersonalization. The American Psychological Association has noted that spatial emptiness paired with isolation can increase these feelings, making individuals feel like their identity is being erased.

The furniture isn't designed for comfort or efficiency; it's part of the surveillance. These small desks aren't just workstations—they are like confessionals, each individual isolated in their own small, exposed world. The spatial emptiness is a weapon, amplifying the feeling of being watched and controlled at all times, turning surveillance into a tangible, physical experience.

Liminal Spaces: Elevators and the Partitioned Self

The elevator in Severance is more than just a means of transport; it is a profound liminal space. In architecture, a liminal space is a threshold—a transitional area that marks a passage from one state to another. In Severance, the elevator is the literal and metaphorical gateway between the "innie" and the "outie"—between the submissive, compartmentalized self and the autonomous, outside identity.

This quiet, controlled transition point is a powerful symbol of the show's central theme: the partitioned self. The elevator echoes French philosopher Michel Foucault’s concept of heterotopias—spaces that are "other," that contain layers of contradictory meaning and exist outside the normal flow of time and space. The Lumon elevator is a heterotopia of identity, a small, enclosed universe where one self is erased and another is born.

Architecture as Memory and Erasure

Ultimately, the architecture of Lumon Industries remembers what its inhabitants are forced to forget. The chilling "break room" is a physical embodiment of emotional punishment, a cold, sterile space designed for psychological reconditioning. The mysterious map that Helly discovers proves that the building's layout is deceitful, hiding its true scale and purpose from the workers trapped within it.

This weaponized architecture mirrors Jeremy Bentham’s concept of the Panopticon—a prison design where a single watchman can observe all inmates without them knowing if they are being watched at any given moment. The endless, identical halls of Lumon are its modern equivalent, a constant reminder that surveillance is ever-present, even when unseen.

Severance is a powerful reminder that architecture is never just a background. It is a narrative, a psychological tool, and a mechanism of control. As designers and architects, we hold a profound power: what we shape, shapes people. The show challenges us to consider the ethical implications of our work, urging us to design with awareness, empathy, and a deep sense of responsibility. Even when fiction goes dark, we can use these lessons to light the way forward, creating spaces that empower, not imprison.