Storytelling is more than a way to present ideas. It is how I work. It is how I observe space, frame technical problems, and translate layered human needs into drawings that get built. Whether I am working on a civic project, a phased school renovation, or a tower conversion, I begin with the same central question: How do we create architecture that tells people they belong? And in my day‑to‑day practice, software is not an afterthought. It is the toolkit that lets me turn that question into a sequence of legible decisions.
I grew up in India and Singapore, where dense streets, improvised extensions, and homes that blurred into markets taught me that belonging is messy and negotiated. Later, at school and early jobs in Los Angeles, I encountered spatial narratives that were highly controlled, with zones, setbacks and legibility. I started to recognize how a drawing could encode exclusion or comfort. Those experiences shaped my sensibility, but they were still largely intuitive. It was only when I joined CetraRuddy in New York, immersed in projects that demand real‑time coordination and code compliance, that I realized technology could make that intuition actionable. Storytelling doesn’t end with a concept sketch; it unfolds in section cuts, duct routing and reflected ceiling plans. These are the quiet details most people will never see, yet everyone feels when they are wrong.
On any given day, my tools change depending on what the story needs. Early in design, I sketch or build loose massing in Rhino and D5 Render to test light, proportion and adjacency. These quick studies let us decide if a lobby can handle resident flow, fire egress, and acoustic performance while still establishing an identity. For example, we used Rhino to organize the cafeteria and entry sequence, then moved into D5 to test how backlit wood panels near a beverage station would read under different daylight conditions. The renders were not marketing assets; they were problem‑solving diagrams. They helped us unravel complexity layer by layer and make simultaneous decisions about layout, finishes and systems before locking into construction documents.
When the design solidifies, I shift to Revit. There, models become shared databases, not just 3D geometry. For one school’s electrical upgrade, we had to locate a new switchgear room in a mechanical mezzanine while feeding older risers that serve the upper floors. The drawings became a visual script for engineers, contractors, and building management. The clarity of the model, which shows what is new, what stays, and how feeders route, was as important as the technical accuracy. Without the software, the story of that phasing would have been impossible to communicate.
On a recent office‑to‑residential conversion, the lobby needed to balance open gathering with quiet seating zones and unobstructed circulation. I began with plan sketches to explore different furniture clusters. Then I imported those arrangements into a 3D model and used D5 Render to test how subtle shifts affected sightlines and movement. A bench moved four inches changed the way people paused or passed by. Once we landed on a layout, I transitioned to Revit, where I coordinated the bench anchorage with floor slab thickness, integrated power for devices, and checked clearances against sprinkler heads. Here technology acted as a bridge between an intuitive story about hospitality and a technical sequence of connections and clearances.
On the school library floors, we designed millwork that had to meet ergonomic heights for younger students while providing room for supply ducts behind. I created parametric cabinet families in Revit with adjustable heights, depths and divider spacing. We aligned them to window mullions and tweaked divisions based on how children would actually use the storage, not just ideal dimensions. Coordination happened in the cloud model with the mechanical engineer, who adjusted duct sizes as my cabinetry flexed. The story, meaning the desire for comfortable and intuitive storage, was carried through hundreds of parameters and clash checks.
In the main lobby, pendant lighting was another narrative layer. To align the rhythm of fixtures with floor patterns and sightlines, I overlaid reflected ceiling plans with ductwork, sprinkler mains, and conduit. We identified which beams could support the weight and adjusted heights so that fixtures did not conflict with supply air diffusers. These decisions were made in markup PDFs, site visits, and BIM coordination calls. They are the invisible threads of the story: decisions that make a space feel cohesive without drawing attention to themselves.
When we designed custom terrazzo tiles for a lobby floor, I worked with the manufacturer to adjust aggregate colour, chip size and layout. Using Photoshop overlays and D5 Render tests, I compared how different mixes looked under warm pendant lighting and cooler daylight. It was less about choosing a “pretty” tile and more about calibrating tone, brightness, and texture to match the emotional atmosphere we wanted. Once selected, the tile pattern was drawn to scale in Revit so that the layout tied into building grids and control joints. It is another example of software translating a sensory story into an executable detail.
Most of my days are spent inside those models, coordinating a new riser shaft, adjusting a beam seat when field measurements reveal a slab dip, or revising casework dimensions after a change in mechanical equipment. I model to think, not just to document. There is no room for vagueness when a steel column is off center or a ceiling drops an inch. Visualization tools allow me to test fixes quickly, explain them clearly, and understand their implications before they are built.
I have been exploring real‑time engines such as Unreal to prototype material transitions and spatial rhythms before we commit them to CDs. In fact, I used Unreal extensively during graduate school to create a short film that experimented with light, texture, and movement. That experience taught me that these engines are not just presentation tools; they are design tools. They let us feel how a hallway changes when the floor finish shifts, or simulate the impact of a subtle ceiling drop on movement. By integrating them into my process, the feedback loop between intent and reality tightens, making invisible decisions legible early
Here are some additional images that can help to demonstrate the effectiveness of software for story-telling.
Software for storytelling means resolving the technical and the emotional. It means ensuring lighting supports rhythm, mechanical zones preserve spatial quality, and millwork reflects memory as much as use. Good design is often invisible until it is missing. My goal is to keep that invisibility intentional, built on the craft of details and carried from the first sketch to the last punch list item, and to use technology as the language that makes that craft readable to everyone involved.
Nethraa Kumar is an architectural designer at CetraRuddy, a global architecture, planning, and interior design firm based in New York City. A rising practitioner who grew up in Singapore and India, she earned her Master of Science in Architecture and Urban Design from UCLA. Her work sits at the intersection of storytelling and technology, where she explores innovative ways to translate ideas into built form and immersive experiences. Kumar’s career has evolved across diverse cultural and urban contexts, from early work in India to formative roles in Los Angeles and her current practice in New York. Along the way, she has contributed to projects ranging from bespoke residences and custom product design to institutional renovations and large-scale multifamily housing. She has also expanded her design toolkit through the use of VR and AR, digital media, and fabrication techniques, applying them as vehicles for both communication and innovation. At CetraRuddy, she is part of project teams shaping major multifamily and educational buildings, where she brings together her international perspective and her interest in technology-driven storytelling to address the challenges of complex, real-world design.
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