I never thought I’d find myself thinking about plants while staring at my laptop screen, but here we are. Last Wednesday, during a particularly mind-numbing virtual meeting, I caught myself gazing at my colleague’s background—a stunning wall of cascading philodendrons that made her tiny apartment corner look like a slice of tropical paradise. “Nice plants,” I mumbled, half embarrassed at breaking the flow of our budget discussion.
“They’re not real,” she laughed. “Just a digital background I found. But honestly?
I feel calmer using it.” That moment sparked something in me. As someone who’s spent years obsessing over how physical environments affect our wellbeing, I’ve been surprisingly slow to consider how these principles might extend to our digital workspaces—places where many of us now spend 8+ hours daily. The pandemic forced this massive migration to virtual work, and though many have returned to offices, our digital existence remains significantly expanded.
We’ve customized our physical home offices with proper chairs and decent lighting (well, some of us have—my neighbor still takes calls from his closet), but what about the actual interfaces we’re staring at all day? I’ve been thinking a lot about this digital-natural divide. When I renovated my apartment during those isolated pandemic months, I meticulously considered every tactile surface and light source.
I installed that somewhat temperamental hydroponic wall (my downstairs neighbors still bring it up at community meetings) and positioned my desk to capture morning light through east-facing windows. These changes transformed not just my space but my mental state. Yet my digital workspace remained a chaotic mess of utilitarian tabs, blinding white documents, and whatever default background Zoom decided I should have.
The disconnect was striking—I’d created this thoughtfully designed physical space only to spend most of my day staring at screens that ignored every principle of biophilic design I advocate for. For those unfamiliar with the concept (though if you’re reading this blog, you probably aren’t), biophilic design incorporates elements of nature into built environments to satisfy our innate need to connect with natural systems. It’s not just about aesthetics—it’s about recognizing that humans evolved in natural environments and continue to respond physiologically and psychologically to natural elements, patterns, and processes.
The research backing this is robust. Hospital patients recover faster when they can see trees from their windows. Office workers with views of nature report higher job satisfaction and lower stress.
Students in classrooms with natural light perform better on standardized tests. Our bodies know what our minds sometimes forget—we need nature. So what happens when so much of our environment becomes digital?
Can pixels on a screen deliver any of the benefits we get from actual exposure to natural elements? The initial research is promising, if limited. A 2021 study I’ve been obsessing over lately found that participants who used nature imagery as their computer wallpaper reported lower stress levels after completing difficult tasks compared to those using abstract or no wallpaper.
Another study showed that brief exposure to videos of natural environments between cognitive tasks improved attention restoration and performance on subsequent tasks. This isn’t entirely surprising. While nothing replaces direct experience with nature, research has long shown that even looking at photographs of natural scenes produces measurable physiological benefits—reduced blood pressure, lower heart rate, decreased stress hormones.
Our nervous systems respond to visual cues of nature even when we intellectually know they’re representations rather than the real thing. I decided to experiment on myself first (as usual—my friends joke that I’m my own perpetual guinea pig). I completely overhauled my digital workspace according to biophilic principles.
Here’s what I tried: First, the obvious: I replaced my solid color desktop wallpaper with carefully selected nature imagery. Not just any pretty landscape, mind you. I spent an embarrassing amount of time finding images with fractal patterns similar to those found in nature.
Fractals—those self-repeating patterns we see in fern fronds, tree branches, and river networks—have been shown to reduce stress by up to 60% (according to research from the University of Oregon). They engage our visual system in a way that’s simultaneously stimulating and relaxing. I also adjusted my screen’s color temperature to shift throughout the day, mimicking natural light cycles—cooler blue light in morning hours, gradually warming to softer amber tones as evening approaches.
This isn’t just comfortable; it helps maintain healthy circadian rhythms that office fluorescents and standard screens disrupt. For video meetings, I created several custom backgrounds using photographs I’d taken in places that hold personal significance—the Japanese maple outside my childhood home in Seattle, the community garden plot I worked during my Philadelphia years, the remarkable living wall at that Singapore hotel where I used to write for hours. Not generic stock images, but places connected to my actual lived experience.
I reorganized my digital files using nature-inspired organizational systems rather than rigid hierarchical folders. This might sound strange, but bear with me—I structured my project management systems to reflect natural growth patterns, with core projects “branching” into related tasks rather than existing in isolated lists. It’s made finding connections between projects more intuitive.
Even my notification sounds got an upgrade—replacing the anxiety-inducing pings and dings with subtle sounds recorded from natural environments. The gentle sound of water droplets now announces emails, while a distant bird call signals calendar reminders. The results?
Genuinely surprising. Within a week, I noticed I was experiencing less eye strain and fewer stress headaches. My afternoon energy slump became less pronounced.
Most noticeably, I found myself less resistant to opening my laptop in the morning—the prospect of engaging with my digital environment became less depleting. When I shared my experiments with my newsletter subscribers, the response was overwhelming. People began sending me screenshots of their own biophilic digital transformations and reporting similar benefits.
A middle school teacher in Minnesota adapted the principles for her virtual classroom, creating a “digital nature corner” where students could rest their eyes between activities. She reported improved focus and participation. Of course, these are anecdotes, not controlled studies.
But they align with what existing research suggests about our responses to natural elements and patterns. Beyond personal workspaces, I’ve become fascinated with how biophilic principles might be incorporated into broader digital interface design. What if productivity apps mimicked natural rhythms rather than pushing constant acceleration?
What if social media platforms incorporated restorative natural elements between the dopamine-driven content feeds? Some companies are already exploring this territory. Several video conferencing platforms now offer nature-based background options that change subtly throughout the meeting, creating a sense of gentle movement similar to what we’d experience in natural environments.
A meditation app I’ve been testing uses biomimicry in its interface design, with navigation elements that respond like plants bending in a breeze. The most innovative approaches don’t just slap nature pictures onto existing interfaces but rethink digital interaction through a biophilic lens. One project management tool I’ve been consulting on is experimenting with visualizing project progress as a growing garden rather than a linear progression bar—tasks appear as seeds, develop into sprouts as they progress, and bloom when completed.
Early user testing suggests this metaphor not only delights users but actually changes how they perceive their work progress, creating less anxiety around project timelines. Not all attempts succeed, mind you. I tried an experimental browser extension that replaced traditional tabbed browsing with a “forest” where each website was represented as a different species of tree.
It was visually gorgeous but completely impractical for actual work. I nearly missed a deadline when I couldn’t find my research “trees” among the “forest” of social media and shopping sites I’d opened. Some metaphors can be stretched too far!
The potential extends beyond just making digital environments more pleasant. For people with limited access to natural environments—due to location, mobility issues, or other constraints—thoughtfully designed digital nature experiences might provide genuine health benefits. They’ll never replace a walk in the woods, but they might help mitigate some of the physiological stress of extended screen time.
I’m particularly interested in applications for healthcare settings. Imagine a patient undergoing a lengthy treatment being able to immerse themselves in a responsive digital natural environment rather than staring at a sterile wall or television screen. Early research suggests such interventions could reduce anxiety and perceived pain during procedures.
As with any emerging field, there’s a risk of superficial implementation—slapping leaf wallpaper on a poorly designed interface doesn’t make it biophilic any more than installing a plastic plant makes an office a natural environment. Effective digital biophilia requires understanding both the physiological mechanisms behind nature’s benefits and the unique properties of digital environments. I’m currently collaborating with a small team of developers and environmental psychologists to create more rigorous guidelines for biophilic digital design.
We’re asking questions like: Which elements of nature translate most effectively to digital environments? How can natural patterns inform not just visual design but interaction models? Can digital tools actually help strengthen our connection to local natural environments rather than replacing them?
In the meantime, I encourage you to experiment in your own digital workspace. You don’t need special tools or technical knowledge to begin. Something as simple as changing your wallpaper to a favorite natural landscape or using a nature soundscape during focused work can make a difference.
The key is choosing elements that have personal significance rather than generic “nature” imagery. I’d love to hear what works for you. After my last newsletter, a reader wrote describing how she created a “digital windows” routine—taking three minute breaks every hour to watch high-definition nature videos filmed in real-time.
“It’s like having a window to somewhere else,” she wrote. “My office faces a parking lot, but for a few minutes each hour, I’m by a mountain stream.” Maybe that’s the best way to think about biophilic digital design—not as a replacement for actual nature connection, but as windows and bridges that help us maintain that connection within our increasingly digital lives. Our ancestors never evolved to stare at screens all day, but perhaps we can design those screens to better support the natural beings we still are.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go water my actual plants. For all my digital nature enthusiasm, I’ve killed three basil plants this month alone. Some things you just can’t simulate.
