Why Does Everything Have to Be Special?

I'm not a devotee of simplicity. I enjoy a good tasting menu. I can prefer a large-scale concert production to an intimate stage. I appreciate things that are thoughtfully conceived, carefully executed, and made with real attention to detail.

So my issue isn't with things being special.

Quite the opposite. It's with the difference between something that is genuinely special and something with nothing particularly special about it that has simply been packaged to look that way.

Lately, I've been thinking about that distinction more often.

A meal is no longer just a meal; it's an "experience." A concert isn't simply a concert; it's "immersive." A hotel isn't merely good; it's "exclusive." Even a sunset, as if it were somehow insufficient on its own, can now arrive layered with lights, music, production, and privileged access.

I like things that are special. But when everything is special, how do we recognize what truly is?

When Even the Extraordinary Isn't Enough

Look at Space on Stage × Shiraz House, taking place in Cappadocia this weekend, and the question becomes even more interesting.

Cappadocia is already extraordinary in its own right: sunrise, hot-air balloons, rock formations, sky, landscape.

Then come electronic music, mapping, lasers, drone choreography, a "premium audiovisual journey," and multiple tiers of access.

Is there anything wrong with that?

I don't know. It may genuinely be unforgettable.

But it does make me wonder:

If even the extraordinary needs to be made more special, where exactly have we set the bar?

DATALAND in Los Angeles takes the question somewhere else.

At the museum founded by Refik Anadol and Efsun Erkılıç, visitors' movements, heartbeats, and physiological responses can become part of the artwork itself. Here, technology isn't simply decoration. It can become a layer that actually transforms the work.

And that distinction matters.

"Excess" and "a layer that adds value" are not the same thing.

Perhaps the issue isn't how much we add to something.

Perhaps it's what those additions actually do.

Sometimes More Really Is More

Something similar is happening in gastronomy.

In the United States, restaurants are experimenting with dessert-only tasting menus of five, eight, even ten courses. Dessert is no longer simply what arrives at the end of dinner. It can become the entire narrative of the evening.

I'm not dismissing this.

I like tasting menus. I enjoy seeing a good chef build an idea through a sequence of dishes, techniques, ingredients, and textures.

Which is precisely why the answer cannot be as simple as "less is better."

Because sometimes more really is better.

A major production can elevate music. A great tasting menu can make you see an ingredient in a way you never have before. Technology can give art an entirely new language. Craftsmanship, detail, and effort can genuinely make something special.

But sometimes all those layers are trying to substitute for value that simply isn't there.

That's when the word "special" starts to feel a little tired.

Simplicity Is Not About Taking Things Away

I smiled when I saw the title of Yotam Ottolenghi's new book this week: Simple Too.

One of the world's best-known chefs, after countless techniques, ingredients, recipes, restaurants, and culinary ideas, is once again returning to the word simple. The new book focuses on food that is quick, practical, and possible to make at home.

That doesn't mean simple is always better.

I think it reminds us of something else:

Something well made doesn't necessarily have to look complicated to prove that it is good.

In fact, simplicity can sometimes be more unforgiving.

The fewer places there are to hide on a plate, the more visible the quality of the ingredients, the technique, and the balance become.

A white shirt is a little like that.

It doesn't say much. But if the fabric is right, the cut is right, the collar is right, the pressing is right, and it sits properly on you, it doesn't need much else.

And if it isn't right, putting a logo on it won't save it.

Perhaps that is what I mean when I say "simple is best": not stripping things down for the sake of it, but removing what isn't necessary.

Sometimes Nothing Needs to Be Added

In art, Jasper Johns has been opening the same door from another direction for decades.

The exhibition All Familiar Things at the Columbia Museum of Art brings together his work with flags, numbers, targets, and other symbols we all recognize. As the museum notes, Johns has spoken about familiar things opening into "strange worlds."

I like that idea.

Because nothing grand is being added to the object.

What changes is the way we look at it.

Perhaps we don't always need to alter something to make it special.

Perhaps we just need to pay closer attention.

A Financial Times collection on memorable summer meals published this week makes a similar point in an entirely different way.

Some of the meals people remember are surprisingly uncomplicated: fresh seafood by the water, a good hamburger, an improvised meal with a fisherman, flavors carried by salt and smoke.

What they share isn't simply that they are "simple."

They stay in memory not as demonstrations of technique, but together with place, people, time, and feeling.

Perhaps that is one of the defining qualities of something truly special: it doesn't need to call itself special.

Neither Too Little Nor Too Much

Sometimes it is enough for something simply to be good.

A good meal.

A good concert.

A good hotel.

A well-made white shirt.

A good conversation.

None of these things becomes worthless simply because it is ordinary.

We are the ones who have turned "ordinary" into an insult.

We easily diminish what is familiar, everyday, or repeated. Then, in order to restore its value, we begin layering new adjectives on top of it.

Perhaps the problem isn't that we like things that are special.

Perhaps the problem is that we are asking less and less often whether something is actually special or merely packaged that way.

I'll still go to a good tasting menu. I'll still enjoy a large-scale concert production. I have no intention of giving up things that are beautifully conceived, carefully made, and genuinely worth the effort that went into them.

But I find myself looking for something else more often:

Let something be exactly as much as it needs to be.
Neither too little nor too much.

And perhaps, sometimes, knowing when not to add anything at all is part of the craft.

Editorial Note & Rights Statement

This essay is an original AGORA piece based on Orkun Akçasarı's personal observations, reflections, and cultural commentary. People, organizations, events, works, and brands mentioned in the essay are referenced solely for purposes of commentary, cultural analysis, and factual context. Their inclusion does not imply sponsorship, representation, endorsement, or any official relationship.

The narrative structure, selection and sequencing of subjects, connections between sections, commentary, original expressions, title, and presentation are the intellectual work of Orkun Akçasarı. Except for brief quotations permitted by applicable law, this work may not be reproduced, republished, adapted, translated, narrated, or used commercially without permission.

Sources were checked against information available as of August 22, 2026. Material factual errors supported by reliable sources will be corrected transparently.

© 2026 Orkun Akçasarı. All rights reserved.

Sources

• Shiraz House — Space on Stage X Shiraz House @ Cappadocia, August 22–23, 2026.

• DATALAND — About DATALAND.

• Frieze — Can a New Los Angeles Museum Make the Case for AI Art?, August 14, 2026.

• The Wall Street Journal — From the First Course to the Last, It's All Dessert at These Restaurants, August 20, 2026.

• The Times — Yotam Ottolenghi interview and Simple Too, August 16, 2026.

• Columbia Museum of Art — Jasper Johns: All Familiar Things, January 17–August 30, 2026.

• Financial Times — My Summer on a Plate, August 22, 2026.