Why third spaces?
Jean-Paul Sartre famously wrote that "hell is other people." He was probably hanging out in the wrong places.
First spaces are home. Second places are work. Third places are kind of magic. They're the coffee shops where regulars know your order, the brewery where you recognize faces, the revamped library where you can exist alongside strangers in comfortable silence. They're where we go to be among people without the obligations of hosting them or collaborating with them on a quarterly report.
But third spaces aren't just about proximity to other humans. They're about a particular quality of togetherness. At home, you're in your castle with your rules and your dirty dishes. At work, you're being productive, managing relationships, optimizing your time. But in a third space? You get to just... be. No one's tracking your metrics or judging your furniture choices.
The sociologist Ray Oldenburg, who coined the term "third space," understood that these places do crucial social work. They're levelers—the barista doesn't care if you're a CEO or a student. They're regular without being routine. They offer what he called "playful interaction," which is a fancy way of saying you can talk to people without it being a thing.
And this is where philosophy enters the picture.
Philosophy thrives in third spaces. Not the ivory tower kind of philosophy—the accessible, conversational, "let's think about this together" kind. Plato knew this. The Academy wasn't a lecture hall; it was a grove where people walked and talked. The Stoics held forth in the Stoa (that’s a public colonnade). Philosophy didn't happen in isolation or under fluorescent office lighting. It happened in spaces designed for people.
Here's what makes third spaces philosophically potent: they create the conditions for genuine dialogue. At home, we're surrounded by our own echo chambers—literally, if you count the algorithm-curated content on our devices (or if you don’t have any furniture, yet). At work, conversations have agendas, outcomes, and stakeholders. But in a third space, you can bump up against ideas that aren't yours, perspectives that surprise you, and sometimes questions you didn't know you had.
We're living through a major shift in what it means to converse. Online, we perform our positions for an invisible audience. In our homes, we retreat into comfort. At work, we stay professional and avoid the big questions. Where do we go to actually think together?
Third spaces designed for philosophical conversation could offer structured informality. The structure gives permission—yes, it's okay to talk about meaning, purpose, ethics, the big stuff. The informality keeps it human. It doesn’t have to be about answers or winning. It can just be people wondering together.
When you think alongside someone, not just bouncing packets of opinions off of each other, then you're not performing. You can build something neither of you could construct alone. It's collaborative without being work. It's social without being shallow. It's exactly what Sartre enjoyed, in spite of the themes he wrote about people say he was a likeable guy.
The disappearance of third spaces is about more than loneliness. We’re feeling disconnected from each other and like there isn’t anywhere to belong. When we talk together we don't just change ideas. We change ourselves and by extension we change the possibilities of what our community can become. Because wondering together brings ideas to life that can spread, maybe even take root and thrive in our community.
So here's the invitation: imagine a third space designed specifically for thinking together. Not a classroom. Not a debate stage. Not your living room or your office. A place where philosophy isn't an academic discipline but a human activity. Where questions matter more than answers, changing your mind is celebrated, and understanding is the point.
(then tell us in the comments what it looks like, cause we’re building it together)
