A page is not a surface onto which words are poured. It is a structure that holds them in a particular relation, and that relation is itself a kind of meaning. Tschichold understood this; so did the scribes who ruled their margins before they wrote a word.
When we set a measure at sixty-five characters, we are not being fussy. We are deciding how the reader's eye will travel and rest, how long a thought may run before it turns, where the silence falls. These are architectural decisions. They are made before the prose, and the prose lives inside them.
The reader is not a consumer of the page. The reader is a participant in its design.
This is why we do not chase the conventions of the screen — the infinite scroll, the restless animation, the manufactured urgency. Those are the architecture of distraction. We are building rooms a reader can stay in.
The squared corner, the single accent colour, the refusal of the drop shadow: these are not minimalism for its own sake. They are the marks of a structure confident enough to stand without ornament.