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.