Sejong City is not a place most travellers plan a trip around. It has no centuries-old shopping streets, no postcard skyline, no obvious must-see sights. That is largely by design.
Conceived just over a decade ago as South Korea’s administrative capital, Sejong exists to solve a problem rather than sell itself – specifically, the overwhelming concentration of people, power and resources in Seoul, located 121km away.
For visitors, that can make it feel elusive at first. But spend 48 hours here and a different appeal emerges. Sejong is less about spectacle and more about systems: how cities function, how people move and how culture is woven into daily life. In that sense, it feels less like a destination and more like a prototype – one that future cities would do well to study.
Understanding the why
The most direct way into Sejong is through its purpose. At City Hall, I join an international press roundtable with Mayor Choi Min-ho, who helped plan the city long before he was elected to run it. Thirteen years ago, he explains, this area was mostly rice paddies and open fields. Today, Sejong is home to close to 400,000 residents.
“The transformation has been very fast,” he says. “But Sejong was not created to be fast. It was created to be balanced.”
The city, he adds, was conceived as a corrective to Seoul’s overwhelming density – not a replacement capital, but a redistribution of governance and opportunity. “For a long time, everything was concentrated in Seoul,” he says. “At some point, that concentration stopped helping the country develop. It started holding it back.”
Sejong remains unfinished by design, with major milestones planned through to 2030. Asked how he would convince someone to move here if he only had a few seconds, the mayor doesn’t hesitate. “Sejong has the youngest population in Korea,” he says. “Despite the country’s low birth rate, this city has the highest one. Wouldn’t you want to live in a place like that?”
Later, that logic becomes tangible at the Geumgang Pedestrian Bridge, a two-storey structure spanning the Geumgang Lake. Split into levels for pedestrians and cyclists, locals also call it the Ieung Bridge, after the circular Korean consonant ㅇ, its shape echoed in the bridge’s sweeping curve.
Nearby is one of Sejong’s most quietly radical features: the world's largest rooftop garden certified by Guinness World Records in 2016. Stretching 3.6 kilometres across 15 buildings, the garden at the Government Complex links themed gardens, vine-covered walkways and shaded seating into a continuous green corridor. We spend about 40 minutes walking its length and saw office workers pause on breaks while others wander through. It’s the kind of breathing space most major capitals struggle to retrofit, and one Sejong has embedded from the start.
Culture is woven into the fabric of Sejong, most visibly in the bold, sculptural designs of the Sejong National Library and the Sejong Art Centre.
We stop for lunch at Sokuri Bapsang, a traditional Korean restaurant serving comforting, home-style fare. Bapsang literally translates to “rice table”, and the appeal lies in its communal style of dining: multiple plates of rice, soup, mains and sides or banchan laid out simultaneously and shared by everyone at the table. Set in private rooms – a common feature of Korean restaurants – the experience feels intimate yet lively, encouraging conversation as dishes are passed and refilled.
This is where I try nurungji for the first time. Towards the end of the meal, the thin crust of scorched rice left at the bottom of the cooking pot, is revived when a light broth is poured over, loosening the grains before they are eaten. Originally a practical way to ensure nothing went to waste, it turns out to be unexpectedly satisfying – gently nutty, softly toasted and deeply comforting – a perfect finish to the meal that I thoroughly enjoy.
The Hangeul Festival
If Sejong’s days are shaped by governance, its evenings tell a different story. At Sejong Lake Park, we join a community event held as part of the Sejong Hangeul Festival, recently renamed from Sejong Festival, to reflect a broader government push to promote the Korean alphabet as living culture rather than static heritage.
Families and couples gather to watch a Samulnori performance, a music tradition that once accompanied farming and village rituals, whose rhythm and structures have been preserved through Hangeul notation. A Taekwondo demonstration follows, the event concluding with a drone show transforming the sky.
Young and old watch together, visibly proud, engaged not out of obligation but ownership. Culture here isn’t performed for tourists; it’s shared among citizens.
Later, we sit down to dinner for dak-galbi, or spicy stir-fried chicken – another first for me. A much-loved South Korean dish, it is marinated and diced chicken cooked in a vivid red chilli sauce alongside an assortment of add-ins, from sweet potatoes and cabbage to perilla leaves, scallions and chewy rice cakes. Prepared in a large pan set at the centre of the table, it is yet another expression of Korea’s love for communal dining and is intensely spicy and unapologetically bold. It’s not a dish for those who shy away from heat – but I loved every mouthful.
Creativity beyond administration
If Sejong’s centre feels meticulously planned, the district of Jochiwon offers a more textured contrast. At the Jochiwon 1927 Art Center the next day, we visit the Hangeul International Pre-Biennale, a preview of a full biennale planned for 2027.
The building itself tells a story. Originally constructed in 1927 as an industrial facility, later serving as a paper mill, it sat derelict for years before being repurposed as a cultural space. Brick walls and steel frames remain visible, now housing installations rather than machinery.
Inside, works by international artist Mr Doodle sit alongside Korean artists exploring Hangeul as form, structure and movement. The artistic pseudonym of British artist Sam Cox, Mr Doodle is known for his playful line work and instinctive mark-making – an approach that lends itself naturally to the visual rhythms of Hangeul.
The other exhibitions are playful but thoughtful, inviting interaction rather than reverence.
Yang Yoo-jeong, director of the pre-biennale at the Sejong Culture and Tourism Foundation, tells me the ambition extends beyond showcasing the alphabet itself. “Hangeul is a writing system,” she says, “but it is also culture, art and science.”
The curatorial approach reflects that openness. Artists were invited from three groups: international practitioners, Korean artists already working with Hangeul, and citizens who responded to an open call. “Our goal is not only to show the creativity of Hangeul,” Yang explains, “but to create a platform where different scripts and cultures can meet.”
That philosophy extends to the youngest visitors. Children roam the galleries freely, sketching and asking questions. “When children encounter art naturally, without pressure, it becomes part of how they see the world,” she says. “That kind of exposure stays with them.”
Why Sejong stays with you
By the time we leave, it’s clear why Sejong resists easy tourism narratives. It doesn’t overwhelm. It doesn’t compete for attention. Here, urban planning, cultural policy and daily life feel aligned.
Sejong may not be a city you fall in love with instantly. But it is one that grows more persuasive the longer you stay. In a world of overstimulated cities chasing identity, Sejong quietly suggests another model: build with intention, leave room to breathe and trust culture to do the rest.
