Spanning what seems like infinite square mileage, the Poolrooms are comprised of various sub-zones—some narrow and claustrophobic, others vast and cathedral-like in scale. The design is sterile but inconsistent, with floor and wall tiles that vary subtly in pattern and color as if sourced from a million slightly different hotel pools. Most surfaces are ceramic or plastic, smooth and oddly spotless, no matter how long someone stays.

Water is everywhere, but not in the chaotic way you'd expect from flooding or broken plumbing. It's as if the architecture was designed to accommodate water in every form: still pools, gentle streams embedded in hallways, submerged stairwells, and perfectly reflective surfaces. The water is always warm, slightly chlorinated, and never seems to grow stagnant. Despite the apparent age and scale of the structure, there are no visible signs of decay—no mold, no mildew, no peeling paint. It's as though entropy doesn't apply here.

Lighting comes primarily from fluorescent panels embedded in the ceilings and walls. They buzz faintly, sometimes flickering, but never truly go out. There is no natural light, and yet wanderers often report the sensation of time passing—morning, evening, night—even though the light never changes.