Rental Riddles: Interrogating the Past, Present, and Future of Denver's Complex Market
by Paul M. French
“I would never live here.”
The leasing professional (let’s call her M) had decided to be honest with me. We were sitting in the offices of one of Denver’s many new luxury apartment complexes—“luxury” a byword of the real estate world as meaningless as “premier” or “premium.” But it looked nice enough. Stainless steel fixtures and cream-white walls. I imagined turning the knobs of a kitchen faucet and unleashing a fat high-pressure stream instead of the sad, spindly dribble I was used to.
But beyond the amenities, M lamented, the place was cheap in the ways that mattered. “Whenever the people upstairs walk from their bed to the living room, I can hear every step,” she said.
She started venting about the market, explaining how some developers and contractors would cut corners in build quality, or rely on cheap, shortsighted gimmicks to attract tenants. There were complexes with built-in bars and clubs with rotating DJs—part of a movement to create a 24/7 party atmosphere in the place where you were supposed to rest your head, with varying degrees of success.
The prime example was X Denver—a complex opened in 2021 in the Union Station neighborhood west of Coors Field. Originally outfitted with a built-in restaurant, a large gym, a bar, workspaces, and a yoga studio, X Denver was marketed as a social paradise for young, attractive tenants who wanted to live the high life downtown, even if they had to be packed into co-occupied living spaces, with four or more residents sharing a single living room and kitchen. When I visited the complex to see the experiment myself, a different leasing pro (let’s call him K) gave me a tour and informed me that the experience was similar to living in a dorm.
“I think there was a bunch of trust fund kids drunk at dinner who thought of this,” K said, as we entered the complex’s abandoned dining area. It turned out that operating a full-service restaurant on the 12th floor of an apartment complex was a difficult enterprise. No longer serving meals, the space had been converted to yet another workspace. It was completely empty—like the pool area, also on the 12th floor.
K guided me outside. The bar by the pool was closed, as was the pool itself, under maintenance, K said. The vacant cement deck radiated with afternoon heat, and it was dead quiet as I looked around the giant slab, trying to imagine the party.
“That looks a little treacherous,” I said, gesturing to a sheer edge by the pool area—a sudden drop, with decorative concrete tiers and hard edges below. No railing.
“Super treacherous,” said K. “I think they were building this during COVID, and they maybe weren’t getting those same regulators coming through. I’m not exactly sure, but I totally agree.”
Fortunately, nobody was out poolside getting tipsy. As K and I took the elevator down, I wondered how someone could live in this building and call it home.
“You have no idea what’s coming down the pike,” M told me in her office, citing a new complex down in Phoenix—an entire building themed after the Mario Kart franchise. Developers, it seemed, were going to extreme ends to attract qualified tenants.
“But who would live in places like that?” I asked. “I can see someone in their early twenties maybe living there for a year or two as a goof, but you’re not going to stay long-term.”
“Places like that don’t care about you being there long-term,” she said. “If you move out after a year or two, it gives them a chance to hike up rents on the next person.”
