I'm not gonna try to read your mind, but is it possible that 'adjectives" may be a symptom, rather than the actual matter you're looking at? Is it possible that the really interesting question is: What information doesn't the reader actually need?
So, if you're describing a writer's work area, and you tell me her drawerfull of story outlines are all scribbled on notepad paper, or that her bookcase is brown, you simply may be interfering with my own ability to visualize my own picture of a room. That may be trying to exercise too much control on the reader, rather than letting visualization become a cooperative process.
OTOH, if you tell me that the story outlines are all half-finished, or that the bookcase is filled with self-help books, all neatly arranged by size, you're telling me something possibly useful, that I couldn't have visualized by myself. (You get extra points by telling me that every single book cover is blue, but only if that level of obsessiveness actually plays out in the character's development...

)
James Michener was a master of cramming his stories with unusual detail. The actual worlds in which his characters moved were unfamiliar to most readers. As an observer immersed in that world, I would constantly be discovering new things about these people's lives and environment, and Michener made the details a journey of discovery about both the place as well as it's characters. (The place was almost one of the main characters, and so was carefully developed...) He had to do meticulous research ahead of time, and he did it meticulously well.
The old "appeal to the senses" is good if it reminds us to sense a taste or smell we wouldn't ordinarily think of, but the obvious ones will be less useful. Ernest Hemmingway was injured in a shell explosion in WW I. I would have imagined such a thing as bright light and a huge noise, followed by chaos, and pain. His description of his character's experience in
Farewell to Arms was very different, and gave details i could never have visualized on my own. He remembered no sound at all. What he felt was
heat, in a quick burst, like a huge furnace door, suddenly opening, then closing again. This discovery of something I could never have thought of on my own made it particularly startling and dramatic.
Tolkien gave lots of visual description, but he also went toward discovery, making things bigger, brighter, more ornate, or drearier than I'd have imagined. We can't distill this down to a simple formula, but I thing good description has to anticipate what the average reader could add on their own, avoiding that, and surprising them with discovery. At least that's what grabs my attention...