I think about accessibility in board games more than most people, because I run into it every time I sit down to play.

I’m color deficient (red green), and I have been in that spot where two player colors look identical, a token blends into the board, or a card asks me to find an item by color alone. If the game relies on color as the only signal, I’m guessing. Sometimes I guess right. Sometimes I feel like I am holding the table back. And sometimes I quietly check out, even if I love the people I’m playing with.

That experience sticks with you.

I also understand that not every game is meant for everybody. That is not a negative. It is a design reality. Every game makes choices, and those choices include people and exclude people. The goal, at least for me, is being honest about those choices and making more intentional ones.

Inclusion starts with noticing who gets left out

In the book Mismatch by Kat Holmes, she opens with a story about playgrounds. For a long time, playgrounds were built for children who were not disabled. The design of the space assumed a certain kind of body, a certain kind of movement, a certain kind of access. As our society grew, we started building playgrounds with accessible equipment. The point was never that the old playgrounds were “bad,” it was that the old playgrounds were built with a narrower definition of who play was for.

I think the board game industry is going through a similar shift.

When people talk about board game accessibility, the first thing that usually comes up is visual accessibility. Color blindness, color deficiency, and low vision. That makes sense, because so many games depend on color for quick recognition and game flow.

As games mature, accessibility becomes bigger than color. Tactile needs. Audio needs, especially when apps or timers are involved. Language requirements. Reading load. Symbol clarity. Dexterity, handling small components, shuffling, sorting, stacking. None of this is “extra.” It is part of who can fully participate.

The real question for designers and publishers is simple.

Who are we excluding with the choices we are making?

Color is helpful, but alone it’s fragile.

Color is powerful. It is fast. It is intuitive. It is also unreliable as the only signal.

If two pieces are only different because one is red and one is green, that is going to break for a lot of players. If a card says “grab the blue icon” and the icon is only blue, that breaks too. Even players with normal vision run into issues in low light, across a big table, with glare, or with busy art.

The fix is usually not complicated. You give the color to a teammate.

• Color plus symbol
• Color plus pattern
• Color plus label
• Color plus shape

This is the core idea behind “redundant cues.” The game communicates the same information in more than one way. When you do that, the game becomes easier for everyone, not just players who are color blind.

Contrast matters just as much as color

Contrast is the other half of the conversation, and it deserves more attention.

High contrast design helps players with low vision, players in dim rooms, players with glare, and players who simply want the game to read clearly from across the table. Contrast is also one of the first things that gets sacrificed when we chase a certain look.

A pale color on a pale background might feel elegant in a mockup, but it can disappear in real life. Thin lines can look great on screen and vanish in print. Dark text on a dark background might look “moody” and play like a headache.

Contrast is not a stylistic limitation. Contrast is clarity.

What this looks like in my own games

This is personal for me, so I’ll share what changed my mindset as a designer.

When I designed MRBLS, I started with symbols associated with each color. I did not want accessibility to be a patch at the end. I wanted it baked in. There is a system called ColorADD that uses a set of symbols to represent colors, and while there is not a single universal standard across board games, the concept is still valuable. Symbols give color an additional signal.

My first prototypes were fine for me. That was the problem. I assumed “if I can play it, it works.” Then I started testing with people who experience color differently than I do, and I realized I had work to do.

The turning point was showing the game to my good friend’s sister, who has Usher syndrome, and her husband. It became obvious very quickly that this was not only about color deficiency. Some of the colors did not have enough contrast for her to comfortably see and distinguish. The game was technically playable, but it was not welcoming.

So I went back to the drawing board. We redesigned the MRBLS cards with higher contrast and more vibrant color choices. I added background patterning that reinforces the symbol and makes the identity of each color feel like part of the design. When possible, I try to not focus just on an overlay or a small accessibility corner. Part of the visual language.

When I printed the updated cards and showed them to her again, she could finally see the colors clearly. She was in tears.

I was not expecting that moment but I will never forget it.

That was the moment I understood, in a very real way, why I care about this work. Accessibility is not a checklist item. It is a way of telling someone ‘you belong at this table, too.’

CUNO taught me a similar lesson in a different way. Early versions used brighter backgrounds and lighter line work. It looked fine, but it did not read as clearly as it could. We shifted toward darker tones to increase contrast so the rings pop and the connections are easy to track.

We also chose player colors intentionally and added patterned backgrounds to the player chips, with shapes that match the symbol language from MRBLS for consistency. And we added a tactile UV layer to the rings. That tactile element is subtle, but I like subtle improvements. Not every accessibility improvement needs to be loud. Every little bit helps.

A practical accessibility checklist for designers and publishers

If you want a simple starting point, here’s what I look for now when designing or reviewing a game.

Color and icon clarity

• Never rely on color alone
• Pair colors with symbols, patterns, labels, or shapes
• Test your palette for common color vision differences
• Avoid “same brightness” colors that blur together

Contrast and readability

• Check contrast in real lighting, not just on a screen
• Make key lines thicker than you think you need
• Use strong contrast for scoring, tracks, and critical information
• Keep text legible from across the table

Cognitive load and reading load

• Reduce heavy reading on cards when possible
• Use consistent iconography and avoid look alike symbols
• Give players reminders where they need them, player aids help a lot

Physical handling and table comfort

• Make components easy to pick up and separate
• Consider finishes that reduce glare
• Consider tactile cues when it makes sense

The direction I want to keep moving

As Smidgen grows, I want accessibility to stay part of the foundation. Not a marketing bullet, not an afterthought. A real design value.

I’ve had conversations with accessibility groups, including the color blind community, because I want feedback that is grounded in real needs, not assumptions. I also want to help normalize the idea that “accessible” can still be beautiful. Accessible can still feel premium. Accessible can still feel modern and fun.

Board games are one of the best ways to bring people together. That only works when more people can actually play.

And for me, that’s the point.

If you're looking for an accessible classic like CUNO or MRBLS, check out our store.