By: Bezawit Mulatu
University of Richmond
2024-2025
On most college campuses, you navigate without thinking. A clock tower points north. A slope in the walkway leads to the quad. The shape and surface of a building hint at its purpose before you even step inside. Even the rustle of leaves or the echo of footsteps on stone can signal where you are. You move through the space almost on autopilot, reading its cues without ever stopping to notice them.
For students who are blind or have low vision, the same campus can feel less like a map and more like a maze. What looks like open space to one person can register as a wall of silence to another. The low hum of a fountain might be the only fixed landmark; the shift from smooth tile to rough brick might be the only indication of arriving somewhere new. In a place meant for learning, these small disorientations accumulate into something louder: a quiet message, often unintentional, that this space was not designed with you in mind.
And here’s the uncomfortable truth: these moments of disorientation are rarely accidents. They are the byproduct of a design culture that treats accessibility not as a foundation but as an afterthought. The message, though unspoken, is clear: this place was not made for you.
This is especially jarring because we live in an era when design’s ability to shape behavior is no secret. Fast-food chains spend fortunes fine-tuning the exact shade of red and yellow that sparks hunger before you’ve even glanced at a menu. Casinos choreograph lighting, layout, even carpet patterns to keep you playing just a little longer. TikTok and YouTube Shorts hook you by removing the pause, one swipe and the next clip appears, perfectly calibrated to keep you watching. None of it is happenstance. Every cue is researched, tested, and refined until it works without you even realizing it. We already have the science, and the will, to make environments that manipulate human behavior with surgical precision.
Which forces a bigger question: if we can design apps that keep you scrolling until your eyes ache, casinos that make you lose track of hours, supermarkets that guide your path so you buy more than you planned, streaming platforms that play the next episode before you can stop yourself, and airports that funnel you past every shop before your gate, why can’t we design spaces that help people with disabilities belong without having to fight for it?!
These questions became the foundation of Creating an Inclusive Model for Higher Education: A Prototype at the University of Richmond (UR), also called Reimagining oUR Campus for students with visual impairment. It is a cross-disciplinary installation where visitors explore sensory and tactile models inspired by casinos, hospitals, and university quads. The idea was simple but rarely attempted: stop treating accessibility like a retrofit and start designing it into the blueprint. They felt how changes in flooring, the placement of furniture, and the positioning of sound could quietly choreograph human behavior. And they confronted a truth we often sidestep: accessibility isn’t about retrofitting ramps or bolting braille plaques onto walls. It’s about building inclusion into the blueprint from day one.
The prototype wasn’t a diagram on paper. It was a campus you could explore through touch and sound. A raised map led your fingers the way a clock tower leads a sighted student’s eyes. Rough brick under your palm meant you’d reached an entrance. A slope underfoot told you the quad was ahead. A single, well-placed chime gave more orientation than any printed guide.
The work drew on behavioral architecture, sensory design, and the firsthand experiences of blind and low vision students. It renders visible what is usually invisible: the way design can open the world, or close it off, without saying a word.
We already pour this level of care into the places where we want people to spend money or time. We could, with equal precision, apply it to the places where we expect people to learn, grow, and belong.
The know-how exists. The tools exist. What’s left is the will.