For a long time, that simple object was just a wall that intimidated me. Yet, looking at it, it might seem harmless: a dozen buttons, two analog sticks moving in every direction, rear triggers reacting to the slightest pressure of the fingers. For millions of people around the world, this combination of plastic and circuits is the key to extraordinary universes. For me, that controller nearly became an insurmountable barrier, an impassable limit because of Poland syndrome, a condition that has caused a malformation in my hand since birth. And yet, my story with video games hadn't started in front of a wall. Looking back to the early decades of the medium's history, interaction was immediate and basic. A dial, a flexible joystick, or a couple of buttons were enough to pilot a spaceship through space or make a mustachioed plumber jump. That structural simplicity carried with it, almost unconsciously, a natural ease of approach. Even with a hand different from others, I could be a hero just like anyone else. For years, video games were my own personal tool for connection and sharing: a space where differences faded away and all that mattered was strategy, imagination, and fun shared with friends.
Then technological evolution changed the rules of the game. Over the years, video games became monumental, three-dimensional experiences, but this complexity ended up raising invisible barriers that were, for me, initially impassable. Today's control systems demand excellent motor coordination, split-second reflexes, and the simultaneous, symmetrical use of both hands. This kind of design shuts out anyone living with a motor disability affecting the upper limbs. The impact on my life was stark: I drifted away from that world, and it wasn't simply because I was growing up or because adult responsibilities were calling. The truth is that video games, once a source of fun and inclusion, were turning into a frustrating reminder of my physical limits. The wall had begun to rise, brick by brick. It became easier to stop than to keep clashing with a design that wasn't made for me.
Fortunately, something has started to shift in recent years. Breaking down these barriers is part of a quiet revolution combining hardware and software, and for people like me it means the chance to play again. The heart of this change lies in the configuration menus of modern consoles, true control centers that now allow for deep personalization. To a reader unfamiliar with the technicalities, the idea of "button remapping" might seem like an insignificant detail. In reality, it represents the fundamental freedom to reassign button functions according to the actual motor abilities of one's hand. It means, for example, that the action of running or jumping, usually assigned to a rear trigger I can't reach, can be activated by pressing a stick with the palm or tapping a button placed on the accessible side. A single option within a software menu isn't just a line of code: it's the concrete difference between remaining an excluded spectator and going back to being an active protagonist of one's own enjoyment.
This progress also extends to physical tools, thanks to the rise of adaptive, modular controllers. These are horizontal boards fitted with large buttons or modules that users can mount wherever they find most comfortable, operable even with feet, chin, or elbow. They are extraordinary innovations that open the doors of gaming to everyone, but unfortunately they come with a significant limitation tied to cost. These assistive technologies often require considerable financial investment, making accessibility a goal still too expensive for the individual user. On the software side, however, developers themselves are showing that radical change at no extra cost to the user is possible. Cutting-edge titles like The Last of Us Part II have marked a turning point, introducing dozens of hyper-personalization options. In these games it's possible to adjust not only the controls, but also the visual appearance, color contrasts, and audio cues. This shows that it would take very little from game studios: greater attention during the design phase and the will to implement digital solutions that, unlike hardware, don't weigh financially on players with disabilities.
The current state of things gives me a mixed picture. The progress made by the industry in recent years is crucial, evident, and I celebrate it as a major civil victory. Still, the road ahead remains incredibly long. There's a great deal of work to do before inclusive game design stops being seen as a praiseworthy exception or a last-minute addition tacked on right before launch. Accessibility must become a universal standard shared by every designer. Only when designing a virtual world accessible to everyone becomes the norm will we finally be able to say that video games have reached their full potential: that of being a truly universal art form, capable of welcoming me back too, leaving no one behind.