We need to have a conversation about Starfield. In June, I wrote a story highlighting disabled players’ concerns regarding the lack of accessibility information for a game that’s been in development for years. We had no information aside from a brief mention of larger fonts from Todd Howard on Kinda Funny’s Xcast. Disabled people were cautious at best, and terrified at worst. And unfortunately, their fears were ultimately correct.
From an accessibility standpoint, Starfield is the most perplexing game I’ve played in years. Its accessibility menu is minuscule, but its control rebinding is almost flawless. It features numerous inclusive designs beneficial for an array of disabled players, but it locks them away behind specific missions. For this month’s Access Designed, I’m not going to review Starfield. Disabled voices have already expertly critiqued why this game fails. Instead, I want to examine my time with Starfield, my relationship with previous Bethesda titles, and how Xbox cannot be the ultimate savior of accessibility.
Exploring the Stars
Starfield is a deeply flawed game. Its accessibility successes are consistently outmatched by what the title noticeably lacks. I am appreciative of options like auto-movement and auto-sprinting, especially when exploring expansive planets, but it’s difficult to find suitable key combinations to activate these features when some of my buttons conflict with each other. I wish more games would separate keybinds into different menus like Starfield, but it’s beyond frustrating when specific inputs I need for my Outpost clash with standard gameplay. Even with secondary inputs, my limited reach means I can only use a maximum of 13 mouse buttons and keyboard keys. Starfield doesn’t allow that.
What frustrates me the most are the ways in which key accessibility designs are trapped behind forced puzzles and missions. A power which grants the player High Contrast Vision – important for those with visual disabilities – needs to be unlocked. Or a power which can assist with aiming can only be used after beating its appropriate mission. If disabled players are encountering immeasurable barriers because they lack these abilities, how do developers expect them to progress to unlock these features? Inclusive design is meant to seamlessly incorporate accessibility into a game without a menu. But it’s also meant to offer these choices without immense struggle.
As a fan of Bethesda titles, I’m enjoying my time with Starfield. I plan to fully beat the campaign and create different characters. Yet, as a disabled player who cannot turn off his disability when playing a game, Starfield actively prevents me from exploring for long periods.
The Old Bethesda
My first experience with a Bethesda game was The Elder Scrolls 4: Oblivion. My brother and I purchased an Xbox 360 in 2007. As an avid fan of open-world RPGs, I spent countless hours exploring the lands, completing quests, and joining varying guilds. And this was all during a time when my disability still allowed me to hold a standard controller.
Years later, Fallout 3 and Skyrim became some of my favorite games during the 360 era. I had hundreds of hours across multiple playthroughs on each title. I enjoyed them endlessly because I had the capability to enjoy them. Unfortunately, that changed with Fallout 4.
By its initial release in 2015, my neuromuscular disability progressed to the point where I could no longer use two control sticks for movement. I vividly remember encountering the first Death Claw outside the museum in Boston and dying countless times, asking my brother to assist me in killing a relatively common and notorious Fallout enemy. Fallout 4 was the first game where I fully realized I would need to switch to PC if a game required dual sticks. But even after purchasing it on Steam, its lack of accessibility continued to hamper my experience. Base building was a crucial component, but players were unable to customize controls specific for this mechanic. For months, I simply moved into the starting house, carelessly tossing my equipment around or storing it in random containers. After explaining to a friend, she requested I transfer my save file to her. After an hour, I had my own scrap shack with display stands, power armor holders, and a bedroom. I finally had a space, but I could never call it my own. And to see these same mechanics appear with similar issues nearly eight years later, it makes me realize that Bethesda is still painfully behind.
Xbox Cannot Save Everything
When I took to social media platforms asking for disabled voices for my story in June, several replied with comments supporting the game because of Xbox’s past accessible initiatives. And while these are safe assumptions, they primarily apply to Xbox specific titles.
Acquisitions are common in the industry. One of the largest stories throughout the summer was the Microsoft vs FTC trial based on Microsoft’s decision to acquire Activision Blizzard.
Every time a studio purchases another, the developers of the original company are still responsible for accessible features and designs. Yes, Xbox can provide resources and guidance, but if Bethesda doesn’t want to implement them, it can’t be forced. Accessibility is at a studio level. Everything from knowledge, a willingness to create, and available resources are different for each team. Starfield is proof that disabled players cannot expect a parent company to fix everything if the development team chooses not to make an accessible game.
Starfield is, for me, nothing short of an accessibility embarrassment in 2023. It’s a massive title that continues to receive praise from critics and players alike, but rarely examined from an accessible lens. It demonstrates the outdated accessible development practices from a studio that has had decades to learn from disabled individuals. In a year when most AAA titles across multiple genres are equipped with a bevy of accessible options and designs, Starfield painfully sticks out as the black sheep. As an able-bodied player, it’s a traditional and entertaining Bethesda experience. As a disabled individual, it’s a powerful reminder that accessible practices are still not standard throughout the industry.
Grant Stoner is a disabled journalist covering accessibility and the disabled perspective in video games. When not writing, he is usually screaming about Pokémon or his cat, Goomba on Twitter.
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