The moral illusion of inclusive design
When good intentions lead to unquestioned power.
Inclusive design is often positioned as a moral imperative — an enlightened, human-centered approach to problem-solving that emphasizes compassion and embraces the diversity of human experience. But the conversation regarding this complex topic runs deeper than most are willing to explore — or admit. Is inclusive design always the right path? Does it make good business sense in every case? And at the heart of it all, is the morality behind it truly universal, or just a shared illusion we’ve mistaken for consensus?
Let us explore, with an open mind, the diverse ethical and business arguments surrounding inclusive design. Along the way, we’ll also unpack the deeper philosophical tension at its core — the nature of subjective morality in an industry that often treats morality as a settled, objective truth.
Inclusive design: the ideal
At its heart, inclusive design aims to create products and systems that work for as many people as possible, especially those historically excluded — people with disabilities, marginalized communities, neurodivergent individuals, and others on the edge of the mainstream.
The ethical case “for” is self-evident for many. It is unjust to design systems that systematically exclude people from participating in modern life. If design has power — and it does — then most people would agree that power carries moral responsibility.
Similarly, the business case “for” is pragmatic. Broader inclusion expands the potential user base. Products that cater to a wider audience can unlock new markets and even spark innovation. Often, designing for an edge case reveals friction points others didn’t notice.
Closed captions, once intended for the deaf and hard of hearing, are now used by millions. Voice assistants began as accessibility tools but have become mainstream. Features like text resizing, high-contrast modes, and flexible navigation all started at the margins and worked their way into everyday use.
The ethical counterpoint: the nature of subjective morality
This is where the conversation enters taboo territory. Inclusive design is often framed as the “right” thing to do — assuming a shared moral standard that doesn’t actually exist.
Morality isn’t universal. It’s constructed. What one group considers ethical, another might view as intrusive or even harmful. Philosophers call this the divide between moral realism (objective moral truths exist) and moral anti-realism (morality is a human invention).
As Nietzsche warned, “There are no moral phenomena at all, only a moral interpretation of phenomena.” Inclusive design often leans on the idea that moral realism is settled. It’s not.
This shared illusion of morality creates subtle pressure on teams regarding inclusive design. Question a feature, and you’re labeled unethical. Suggest trade-offs, and you’re accused of lacking empathy. This sometimes results in performative inclusion — features added more to signal virtue than serve users.
We like to think we know what’s morally right. But take the classic Trolley Problem. Imagine you’re standing at a track switch. A runaway trolley is headed toward five people. You can pull a lever to divert it — saving them — but it will kill one person on the other track. What do you do?
Most people hesitate. Not because they lack ethics, but because ethics are not black and white. They’re contextual. Subjective. Messy.
Now imagine the one person is Hitler, and the five are children. Suddenly, the decision feels easy — almost moral instinct. But what if the one person is your child, and the five are strangers? What if the five are elderly, and the one is a young doctor with decades of life-saving potential? What if you don’t know who any of them are? Every shift in context reshapes the ethical equation.
Design is no different. It’s easy to say we should always build for inclusion — but inclusion for whom, and at what cost? Limited time and resources force hard decisions. Do you build a feature for a small, underserved group, or prioritize something that benefits the majority? There’s no neutral path. Every trade-off reveals a value system, whether we acknowledge it or not.
That’s the real issue with treating inclusive design as a universal moral imperative. It assumes there’s always a “right” answer. But morality shifts — with context, pressure, and perspective.
Inclusive design isn’t inherently flawed. But when ethical principles are treated as self-evident rather than culturally constructed, critical thought is replaced by conformity. Ironically, that’s when design stops being inclusive — by excluding those who question its moral foundations.
The business trade-offs: ROI and opportunity cost
From a business perspective, inclusive design comes with very real trade-offs. It takes time, money, and resources to build for every edge case. In small companies or fast-moving startups, time is oxygen. Budgets are tight. Markets are small. Resources are finite.
It’s easy to label businesses that don’t prioritize inclusive design as lazy, greedy, or even unethical. But the world is more complex than we like to admit.
Imagine a company that’s barely scraping by. Pursuing accessibility features might mean cutting other vital initiatives — or even laying off employees, people with families and livelihoods on the line. Is it worth it? Do you sacrifice a few for the sake of a moral ideal — or a handful of edge cases? These are uncomfortable, but necessary, questions.
This is where inclusive design often meets friction. What percentage of users will benefit from this feature? How much will it cost to implement? Will it delay our launch? These aren’t immoral questions — they’re operational ones. And they deserve honest, case-by-case consideration, without judgment.
In some instances, the return on investment is clear. In others, it’s a feel-good feature that few will use — introduced at the cost of technical debt or team burnout.
There is also the complexity cost. Every additional configuration, alternate flow, or exception increases the product’s surface area. Design systems become harder to maintain. QA takes longer. Onboarding becomes more complex.
A good product must balance inclusivity with feasibility. Every added layer of flexibility must be weighed against practicality and coherence. Even compassion has a law of diminishing returns.
The edge case effect: when inclusion becomes innovation
Ironically, some of the best arguments for inclusive design come from its unintended side effects. What begins as an accessibility feature often evolves into something used — and loved — by everyone. This is know as the “curb-cut effect.”
When we design for those at the margins, we often uncover needs that are universal. High-contrast text helps people with visual impairments — but it also helps someone reading in bright sunlight. Simplified layouts support users with ADHD — and busy executives skimming between meetings.
Inclusive design doesn’t just respond to exclusion — it often predicts future norms. Its power lies in finding solutions that, while aimed at edge cases, end up improving the experience for everyone. When we listen to the edges, we learn something about the center.
The risk of dogma
What’s missing from many discussions around inclusive design is the willingness to admit limits. Ethics without cost-benefit analysis is utopian. Business without empathy is hollow. Meaningful design lives in between.
The problem isn’t inclusive design itself — it’s the dogma surrounding it. The way it is wielded as an unchallengeable good, immune from critique. The way it turns ethical gray zones into black-and-white judgments.
Subjective morality, when unacknowledged, becomes a kind of unspoken tyranny. It prevents open discourse. It suppresses dissent.
As Foucault might say, it becomes a technology of power — a hidden structure that disciplines behavior not through rules, but through norms disguised as truth. And in a field that thrives on iteration and improvement, that’s dangerous.
The obvious objection
Some might ask: Why overthink this? Inclusive design helps people. It protects the vulnerable, expands access, and promotes fairness. Isn’t that exactly what good design should do?
This is a compelling stance — one rooted in the belief that certain values, like justice, dignity, and compassion, are self-evident and universal. We assume we know what’s good and should extend those values to as many people as possible through design.
But even these powerful ideals don’t exist in a vacuum. They are shaped by different moral philosophies. For example, consider the principle of autonomy, the right of an individual to make their own choices. A design team might prioritize this principle, creating a product with maximum flexibility and minimal guidance. This respects the user’s intelligence and freedom.
However, another team might prioritize the principle of beneficence, the moral obligation to act for the benefit of others. This team might build a product with simplified paths and guardrails, guiding the user toward a “correct” or “safe” outcome.
In this scenario, both teams are acting with a strong moral conviction, but they are drawing from different ethical wells. One sees their design as empowering, while the other sees it as protective. One’s virtue is another’s paternalism.
So the question isn’t whether we should help people. It’s whether we are continually interrogating what “help” looks like, who gets to define it, and whether we’re willing to sit with moral ambiguity instead of rushing to resolve it with assumptions disguised as truths.
Navigating the ethical tangle
If inclusive design is not the self-evident moral imperative we are often led to believe, then what is the designer’s responsibility? The alternative isn’t a rejection of empathy, but a more rigorous interrogation of our own values and the power we wield. It’s about moving from a simple moral directive to a more complex ethical equation.
The path toward integrity begins not with a checklist, but with a series of difficult questions about our own assumptions. Instead of asking how we can be more inclusive, we might first ask whose values are embedded in this design and whose are being erased.
Every choice we make — from a color palette to a data-sharing policy — is an expression of a specific worldview, and we must interrogate the unspoken cultural values we are baking into our designs.
Design is a technology of power. While inclusive design is often framed as a way to empower the user, we must also ask what power it grants to us, the designers and builders, by positioning us as the arbiter of what is “good” or “helpful.”
Finally, we must challenge the truths we are taking for granted — and those we are ignoring. Our work often rests on a set of assumptions about human behavior, needs, and desires. When we design for an “edge case,” are we engaging with the challenge critically — or reshaping it to fit our own moral framework?
This is the real work of ethical design. It’s not about finding a single “right” answer. It’s about building the muscle to sit with moral ambiguity, to challenge our own virtues, and to recognize that our most powerful tool isn’t a design system, but the ability to ask uncomfortable questions about the world we are creating.
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