Designing for the invisible

When we talk about inclusion, the conversation tends to focus on physical accessibility: ramps, captions, toilets. These things do matter enormously. But at the heart, these are plasters on a system built on faulty assumptions.

A big reason for this is that the average guest doesn’t exist — and there’s proof.

In 1950, the US Air Force, baffled by crashes, measured over four thousand pilots and checked how many sat near the average across ten dimensions. Not one did. The environment had been expertly and expensively built around an imaginary, “average” person.

This was, effectively, an all-around compromise, and it suited no one.

Much of LBE (location-based entertainment) does the same; we skip over the messy human bit to get to the fun part of designing the story. We spend hours and hours fine-tuning the exact wording, the right timing, and the perfect colour… all for an average guest who will never attend.

The one who does arrive is thirsty, over-excited, limping in shoes that seemed fine in the shop, or still mentally arguing with someone from the security gates. They missed the intro because they couldn’t understand the wayfinding, had to stash their walking stick, or reassure staff that yes, they can ride one-armed.

Inclusive design is forward-looking

Inclusive design is the opposite of compromise. The world is naturally un-inclusive: fish swim, birds fly, humans walk. Every time we've gone somewhere we weren't built to go, it has taken invention.

Was the wheel a concession, or the bridge, the paved road? No one refers to aeroplanes as an accommodation for the featherless. And yet we treat our own, human-made world as immutable. We’ve settled for good enough over innovation.

But what to do? The instinct is to respond with a longer checklist — anticipate enough needs, and eventually we'll get there. Two problems. First, that list has no end; the possible variations and combinations thereof are infinite.

Second, we are far worse than we think at imagining our way into someone else's life. "Put yourself in their shoes" sounds like compassion, but as a design method it mostly hands back our own reflection. I don't need you to imagine your way into my body — I need to know there's somewhere to sit.

Accommodation works backwards; it identifies a known difference and patches around it. In contrast, inclusive design is forward-looking.

Let’s put the guest back in guest experiences. The solution isn't more anticipation; it's more options. Design environments that flex rather than prescribe: places to sit that nobody has to ask for, routes that can be shortened, sensory intensity an intentional choice, staff empowered to solve rather than escalate.

We can't predict who'll need what — but we do know they will need something, and we can build a world that doesn't punish them for needing it. And everyone else benefits from the seat, the shortcut, the quiet route too.

The best attractions of the next 25 years won't treat inclusion as a compliance exercise or a late-stage amendment. They'll start from the full, messy reality of the humans who'll inhabit them — not a sanitised average. Not a guest who fits the design, but a design that doesn't require fitting.

That's not a compromise. That's just a better design.

Cathrin Winsor and the Katapult team will be at booth #S837 at IAAPA Expo Europe 2026, ready to talk about designing for the invisible, including Katapult's work with the University of Birmingham and Drayton Manor Resort on neuroinclusion in themed attractions.

Attendees can get more industry insights in the Katapult Magazine, available for free at the booth.