Digital accessibility is often reduced to a question of sight. In professional conversations, the first signals that emerge are those that are easy for the eye to spot: low contrast, a button that is too discreet, text that is too dense. These things matter, of course, but they represent only a tiny fraction of the issue.
Why this reduction? Many people surf the web primarily by vision and spontaneously project this experience as the reference. This prism directs our attention towards what we can see, and makes us forget what we cannot immediately perceive. Yet a large part of accessibility lies elsewhere: in the invisible structure, in the hidden logic, in the silent paths that an interface draws without showing it. Beneath the graphic surface lies a whole territory, rarely explored, yet decisive.
What the eye sees... and what it misses
The spontaneous assessment of a site is often based on a visual impression: harmony of colours, rhythm of spacing, overall balance. In this context, a site can seem accomplished, coherent and sometimes even exemplary. But this impression is only one of many.
As soon as we look at how the page is actually interpreted - at the keyboard, at the screen reader, through a logical rather than visual order - the lines change. Visible obstacles are eventually spotted: contrast, text size, spacing. The others, which are more numerous, remain silent. They only become apparent through use.
A visually perfect title structure becomes a labyrinth for a screen reader. A visually impeccable modal can trap a keyboard user with no way out. A carefully designed button may be mute to assistive technology. An intuitive gesture - drag, hover, drop - doesn't exist for certain uses.
The invisible infrastructure: where blockages take shape
When we leave the surface to observe the actual structure of a site, another landscape emerges. The one where the most frequent and most confusing obstacles are to be found.
Structural logic
Title levels are skipped. Lists are not declared as such. Visually coherent sections become incoherent in the code. For visual navigation, everything looks fluid. For linear or assisted reading, consistency disappears.
Navigation markers
The keyboard focus appears off-screen. It disappears without warning. It jumps from one place to another with no discernible logic. A mouse user will never know. A keyboard user, on the other hand, is stuck, unable to move forward.
Interactions
Glide, hover, unroll, hold. These «natural» gestures are only natural for some people. They require fine motor skills, coordination and stable vision. They also require a mouse, which is not the norm for everyone.
The elements that speak... and those that remain silent
A button with no accessible name, an image with no alternative, a link whose destination remains unclear. Visually, the interface works. For any other access mode, it loses its meaning.
These situations have nothing to do with detail or technical perfectionism. They illustrate the same blind spot: a design conceived for a single way of accessing the Web, when there are multiple ways of doing so.
Why these obstacles persist
It would be easy to see this as a lack of skills. It's more of a prism. The Web has been shaped historically and culturally by approaches centred on vision and the mouse.
Training, tools and professional reflexes still encourage this perspective: scan, click, move fast. Nothing really prepares you to read a page entirely from the keyboard, to interpret a structure with a screen reader or to understand what an interface becomes when interactions are based on other capabilities.
This perceptual bias limits the way we imagine the experience. Not out of ill will, but because another reality remains unexplored.
When the invisible becomes legible
You don't have to change your practice overnight. It starts with a simple gesture: change your tool, change your angle, change your posture.
The keyboard reveals breaks in continuity. The screen reader exposes the lack of logic in the structure. Contrasts highlight sensory obstacles. The animations reveal what is overwhelming. The structure reveals what has been designed for sight but not for understanding.
It's not a spectacular revelation. It's simply the discovery of a Web that already existed but wasn't being viewed using other tools.
Accessibility begins with this voluntary shift: accepting to look, listen and understand differently. Accepting that what works for some does not work for all. Accepting that inclusiveness cannot be decreed - it is built through tiny choices that change everything.
Once you open your eyes, the invisible ceases to be a blind spot. It becomes a responsibility. And little by little, a way of creating a Web that welcomes all ways of entering, not just the ones we already know.