The Pokémon franchise stands as a colossus in the entertainment world, celebrating its 30th anniversary with an astonishing legacy. Over a thousand unique creatures to capture, train, and trade, countless game titles, a thriving trading card game, popular animated series, and a vast merchandise empire cement its place as one of the globe’s most profitable properties. For me, however, Pokémon is more than just a successful franchise; it’s a deeply cherished part of my life. My collection of mainline games is nearly complete, my living space is filled with statues and plushies, and my online presence often features custom artwork inspired by its world. This series holds a significance unmatched by any other. In honor of this milestone, I want to explore how Pokémon’s remarkable consistency in accessible design has profoundly shaped my journey, not only as a disabled player but also as a disabled reporter advocating for inclusive gaming.
Catching Them All
My initial encounter with Pokémon wasn’t through a video game, but a single trading card: a Machop, effortlessly balancing a colossal boulder. My older brother, somewhat reluctantly, shared it with me, and from that moment, my desire to collect more grew exponentially. I watched him trade cards with his friends, developing my own favorites from a distance. The true immersion into Pokémon’s digital realm began when I was five. My mother presented me with a copy of Pokémon: Blue Version. Back in 1999, my disability had not yet progressed significantly. While I was physically weak and relied on a wheelchair, my hands retained greater function, making handheld consoles like the Game Boy manageable. Early Pokémon games featured straightforward movement and turn-based combat, allowing me to play for hours without experiencing physical fatigue or discomfort. This classic, accessible design remained constant for years, extending through the third generation with titles like Ruby, Sapphire, Fire Red, and Leaf Green. Regardless of the Game Boy iteration, Pokémon’s core playstyle offered a stable gaming experience in my life. Whether I was unwinding after school or confined to an ICU room, connected to various medical equipment, Pokémon was always there for me to play.
When Change Creates Conflict
Pokémon’s inherently inclusive gameplay has been fundamental to its widespread accessibility. These games are crafted to be enjoyed by everyone, allowing individual players to tailor their difficulty. Whether you prefer to easily progress through the story with just your starter and a powerful legendary, or dedicate yourself to constructing an intricately competitive team with precise stat allocations and type advantages, the game offers complete freedom. This level of flexibility provided by Pokémon games is, for me, unparalleled in terms of accessible design. Even as Nintendo advanced, introducing new handheld systems with innovative features, Pokémon’s core gameplay loop remained largely unchanged. While the DS and 3DS entries incorporated touchscreen elements for mini-games, I successfully completed every Pokémon title released on those platforms. However, this consistent streak was interrupted with the debut of the first Pokémon game for the Nintendo Switch. Released in 2018, Pokémon: Let’s Go, Pikachu! and Pokémon: Let’s Go, Eevee! were remakes of the original Yellow Version, featuring notable alterations. Pokémon appeared in the overworld, simplifying discovery and shiny hunting. The overall difficulty was significantly reduced, aiming to attract new fans. These changes were welcome, but the most controversial addition was mandatory motion controls. Catching a Pokémon required players to flick the Joy-Con, mimicking a Poké Ball throw to activate the controller’s motion sensors. There was no alternative control scheme for this mechanic. For the first time in a mainline entry, Pokémon altered one of its fundamental gameplay principles, resulting in a less accessible experience. This was the first occasion in my life where I couldn’t play a Pokémon game because of its inaccessibility. While I wasn’t particularly bothered by missing another first-generation remake, I worried this gimmick might establish a troubling precedent for future releases. In 2018, I penned my inaugural article highlighting the detrimental accessibility impact of the Let’s Go games. In a truly poetic full circle moment, the series that had been my accessibility benchmark ultimately helped launch my career as a disability and accessibility reporter. At a time when gaming journalism in this specialized field was still nascent, it was inspiring to see a publication entrust a new writer with challenging one of the world’s biggest franchises. My piece was deeply personal, yet it also addressed broader accessibility concerns—specifically, whether innovation could pose risks to inclusivity. Fortunately, the Let’s Go titles were the only ones to enforce motion controls, but Pokémon continues its pursuit of innovation.
An Uncertain Future
Pokémon’s recent “Legends” series has once again redefined how players interact with and capture these powerful creatures. While 2022’s Pokémon Legends: Arceus retained the classic turn-based battle system, it introduced real-time catching mechanics without providing built-in accessibility options. To fully enjoy Arceus, I had to utilize a specialized controller alongside Nintendo’s native system accessibility settings, enabling them through the Switch console rather than within the game itself. Fast forward to 2025’s Pokémon Legends: Z-A, and for the first time in a Pokémon title, nearly everything transitioned to real-time. This meant I struggled to play for consecutive hours. Despite completing both Legends games, I did so while contending with a level of physical fatigue and strain I had never before associated with Pokémon. Although I genuinely appreciate these fresh interpretations of the 30-year-old classic series, a sense of apprehension lingers when I consider the future of the franchise. Will another “Let’s Go”-style game emerge that I simply cannot play? This uncertainty, quite frankly, deeply concerns me.
My affection for Pokémon will never waver; it remains my unwavering source of emotional comfort. As I’ve matured, I’ve come to appreciate the intricate nuances within each game. Competitive battling, the thrill of shiny hunting, and the satisfaction of completing the Pokédex have always been aspects I could comfortably engage with, despite my physical disability. While I’ve become more cautious about letting my accessibility guard down with new game announcements, Pokémon’s extensive library offers a reassuring retreat to my comfort zone. For this reason alone, I eagerly anticipate where the next three decades will lead us.
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