The letters swim.
That’s what my friend Sarah told me when she first described reading with dyslexia, and I’ve carried that image with me for years now—letters that refuse to stay put, that mirror themselves into confusing twins, that crowd together like they’re afraid of white space. She said sometimes the ‘b’ and ‘d’ would trade places mid-sentence, which sounds almost whimsical until you realize she’s talking about losing her place in a textbook three times in one paragraph, about the headache that builds behind her eyes, about teachers who thought she wasn’t trying hard enough. Turns out, roughly 10-15% of the population experiences some form of dyslexia, and for decades designers just… didn’t really think about them. Or maybe they did, but in that vague, we’ll-get-to-it-eventually way that means never. The assumption was that text is text, that letters are neutral vessels for meaning, that if you can read Times New Roman at 12pt you can read anything. Except that’s not how brains work, particularly brains that process visual information differently.
Why Certain Fonts Make Letters Stop Playing Musical Chairs
Here’s the thing: not all typefaces are created equal when it comes to dyslexia-friendly design.
Researchers at the University of Michigan studied this back in 2013, and what they found was pretty specific—sans-serif fonts with distinct character shapes performed better than serif fonts for readers with dyslexia. Comic Sans, which designers love to mock, actually scored surprisingly well in readability tests, probably because its irregular letterforms prevent the visual crowding that makes letters blend together. OpenDyslexic, a font specifically designed for dyslexic readers, adds weighted bottoms to letters to “anchor” them, though the research on whether this actually helps is… mixed, honestly. Some users swear by it, others say it makes no difference, and a 2016 study from the University of Central Arkansas found no significant improvement in reading speed compared to regular fonts like Arial or Helvetica. But—and this is where it gets interesting—the same study noted that many dyslexic readers reported feeling less tired when using OpenDyslexic, even if their actual speed didn’t change. Perception matters. Cognitive load matters. The feeling that text is fighting you matters, even if a stopwatch can’t measure it precisely.
The Spacing Problem That Nobody Talks About Enough
I used to think typography was mostly about choosing the right font.
Wait—maybe that’s what everyone thinks at first. But spacing is where the real magic happens for dyslexia-friendly design, and it’s way more complicated than just hitting the space bar a few extra times. Letter spacing (kerning), word spacing, line spacing (leading), and even the space between paragraphs all contribute to whether text feels readable or hostile. The British Dyslexia Association recommends 1.5 line spacing as a minimum, with some designers pushing for 2.0 for body text. Character spacing should be increased by roughly 35% compared to standard settings—not so much that words fall apart, but enough that individual letters have room to be distinct. I’ve seen documents where designers got overzealous and cranked the spacing so high that sentences looked like ransom notes, which definately defeats the purpose. The goal is breathing room, not isolation. Think of it like personal space on a crowded subway: too little and everyone’s uncomfortable, too much and the social fabric breaks down entirely.
Color Contrast and the Tyranny of Pure Black on Pure White
This surprised me.
Pure black text on pure white backgrounds—the default for basically everything—can actually create visual stress for dyslexic readers. The high contrast causes something called “visual crowding,” where letters appear to vibrate or blur together, and some readers experience a glare effect that makes sustained reading painful. The solution isn’t to make everything gray and washed out, but to soften the contrast slightly: dark gray (#2A2A2A or similar) on off-white or cream backgrounds, or better yet, giving users the option to choose. Some dyslexic readers prefer colored overlays—pale yellow, light blue, or peach backgrounds that reduce the starkness without sacrificing legibility. There’s individual variation here that’s honestly kind of frustrating from a design standpoint, because what works brilliantly for one person might do nothing for another. I guess it makes sense, though. Dyslexia isn’t one monolithic condition; it’s a cluster of related processing differences, and expecting one visual solution to work for everyone is like expecting one shoe size to fit every foot.
Layout Choices That Acknowledge How Eyes Actually Move Across Pages
Anyway, fonts and spacing only get you so far.
Layout—how information is structured on the page—might matter even more, though it gets discussed less because it’s harder to quantify. Left-aligned text (ragged right) consistently outperforms justified text for dyslexic readers, probably because justified text creates irregular spacing between words that disrupts rhythm. Column width matters too: lines that are too long force the eye to travel farther, increasing the chance of losing your place, while lines that are too short create choppy, exhausting reading. The sweet spot is somewhere around 60-70 characters per line, though I’ve seen recommendations ranging from 45 to 80 depending on font size and spacing. Headers and subheadings should be visually distinct—not just bolded, but larger, with extra space above them to signal transitions. Bullet points and numbered lists break up dense text and provide visual anchor points. Honestly, a lot of dyslexia-friendly design principles are just… good design principles, period. They benefit everyone, not just dyslexic readers. Which makes you wonder why they’re not the default. Why we’re still designing for some imaginary average reader who doesn’t exist, instead of acknowledging that readability is a spectrum and accessibility features don’t diminish design—they complete it.
