When the Law School Admission Council announced on February 11th that the LSAT will no longer be offered online starting this August, I found myself pausing. On one hand, I understand the reasoning: concerns about cheating and maintaining the integrity of the exam are real. Reports of exam theft, manipulation, and even international cheating rings make clear that security matters. On the other, I couldn’t help but think about the students whose path to law school is already full of hurdles, and how this change might unintentionally make the journey more difficult.

The LSAT is more than just a test. For many, it is a threshold into a profession that already carries systemic barriers: cost, access to prep resources, and the advantage of established networks. Removing remote testing may seem like merely a procedural change, but for the students it impacts most, it will feel monumental.

The Online LSAT as a Lifeline

Remote testing was introduced out of necessity during the COVID-19 pandemic, but it quickly became more than a temporary solution. In 2023, the council allowed examinees to choose between online and in-person testing. That year, 61% of test-takers opted for the online version. For those students, remote testing offered more than convenience; it provided control over an environment that could be physically or emotionally taxing if experienced in person.

I have worked with students who juggle chronic illnesses, anxiety, mobility challenges, or caregiving responsibilities. For these students, the ability to take the exam in a familiar or accessible space is transformative. It allows them to structure their day, manage their medication schedules, and create a testing environment that best supports their success. It is hard to overstate how much a small change in environment can impact performance, confidence, and mental well-being.

Even beyond accessibility, remote testing removed another invisible barrier: geography. Students living far from a testing center, sometimes in rural areas or outside the United States, could participate on equal footing with those living in urban hubs. For many, this meant the difference between being able to take the LSAT at all or deferring their application by a year.

Balancing Integrity and Equity

I recognize that the concerns about cheating are not hypothetical. Cheating rings have exploited remote testing platforms, sometimes hiring groups to take the test and compile questions for resale. Steve Addicott, Chief Operating Officer of testing security firm Caveon, reported that “cheating rings also use hidden, high-definition cameras to photograph in-person and online exams, and can sometimes gain remote access to a test taker's computer and answer the questions for them.” The Council has emphasized that moving to in-person testing strengthens test security and reduces technological issues that previously affected online test-takers.

Yet, I find myself reflecting on the tension between two goals: security and accessibility. Security is a valid concern, but it also raises a broader question: who bears the burden when institutions respond to misconduct? In this case, the burden falls on the students with the least flexibility and resources. Those who previously benefited from remote options may now face logistical, financial, or health-related hurdles. The trade-off between integrity and accessibility is not inherently zero-sum, but current policies can make it feel that way.

Historical Lens: Lessons from the Pandemic

The pandemic forced a rapid evolution in standardized testing. Prior to 2020, the LSAT was exclusively in-person. Remote testing, introduced as LSAT-Flex, was a temporary response to COVID-19 restrictions, but it quickly became a vital tool for students navigating unprecedented uncertainty. Hybrid formats offered a rare glimpse into a system that could be both secure and flexible. Students adapted, institutions learned, and for some, opportunities expanded.

According to LSAC, the COVID-19 crisis also created a significant and growing shortfall in the number of candidates applying to law school in 2020. Just two weeks prior to the May LSAT-Flex exam, applicants for fall admission were more than 1,400 behind the previous year, with the gap widening. After the May LSAT-Flex scores were released on June 5, applications surged, cutting the shortfall by nearly 60 percent. Importantly, this surge included meaningful progress for underrepresented groups. LSAC reported that the number of Black or African American applicants lagged 5.3 percent behind 2019; by early June, that gap had shrunk to 1.5 percent. Hispanic/Latinx applications, initially down 1.5 percent, were running 0.8 percent above 2019 levels. The LSAT-Flex format not only preserved access during a crisis but also appeared to reduce disparities in law school applications, demonstrating the potential impact of flexible testing options on diversity and equity.

Returning to exclusively in-person testing feels like a step backward. It highlights how accessibility often depends on crisis-driven innovation rather than proactive policy, and serves as a reminder that flexibility and equity are rarely permanent without deliberate effort.

The Broader Equity Lens

Research on the LSAT’s predictive value tells an even more nuanced story. According to a spring 2019 FIU Law Review article, some schools have found that LSAT scores explain only a modest percentage of the variance in bar exam performance. For example, Texas Tech determined that the LSAT accounted for a limited portion of the difference in bar outcomes among its graduates. The University of Cincinnati reported no meaningful correlation between LSAT scores and Ohio bar passage among its students. Scholars at the University of California, Berkeley have similarly found that the LSAT has weak value in predicting actual lawyering skills. Even the Law School Admission Council has acknowledged that test scores are not appropriate tools for assessing bar exam risk in the sweeping way they are sometimes used.

This does not mean the LSAT has no value. But it does suggest that its power is often overstated. Despite these limitations, LSAT scores continue to play an arguably outsized role in admissions decisions, in ways that disproportionately exclude applicants from various racial and ethnic groups. Layered onto this is the undeniable financial reality of applying to law school. The LSAT itself carries a registration fee. Applicants must also pay for the Credential Assembly Service, transcript processing, and individual law school application fees. Submitting applications to multiple schools, often recommended to increase the likelihood of admission, can cost well over a thousand dollars. While fee waivers exist, they do not eliminate every expense, and not every applicant is aware of them. For some students, particularly those from under-resourced backgrounds, the cost of applying dictates where they apply, how many schools they can realistically consider, or whether they apply at all in a given cycle.

When we zoom out, the picture becomes clearer. Access to prep courses, tutoring, flexible work schedules for study time, travel to testing centers, and now potentially navigating a formal accommodations process are not evenly distributed advantages. While remote testing did not solve all of these inequities, it did remove at least one barrier for some students. As someone who mentors aspiring law students, I find myself thinking about the cumulative weight of these policies. Rarely does one single barrier determine a student’s path. Instead, it is the layering of obstacles like financial strain, standardized testing pressures, documentation requirements, and logistical hurdles that gradually narrows opportunity. Each individual requirement may seem reasonable in isolation. Together, they can become overwhelming.

Remote Testing Is Not a Panacea

It is important to acknowledge that remote testing is not universally liberating. For students with disabilities, the tools that make online testing possible (e.g. webcams, facial recognition, AI-driven proctoring software, and keystroke logging) can create new barriers. Virtual proctoring often algorithmically flags “suspicious behavior,” which can include perfectly normal movements, speech patterns, or methods of interacting with technology that are necessary for some students to demonstrate their knowledge.

For example, students with attention disorders who pace, those with motor tics or involuntary movements, blind students using screen readers, or students who need frequent bathroom breaks may all be flagged by automated systems as suspicious. Assistive technologies like speech-to-text, alternative keyboards, or adaptive mice can also trigger alerts because the software interprets them as anomalies. Facial recognition software, often a requirement for identity verification, can fail to recognize students with certain disabilities or facial differences, raising the risk of exclusion or additional scrutiny.

Remote proctoring can also exacerbate anxiety and stress. Knowing that an AI or a stranger is constantly monitoring eye movements, body language, or room contents can be distracting and intimidating, particularly for students with PTSD, chronic anxiety, or other mental health challenges. Video feeds may inadvertently reveal private aspects of a student’s living environment, such as the presence of support persons, shared housing, or service animals, which can compromise privacy and lead to intentional or unintentional discrimination.

These realities demonstrate that while remote testing can improve access in many ways, it is not a one-size-fits-all solution. It requires careful design and sensitivity to the diverse needs of students. Without intentional accommodations and safeguards, virtual testing can reproduce or even amplify inequities rather than reduce them. The shift to online exams was a step forward in accessibility, but it also highlighted that technology alone cannot eliminate barriers.

The Accessibility Gap Widens

With the remote testing option removed, students with disabilities or other access needs face additional hurdles. Traveling to a testing center, navigating unfamiliar spaces, and managing strict in-person protocols can be physically and emotionally taxing. Even with accommodations, the process can be cumbersome, requiring detailed medical documentation, advance requests, and sometimes weeks of coordination.

It is important to note that LSAC’s new policy does not eliminate remote testing entirely. Rather, it restricts online testing to students who can demonstrate either documented medical needs or extreme hardship that makes in-person testing impossible. This is where the policy becomes both more complicated and more important to understand: remote testing is now considered an accommodation, not an easily accessible option.

What this means in practice is significant. Students who need remote testing must:

• Apply through LSAC’s accommodations process

• Provide thorough documentation

• Meet LSAC’s criteria

• Submit their request on time

• Make a compelling, well-supported case

In other words, students must navigate a complex, formal process to access a test format that many others will take for granted. Even minor errors or delays could result in lost opportunities, and for students already managing health challenges, financial constraints, or caregiving responsibilities, these additional hurdles may feel overwhelming. Remote testing is still available, but the shift fundamentally changes who can access it and how easily they can do so.

Why Access Matters

For those of us who mentor, teach, and advise aspiring law students, these policy shifts serve as a reminder: access matters. Small changes, whether it is the ability to take an exam from home or the support to navigate accommodations, can make a meaningful difference. The law can be a pathway to opportunity, but only if the journey begins with a level playing field.

As I reflect on this change, I am left with a simple thought: integrity is essential, but so is equity. A system that values one over the other will inevitably leave some students behind. As educators, mentors, and members of the legal community, it is our role to notice those gaps, advocate for solutions, and ensure that the path to law school and the profession itself is open to all who have the talent, drive, and vision to walk it.

We must continue to ask ourselves not only how students perform on the LSAT, but under what conditions they are expected to perform. Ultimately, access is not just a matter of policy; it is a reflection of the kind of legal profession we want to build.

Shea Holman Killian is an Assistant Professor of Legal Studies at George Mason University, where she teaches various law and government courses and guides students through the Jurisprudence Learning Community (JPLC). She also serves as a member of the Schar School of Policy and Government’s Gender and Policy Center advisory board, contributing her expertise to advancing gender equity in policy and governance. Outside of George Mason, Shea serves as Counsel at the Purple Method, providing strategic legal guidance, overseeing policy development, and collaborating with stakeholders to create safer and more equitable workplaces.