Christina VarvisFirst Day Access (FDA) has been presented to the council so often that it now feels less like a proposal and more like a ritual. Each return promises clarity. Each time, the same concerns remain.
The FDA proposal presents itself as a response to a real and growing problem. Course materials cost too much. Many students struggle to afford them, especially at the start of term. That pressure is undeniable. But acknowledging a problem does not mean every proposed solution deserves adoption. FDA risks charging students more, reducing choice, and normalizing a system that prioritizes administrative convenience over genuine affordability.
At its core, FDA relies on a flat-fee model. Students would pay a standardized charge each term for digital access to required materials. This structure removes flexibility. Students are automatically opted-in, unless all of their courses are registered as Zero Textbook Cost (ZTC) or opt-out every semester. Students who already spend little or nothing on textbooks would still pay the same fee as students in programs with expensive materials. That outcome does not lower costs. It redistributes them.
Many students already manage textbook expenses strategically. They buy used books. They share materials with classmates. They rely on library copies. They wait to confirm whether a textbook is actually required before purchasing it. A bundled fee eliminates these choices. Instead of paying for what is needed, students pay for what the system predicts they might need. For many students, that means paying more than before.
The flat-fee model also assumes that textbook costs should be averaged across the student body. That assumption deserves scrutiny. Different programs rely on vastly different materials. Some courses use open resources or library readings. Others require proprietary platforms or expensive digital access codes. Treating these differences as irrelevant ignores how students actually experience costs. A policy that charges everyone the same amount creates winners and losers by design.
FDA also introduces new risks. Opt-out systems depend on clear communication, firm deadlines, and perfect timing. Students who miss a message, misunderstand the process, or face accessibility barriers can end up charged automatically. That risk does not fall evenly. It hits students balancing work, caregiving, health issues, or financial stress the hardest. A program framed as supportive should not rely on procedural traps.
Control over learning materials also shrinks under this model. FDA relies on temporary digital licenses rather than ownership. Access often expires at the end of the term. Students lose the ability to keep materials for future courses, revisit them later, or study at their own pace over time. Physical textbooks, printed notes, and permanent digital files become harder to justify. Education becomes something students rent rather than retain.
This shift reshapes the student relationship to learning. Ownership allows students to annotate, revisit, and build on materials across semesters. Temporary access treats course content as disposable. That approach may suit publishers and platforms, but it undermines long-term learning. Students should not lose academic tools simply because a term ends.
The structure of FDA also strengthens publisher control. Bulk licensing agreements entrench the same companies responsible for rising textbook prices. Once these contracts become standard, leaving them becomes difficult. The system normalizes paying for access instead of ownership. Over time, students lose leverage, and institutions lose flexibility. What begins as a cost-saving measure can become a permanent dependency.
Student representatives have raised these concerns repeatedly. Members of Students’ Council questioned whether the program lowers costs at all. Several councillors openly opposed its implementation. In fact, the entire Students’ Council has opposed the program two years in a row. Their objections focus on structure, not intent. The issue is not whether affordability matters. The issue is whether this program actually delivers it.
FDA also fails to address the root cause of high material costs. It does not challenge pricing practices. It does not reduce publisher power. It does not expand free alternatives by default. Instead, it reorganizes payment. That distinction matters. A policy that rearranges costs without lowering them risks becoming a distraction rather than a solution.
Better options already exist. ZTC courses eliminate material expenses entirely. Open educational resources allow instructors to tailor content while keeping it free, adaptable, and permanent. These approaches reduce costs directly. They preserve student choice. They avoid licensing traps. They also align with the university’s educational mission rather than vendor contracts.
These alternatives require investment and institutional support. They require time, training, and incentives for faculty. They do not offer the simplicity of a bundled fee. But simplicity should not outweigh effectiveness. If affordability is the goal, the university should prioritize solutions that actually make education cheaper, not ones that merely spread costs differently.
Equity often appears as a justification for FDA. No student should fall behind because they cannot afford materials in week one. That goal matters. Access on the first day can shape confidence and performance. But charging everyone a flat fee is not the only way to achieve that outcome. Expanding library reserves, improving short-term grants, and increasing open access materials would address access without removing choice or ownership.
Equity also requires acknowledging difference. Students do not face identical costs, needs, or circumstances. A uniform fee assumes sameness where none exists. True equity responds to variation. It does not flatten it.
The program’s repeated delays raise further concerns. FDA has already been pushed to fall 2026. Years of discussion have not resolved questions around cost, consent, and governance. Delays often signal unresolved problems. They suggest uncertainty about whether the program can meet its promises without unintended harm. The program can’t even land on a name. It’s changed once already, and is set to change again after the university realized “first day” is copyrighted.
Recent council discussions show that uncertainty remains. Pricing models remain unclear. Student consent mechanisms still raise questions. Long-term impacts remain speculative. That uncertainty should encourage caution. Rushing implementation would risk locking students into a flawed system that becomes difficult to undo.
There is also a broader issue at stake. Universities increasingly rely on bundled fees to manage financial pressure. Each fee may seem reasonable on its own. Together, they reduce transparency. Students see higher totals but fewer explanations. A flat materials fee hides individual costs behind a single number. That opacity undermines trust.
Affordability should mean lower costs, not fewer options. FDA simplifies administration, but it does so by limiting student agency. That trade-off is not neutral. It reshapes how students interact with their education and how institutions define responsibility.
The University of Alberta can choose a better path. It can expand ZTC. It can invest in open resources. It can support students directly rather than bundling costs into another mandatory charge. These options require effort, but they deliver real savings and preserve choice.
FDA offers a shortcut. Shortcuts often look appealing under financial pressure. But they can create long-term problems that outweigh short-term convenience. Education should not rely on systems that make learning conditional on licenses and deadlines.
Until the program proves it lowers costs for most students without reducing ownership or choice, it should remain on hold. Students deserve affordability measures that actually make education cheaper. Bundling the problem away does not accomplish that.
