A story of Christmases (almost)

I'd heard of 3D printing before, but to me it still felt reserved for factories and schools. Discovering it could fit in my living room changed everything. None of us had any idea what my mother had just set in motion.

The same thrill as my first computer, my first smartphone. For the first time, I watched a file from my PC become a real object, built up layer by layer as if rising out of the ground. That feeling never left me.

When a part was too big, I'd split it into pieces and reassemble them afterward — a real puzzle, but it worked. My whole family had figured out where I stood : every gift I got revolved around 3D printing. Even social media had picked up on it before I did.

I was still an amateur — I still am. But I already knew where I wanted to go.

I'd first tested the waters reselling other creators' files — 3D lamps — but it left me lukewarm : no ambition, no spark.

Then one day, a video in my feed : a guy selling small display shelves for manga figures, about twenty euros each, self-assembled. Behind him, exactly the setup of machines I'd been dreaming of. His idea was simple, clever, and it worked. That's when one thought stuck with me : "If he can pull it off with an idea that simple… then so can I." It never left me after that.

"You know what someone should invent?" — I've heard that line hundreds of times. That's just him : always in challenge mode, ideas ranging from brilliant to deliciously far-fetched (he once swore he'd build a portable solarium… in Marseille). But his quick wit has always inspired me. The Roller was born from his challenges : in its own way, it's his too.

Since those first sketches, I haven't printed anything except my invention. With a single printer, I run it nearly around the clock, plus half a day of maintenance every three days. Demanding, but essential for my method : design, print, film, observe, correct, start again. Evenings after work, sometimes until unreasonable hours.

I kept that tenth perfect batte like a relic, in a small sky-blue case — itself one of my very first storage batte prototypes. The two haven't been apart since. It's become a bit of a talisman.

To move forward, I had to do something I'd never done: stop improvising, and lay everything out flat. I filled in spreadsheets, timed my print and assembly runs, calculated the cost of every part, compared it all to what already existed. Bit by bit, a business model emerged — with one simple constraint: 30 to 36 hours of non-stop printing depending on the box, plus 3 to 5 hours of prep and assembly. Selling it for anything less than well over $100 just didn't add up.

So I reworked my numbers until I found the right balance, with a single goal: every sale funding my future production workshop. That's how the three post-launch prices came about: $39, $54, and $69. Those figures aren't pulled out of thin air: there's real work and real hours behind preparing and assembling every part. I promise you that.

And behind those numbers, a question came up: how do you communicate a launch like this, for a product like mine? Without realizing it, I was standing at the foot of a mountain. Given the kind of use people instinctively associate with this type of machine, I found myself facing an entire list of things not to do, not to show, not to say. I'd calculated everything… except the constraints on how I could talk about it. And that's when I had to go back to the drawing board.

I considered everything: selling piece by piece on platforms like Etsy, going through existing sites, launching a funding campaign elsewhere. Every time, the same problem came back: with the product I was offering, the framework was never quite right. So I decided to take matters into my own hands and build my own site, with my own words, my own images, my own boundaries. In parallel, I started putting together a team of testers. Because at some point, you have to admit your own perspective has its limits. Everything done up to that point had come from me, with advice from my sister — two points of view is a good start, but far from enough to validate a product. I wanted to put my machine to the real test: real people, different backgrounds, unfiltered feedback.

At first, I had three or four people in mind. As the feedback started rolling in, I wanted as many as possible. Each one received a roller, a gear, a tongue, the essentials.

I'd even thought about dropping the Humidifier, worried it might raise questions (I can't always get the moisture level just right — I'm still looking for a more reliable way) ; they talked me out of it.

And their styles are all different : some now only ever make perfect battes, others never do — the machine adapts to both. Even I, after twenty years of practice, never reached that level of consistency by hand.

My sister brought me back down to earth once again — "more compact, simpler" — and from that came the compact Premium Box ($39), and the simpler, more accessible Original Box ($29).

"La Batte" is the very name of the invention : there was no way any box would go without one. So I slipped a batte into every one — even the Original Box, launched at $29 with all the accessories, without touching the price.

Deep down, she'd put her finger on what mattered most : this is no longer a Roller in a box. It's a jewel in a proper case.

If this adventure reaches its goal, I won't be alone at the workbench : my father has promised to come lend a hand. A great father-son moment to share — fitting, since it all started with his joke — and a chance to finally introduce him to 3D printing. A lifelong independent craftsman, passionate about mechanics : I think this world is going to suit him.