Packing ratio — where it appears
Named by 32 essays across 7 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
A sheet with one freedom
A Miura-folded sheet can move in exactly one way. Pull it open in one direction and it opens in the other — a negative Poisson's ratio, arriving entirely from the crease pattern and not at all from the paper.
Folding that gets built
Solar arrays, airbags, stents and starshades. The requirement is always the same — large in use, small in transit, along a path nobody has to trust to chance — and folding is what answers it.
Getting close instead of getting it right
When the best answer is out of reach the question stops being what it is and becomes how much is lost. For packing discs into a square the loss is measurable: a seeded search in this repository comes within a fifth of a percent of the best radius anybody has proved, and proves nothing.
A leaf packs by corrugating
A corrugation is the cheapest fold there is — parallel creases, no interior vertex to think about — and a leaf that uses one has to taper it, because a leaf is broad in the middle. Which direction the taper is allowed to run turns out not to be a matter of taste.
The bud chooses the pattern
Nothing in the geometry of a corrugation says how many folds it should have. The container does: too few folds is a strip too wide to fit, too many is a stack too thick to fit, and the window that fits at all is narrow and has a best point in the middle of it.
A wing that folds into nothing
A beetle stows a wing longer than its body under a case a fraction of that length, and the ratio is the whole engineering problem. What a fold achieves is computable from the pattern alone, and the four geometries available are not close to each other.
Nothing in a body folds on a line
A crease in an organism is not a crease. It is a compliant region — a patch of thinner material that bends — and a region has a width. The width consumes surface in exact proportion to the number of folds, which puts a ceiling on how fine a pattern can usefully get.
How much surface fits in a body
An organ whose whole job is to have area — a gut, a gill, a cortex — is solving a packing problem in reverse. Folding buys surface inside a fixed volume, and with a sheet of zero thickness it buys an unlimited amount. With a thickness the curve turns over and then falls to nothing.
The same corrugation in four places
A leaf, a wing, a crushed cylinder and a solar array arrive at nearly the same fold, and none of them copied any of the others. Convergence stories are cheap; this one is checkable, because the constraint that forces it can be computed rather than admired.
The paper is all still there
A folded sheet is smaller than it was and none of it has gone anywhere. How much smaller it is and how many layers deep it is are not two properties of a pattern — they are one number, and their product is the sheet.
The base that tiles
The waterbomb base is the first thing most people fold and the last thing they think about. Repeat it across a sheet and it becomes a tessellation with two kinds of vertex, an assignment that has to be searched for rather than remembered, and a folded state thirty-two times smaller than the paper.
What a corrugation costs
Every tessellation this repository can fold, measured the same way: how much smaller it gets, how deep the stack becomes, and how much creasing was needed to buy it. The last column is the one nobody quotes and the one a folder feels.
A shrink is two numbers
How much smaller a folded sheet gets is quoted as a single factor, and that factor is a product. Measured along each axis separately, an accordion turns out to leave one direction of the paper exactly alone, a twist draws in equally both ways, and the Miura does neither — which is the whole of what makes it a Miura.
Twice as thick where it is thickest
A folded leaf's thickness is quoted as an area calculation: so much lamina, so much footprint, so many layers on average. The average is not what has to fit in the bud. Sampling the folded state of corrugated leaf patterns of two to five rows gives a deepest point of eight, twelve, sixteen and twenty layers against averages of 4.15, 6.23, 8.31 and 10.39 — a ratio of 1.926 that does not move at all.
How much line is on the paper
A crease pattern is described by its creases: how many, at what angles, in what arrangement. What a folder spends is length. The Yoshimura this site prints has eighty-six creases and 2,380 millimetres of folding on a sheet seventeen centimetres across; the Miura has thirty-eight creases and 1,049, and the fold-and-cut triangle has six and 258 — and the two counts do not rank the eight printed patterns the same way.
Fourth of eight, and still not chosen for it
A deployable is sold on compaction: large in use, small in transit. Measured, the pattern that actually gets built converts folding into compaction at 0.67 sheet-widths of crease per layer, which is fourth of the eight printed patterns — nearly three times worse than the Yoshimura, which nobody deploys, and nearly three times better than the hexagon twist, which nobody deploys either. The ranking does not pick out the pattern that flew from anywhere on the shelf, and that is the finding.
The property a patch does not have
A folded corrugation is described as a material — a packing ratio, a stiffness, a Poisson's ratio — and every one of those is a statement about an unbounded medium. Fold the same tiling at six sizes on the same square and the compaction climbs from 3.89 layers to 4.79 as the share of units the rim cuts falls from nine tenths to four, and it has not settled at the fine end. The number a patch gives is the material's number minus its own boundary.
Where the length sits
A pattern's folding length is a total, and a total says nothing about where the work is. Divide each printed sheet into bands by distance from its own edge and the answer separates the patterns by kind: a traditional base carries five times its share of folding in the middle 4% of the paper, a tessellation carries between 0.9 and 1.4 everywhere, and a twist unit carries none at all at its centre. On all eight, the outermost band carries less than its share.
The census returns one
The rung below this one asked for a census: every pattern reaching a stated packing ratio while opening from a single input, with its crease density. The census is makeable for the corrugations and it comes back with one member. A corrugation piles its panels over a footprint as wide as its longest panel, so its ratio is the total length divided by that longest one — and that equals the panel count only when every panel is the same.
Four materials, four optima
The convergence argument gets its pattern and stops there. A hinge has a radius, the radius takes a fixed length of surface out of every fold, and the fold count that gets the most packing out of a sheet is inversely proportional to it — so a leaf, a wing, a gut lining and a metal array agreeing on a corrugation still disagree by an order of magnitude about how many creases to put in one.
The number is the angle
Every packing ratio worked out so far is computed at a fold closed all the way, and a folded wing is not closed all the way. At zero thickness the ratio runs away as the fold shuts, so the size of a quoted number says how far the fold got and not what the pattern is — and the pattern contributes only an exponent, which makes the same quoted ratio mean two quite different angles depending on which geometry produced it.
The surface has to be supplied
The curve that turns over does so because the sheet's own thickness fills the box it is folding into. A surface in a body has to be reached as well as fitted, and the channel that reaches it takes depth out of the same box on exactly the same terms — so the best fold count and the surface it delivers both fall by the ratio of the sheet's thickness to the sheet and its supply together.
Two surfaces in one box
A body folds several surfaces into one volume and each of them does a different job. Dividing the depth between them looks like a fair split costing nothing overall, and it is not: the area a single surface can reach goes as the square of the depth it has, so m surfaces sharing a depth reach a total of exactly one m-th of what one of them would have reached alone.
A sheet has a size as well
The layer count a design reaches is fixed by how thin the paper is. What size the finished thing comes out at is fixed by how large the sheet is, through a factor the pattern decides: the folded footprint times the mean layer count is the area of the paper, so the linear shrink is the square root of the layer count and a sixty-four-layer model finished at a hand's width wants more than a metre of sheet.
A nest pays four a level
A corrugation folded inside the panels of another looks like the arrangement that multiplies surface rather than dividing it. It multiplies the factors and divides the depths, and the depths cancel: a packed level can hold at most its depth over four times what it folds, the thing it folds is as thick as the depth the level below was given, and so a nest of L levels reaches at most the box over 4ᴸ sheet thicknesses. One level with the whole box beats any nest of two by exactly four.
Standing up beats lying down by eight
A level that fills its clearance with plies lying flat makes every ply share the clearance, and the sharing costs a factor of four. A level that fills the same clearance with walls standing on the base gives every member the whole height and charges them only for footing. The ratio is exactly eight, at every clearance and every thickness — and it is the difference between a cost charged against depth and a cost charged against the space beside it.
What a second deployment costs
Every folded structure this field builds deploys once. The reason is a power law: a hinge asked to survive more cycles cannot be as sharp, a blunter hinge takes more surface out of the sheet, and the fold count that packs best falls as the cycle count to a fatigue exponent. A structure required to work a thousand times packs thirty times worse than one required to work once, and the exponent decides how fast rather than whether.
The crease count is a reliability budget
A deployment that needs every hinge to work is the hinge reliability raised to the crease count, so the fineness that buys compaction spends the probability of getting it. At a thousandth of a chance of a hinge failing, sixty hinges give a 94 per cent deployment and three hundred give 74. The fold count that maximises expected compaction is well below the one that maximises compaction — and demonstrating the result takes tens of thousands of successful tests on an article that itself deploys once.
A sheet is as large as two arms
A model's finished size is its sheet divided by the square root of its layer count, so a sixty-four-layer model at a hand's width wants more than a metre of paper. A hand-made sheet is formed on a mould somebody lifts out of a vat and shakes, and what that bounds is an area rather than a thickness: over the whole plausible range of mould weights and what arms can do repeatedly, the largest square sheet runs from about half a metre to about two. The demand and the bound are the same sizes, which is the one thing about them nobody has to know the constants to see.
Eighty layers and the sheet decides the rest
Five of these essays each bound one thing and none of them bounds a design. Put together they close. The crease floor fixes the thinnest usable paper at about a fibre and a half; that paper's stack runs out at eighty layers; the largest sheet two arms can make falls away as the square of the finished size. The region under both is every model anybody can fold, and it has a ceiling at eighty layers and a corner at about a hand's width — above which the paper is no longer the limit and the vat is.
The pattern cheapest to trust
Demonstrating that a one-shot deployment will open takes a number of successful tests proportional to its hinge count, so the pattern that needs fewest tests for what it delivers is the one with fewest hinges per layer of compaction. That criterion is a count nobody computes, and computed on the printed shelf it ranks the patterns differently from crease length per layer: the preliminary base is first, at exactly one hinge per layer, and the square twist rises from seventh to fourth. As patterns are refined the difference sharpens. The waterbomb settles at 2.47 hinges a layer and the Yoshimura at 1.47, but the Miura climbs without levelling — 1.32 at two cells a side, 5.69 at eight — so every finer Miura costs more tests for each layer it adds, and the pattern that gets built is the only one of the three that gets dearer to trust as it gets finer.
The deepest point pays for the paper
A folded design uses its sheet according to its mean layer count and its paper according to its deepest point, and the ratio of the two is a property of the crease pattern. Measured on every printed pattern it runs from exactly one to nearly six — and it does not split tessellations from bases, as expected. It splits patterns whose every panel lies over every point from patterns that keep a footprint with structure in it. The ratio moves the corner of the substrate map by its square root, so the fold-and-cut triangle can reach the paper's eighty layers at 326 millimetres where the preliminary base must stop at 134.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
Layer countTrade-offCorrugationThicknessConservationDeploymentCrease radiusMiura-oriScalingCrease lengthDegrees of freedomReliability