Making a keycap profile.
A Shape That Made Sense
Some designs happen in an instant. Others take their time, growing quietly in the background until, one day, they feel inevitable. TP-1 was the latter. There was no sudden flash of inspiration—just a series of small observations, layered over time, each one nudging things in a particular direction.
I never set out to create a new keycap profile. It wasn’t something I planned. It was more of a quiet realization, a feeling that something slightly different could exist—not because anything was wrong, but because the space for something new was there.
Keyboards have always fascinated me. Not just as tools, but as objects—things that sit on a desk with presence. The best ones feel like they belong, as if every part has been considered, from the materials to the weight to the way light moves across their surfaces. It’s not about features or specifications; it’s about how they settle into your space, how they become part of your daily rhythm.
And yet, as much as I loved keyboards, I kept coming back to the same feeling. A small one, but persistent. It was about keycaps—not as individual pieces, but in how they interacted with the keyboard as a whole. The way they caught the light, the way they formed a surface together. Small things, but the kind that add up.
So, TP-1 started as an experiment—an attempt to answer a question I hadn’t been able to shake:
"What if the keycaps simply felt more at home?"
A Familiar Idea, Seen Differently
I never wanted TP-1 to be a statement. I just wanted it to make sense.
A uniform profile was a natural choice—not for the sake of minimalism, but for cohesion. Instead of steps between rows, there’s a continuous rhythm, a clean line that feels at ease with the shape of modern keyboards. It’s the kind of change that doesn’t immediately stand out, but when you see it, you wonder why it wasn’t always that way.
The material was another quiet decision. PBT with fiberglass. It gives TP-1 a certain clarity in feel—a crispness under the fingers. The surface is fine-textured but not rough, comfortable for extended use while remaining resistant to wear.
The shape itself needed to be subtle. From the side, TP-1 is deliberately neutral. But when you touch it, you notice something—a barely-there concave indentation on the top surface. It’s not deep enough to demand a particular typing position, but it’s there, just enough to guide your fingers. It’s a shape that meets you where you are, rather than asking you to adjust to it.
There’s something about that balance that I kept coming back to—how much influence a design should have on the user. Some keycap profiles tell you exactly where your fingers should be. TP-1 doesn’t. It just creates a surface that feels right, however you use it.
A Unique Take on Homing Keys
Homing keys—those small tactile indicators that help you find your way back to the correct typing position—are often an afterthought. Most keycap profiles rely on raised bars or dots, purely functional markers that stand out just enough to be useful but rarely contribute to the overall aesthetic.
TP-1 takes a different approach. The homing keys feature the Geistmaschine monogram instead of traditional bumps or bars. This was a challenge. Unlike a simple raised line, integrating a detailed monogram into the surface of a keycap without making it distracting or impractical required careful adjustments. But in the end, it worked—and it turned out stunning. The monogram is subtle yet tactile, something you recognize by feel but also appreciate visually. It blends function and identity in a way that feels considered, not arbitrary.
For those who prefer a different approach, scooped homing keys are also available. These feature a slightly deeper indent, offering a more traditional tactile cue without any additional surface texture.
Both options serve the same purpose, but in ways that align with TP-1’s core idea: function should never come at the expense of form, and small details matter.
Why Dye Sublimation?
One decision that mattered more than it might seem at first was the choice of dye sublimation over double-shot molding for the legends.
Double-shot keycaps have their place. They’re durable, and they offer sharp contrast. But they come with a constraint—a thick, rigid barrier around what can and can’t be done with type. The process demands bold, filled-out lettering, and it struggles with anything delicate. Thin lines, intricate details, custom typography—these things are either difficult or impossible with double-shot molding.
Dye sublimation, on the other hand, offers flexibility. It allows for finer lines, lighter typefaces, and more intricate designs. It enables novelties that aren’t just blocky imitations of an idea but are instead detailed, considered, expressive. It lets the legends feel integrated rather than imposed.
That mattered to me. Typography isn’t just a necessity—it’s an essential part of how keycaps communicate. The shape of a letter, the weight of a stroke, the way the legends interact with the surface—all of these things influence how a keyboard feels, visually and emotionally. With dye sublimation, those choices remained open. It wasn’t only about making legends that lasted forever. It was about making legends that looked right.
Thinking About Light
One of the more unexpected parts of designing TP-1 was thinking about reflections.
Most people don’t notice how light moves across a keycap. But once you start paying attention, it’s impossible to ignore. The way edges transition into curves, the way highlights break or flow—it changes the way keycaps sit on a keyboard.
TP-1 takes a different approach. Instead of relying on standard geometric fillets, the transitions are sculpted with custom splines—carefully shaped so that reflections glide across them smoothly, without interruption. The result is a surface that feels softer, more natural. It’s not something most people will consciously register, but they’ll feel it.
And that’s enough.
A Shape That Settles In
There’s always a moment when you start using something new where you’re aware of it. It feels different. Maybe even slightly off. But then, at some point, that awareness fades. The object becomes part of your space, part of your habits, something you don’t think about anymore.
That’s what I wanted for TP-1. Not something that shouts for attention. Not something that insists on being noticed. Just something that fits—into a setup, into a workflow, into daily life.
It doesn’t need to be more than that.
The Quiet Satisfaction of Getting It Right
Looking back, TP-1 didn’t come from a single moment. It was built from fragments—thoughts I had while typing, reflections on how materials age, observations on light and form. None of them were dramatic on their own. But together, they shaped something real.
This was never about creating a product to stand out. It was about designing something that made sense—something that didn’t ask for attention but rewarded those who noticed the details.
Some things in design are meant to be bold. Others just need to feel right.
TP-1 is the latter.
—Maschine