On a technical drawing that point is called a datum. Nothing on the page has a size of its own — every dimension is stated in relation to the datum. Move it and the whole drawing changes. Hold it steady and everything else falls into place.
A desk works the same way. It is the one surface you return to every day, and everything you put on it is really a measurement: how far your hand travels, whether the screen sits at eye level, whether the cable reaches the socket. We took the name because that is the job — treat the surface as the datum, and specify everything that sits on it.
A fixed reference from which measurements are taken. Plural: data. Origin: Latin, a thing given.
Nothing goes into the catalogue without its numbers: width, depth, height, thickness, the clamp range, the cable length. If we cannot state a dimension, we do not list the piece. You should know whether something fits before it arrives, not after.
Ten pieces cover the surface you work at. That is the whole sheet. No seasonal drops, no ranges that quietly disappear, no fifty variations of the same riser. A set is meant to be finished, not endlessly extended.
Every product page carries a short note about what the piece will not do — a clamp that needs a particular desk thickness, a riser with no VESA plate. Writing the limit down costs us a sale now and again. Leaving it out costs you a return.
We do not run a factory, and we are not going to pretend otherwise. What we do is choose the ten pieces, publish their dimensions, photograph them against the same grid, and answer the question you would otherwise have to guess at: will this actually fit my desk.
Buy one piece or build the whole set. The order does not matter much — every piece is drawn to the same surface.