A resale package looks like a folder of PDFs.
It isn't. Open one and there are seven genuinely different kinds of thing inside — and some don't exist yet.
Here's the trouble with "it's just a folder."
The contents live in three different worlds.
Some already exist, sitting quietly in the management company's own files. A budget. An insurance certificate.
Some live inside the accounting system and have to be fetched at the moment of sale, because a balance from Tuesday is a liability by Friday.
And some don't exist at all yet. A letter that needs this owner's real numbers merged into it. A form the buyer has to fill in. An entire automation that goes off and produces the rest.
So an item inside a package can be any of seven types.
That display name matters more than it sounds.
The file on disk is called CCR_FINAL_v3_USE_THIS.pdf.
The buyer sees "Covenants, Conditions & Restrictions." Nobody should ever have to meet v3.
The package itself is named, priced, previewable before purchase, and carries an expiry window on the finished order. Seven days by default.
One more thing a package decides: which upgrades it offers at all. Not every package can be rushed, and not every one can be posted. A statement emailed in ten seconds cannot be express, and a printed binder cannot be electronic. So handling and delivery choices are attached to a package one at a time, not switched on for everything. Attach none and the builder says so plainly — buyers will see no choices at checkout — and the cart simply reads Instant, included. And if a browser ever asks to buy an option that package never offered, the payment refuses it rather than charging for it.
And putting it on sale is its own separate decision.
A package can be completely assembled and still not be for sale. You build it, look at exactly what a buyer would receive, and only then put it on the menu.
A package isn't a folder. It's a recipe.Coming next: the package item that keeps itself current, so nobody re-opens 400 products when the insurance renews.