The rule people argue with and then agree with
Never print the expected quantity on the sheet.
If the paper says the bin should hold twelve, you will be told twelve.
People cheat. Not everybody and not out of malice, but hand
somebody a number and a shortcut together, four hours into a long day, up a ladder, and a
good proportion will take it. They stop at twelve. They decide the twelfth is behind
something. They round the nearly-full box up to a full one.
The whole value of a stocktake is that it is independent of what
the system believes. Hand the counter the expectation and you have not counted your
stock — you have spent a day and a shift's wages confirming your own records.
And decide the largest number anyone can type. Not because people are careless.
Because people invent conventions, and a convention outlives the system that made
sense of it.
One customer has counted every year since 2010. Their
operators type 9999 when a bin is empty. In the software they
were using then, that was correct: 9999 meant I came, I looked, there is nothing
here. The people who started doing it have long since left. Nobody ever wrote it
down. The habit is fifteen years old and, from where the operator is standing, it is
still the right answer.
With no ceiling on the count box, one empty shelf puts 9,999
units into your stock figure and nothing on the report looks unusual. With a ceiling,
the scanner refuses it in front of the person who typed it — while they are still
at the bin, and can tell you what they actually meant.