I added a tip section to the app in the fall of last year. To be precise, the implementation itself took no more than 30 minutes. But before I could press that "publish" button, I spent about two weeks wavering. Adding a mechanism to receive money for something I was distributing for free—I didn't realize how frightening that would be until I actually tried it. I'm sure there are others hesitating with the same feelings, so I decided to write about this. Including the things I failed at, the things I felt embarrassed about, and the reasons I'm still continuing despite it all—as honestly as I can.
Resistance to the word "monetization"
The question of "should individual developers aim for monetization?" comes up often in communities. Placing ads, switching to a subscription model, creating a paid plan—there are various options, each with success stories.
But none of them felt quite right to me. I didn't want ads to ruin the user experience, and I didn't have the confidence to continuously deliver value worthy of a subscription. As for paid plans, I hated the feeling of "demoting" one set of features compared to another.
Then I saw a blog from an overseas indie developer with a "Buy me a coffee" link in the footer, and I thought: that's it. It doesn't force anything. It doesn't create an obligation. It just quietly opens a door that says, "if you happen to like this."
The "qualification problem" that stood in the way before implementation
Technically, it was really simple. Using an existing service, just a few lines of configuration. Place a small banner on the app's page, set up a button that says "support with the price of a coffee." That's all.
But after finishing the implementation, I couldn't bring myself to publish it.
There was a voice in my head:
"Is this app really at a level where it deserves money?" "Isn't it strange to ask for support when there are still bugs?" "With only 50 monthly active users, won't people laugh at a tip section?"
This is the "qualification problem"—the mental habit of convincing yourself that you don't yet have the right to do something. Waiting until it's perfect. Waiting until there are more users. Waiting until you have more achievements. Setting these conditions for yourself and postponing action.
After about two weeks of wavering, one night I wrote down "what am I afraid of?" in a notebook.
Three big things came out.
When no one presses it
The fear of zeros continuing. A tip section exists, but no one clicks it. It felt like being told "this app has no value," and I even thought it would be better not to put it there in the first place.
But thinking about it carefully, a state without a tip section is a "state where the answer hasn't been measured." If there's no door to click, you can't click anything. A zero result is scary, but it's far better than "not measuring at all."
When people I know see it
When posting release announcements on social media, some followers are people I know. There was embarrassment at the thought of them thinking, "oh, that person started charging money."
Honestly, I still feel a little of this. But tips aren't mandatory, and I don't want my acquaintances to click them. If someone I know sees it and thinks "oh, that's an option too," then something has been communicated, I decided to think.
When people think I'm "in it for the money"
This was the deepest fear. It felt like the pure motivation behind creating something would be tainted the moment I put money into the picture.
But thinking about it calmly, that's a strange way to think. A restaurant can have the pure desire to "make delicious food" and still accept money without it being tainted. In fact, receiving compensation allows them to continue. Shouldn't indie development be the same? Loving what you create and receiving support to keep going aren't contradictory.
One Tuesday morning, I drank my coffee with notifications turned off, took a deep breath, and published it. On Twitter, I wrote just one line: "I've added a tip section. Feel free if you're in the mood," posting it more like a private thought than an announcement.
Nothing happened that day.
Two days later, nothing happened either.
I thought "I figured," but somehow the disappointment was shallower than expected. Just the fact of opening the door gave me a sense of moving forward.
A coffee one cup's worth, ten days later
About ten days after publishing, an email arrived one evening. The subject line read: "Someone just bought you a coffee!"
When I opened it, there was a 500 yen donation with a short message: "I use it every day. Thank you."
I cried so hard. Not out loud, but tears came to my eyes and the screen blurred.
500 yen. The price of one coffee. But it wasn't about the amount. Someone had taken their own money, of their own will, and spent it on my app. That fact was enormous, and I sat staring at the screen in a daze for a while.
The "resolution" of gratitude changed
I'd received "this helps" in app reviews before. That was nice too. But "thank you" that comes with a tip somehow has different resolution.
Words alone have distance to them. But the act of money changing hands carries a decision. Opening a wallet, seeing the amount, pressing a button. The fact that someone went through that trouble gave weight to the words.
After this experience, I started sending tips to apps and indie developers I like too. I learned that delivering both "I use this" and 300 yen changes something.
The reality of "being used" changed my behavior
After receiving tips, my app update frequency increased slightly.
I was surprised by this myself. Even when you intellectually know someone is using your app, there are times when your hands won't move. But when "I use it every day" and 500 yen arrived, I thought, "I want to make this a little better for this person."
Not out of obligation, but with a sense of wanting to return the favor. Not "I received something so I should give back," but "I saw someone happy, so I want to make them happier." That's all.
I learned that zeros are okay
In the ten days before the first tip arrived, zeros continued. The thing I'd feared was happening.
But in reality, it wasn't as painful as I thought. Probably because "zero" wasn't proof of "no value." There were people using it. Today just wasn't the moment for them to click the tip button. That's all it was.
It was a period where I practiced not reading "zero" as "rejection."
I can't write much about specifics, but one thing:
If you think "it's too early," it's probably not too late.
Even with bugs, even with few users, even if it's not finished, you can add a tip section. Since it's not mandatory, adding it doesn't hurt anyone. A phrase like "if you happen to like this" is a completely different act from putting a price tag on something.
I wavered for two weeks before publishing, got zeros for the first ten days, and cried when 500 yen arrived.
It's natural to be scared. But the fear got a little smaller once I tried it.
The day a coffee's worth of money arrives is somewhere out there, waiting.
Lily
Lily（@bokuwalily）― Individual developer. Creating iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
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Lily（@bokuwalily）― After leading a marketing organization of 50 people as CMO, I now create iOS apps and web services independently. I consult on customer acquisition, user flow design, and AI implementation and business automation.
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