Note: I wrote this four months ago.
Nearly a year ago, I made a declaration: I was going to get into 3D printing. Like many grand proclamations, it sat dormant until November rolled around and I finally took the plunge. What sparked this delayed dive into the world of additive manufacturing? A tiny lost finial and a healthy dose of stubbornness.
My first print wasn't some elaborate test piece or a cute little benchy boat. No, it was born out of necessity—or perhaps spite. While priming a model, a finial decided to make its escape. It rolled off my workspace into the void, never to be seen again despite my best search efforts the next day. That's when I made my decision: I would design and print my own replacement. Sure, I later discovered I could simply buy a replacement finial, but by then the 3D printing bug had bitten. There was no turning back.
I printed several copies of that finial—different orientations, different support structures—and learned a thing or two in the process. My ambitious plan? Design multiple finial variations and fill an entire build plate. I'd have a lifetime supply and never need to print them again.
Spoiler alert: I got bored.
With finials behind me, I shifted my attention to something completely different: 55-gallon oil drums. Because why not? The solid and flat-top drums? More or less fine. The domed-top versions? Well, let's just say they came out looking more like pancakes than proper drums. The open drums failed spectacularly—turns out the walls were far too thin to survive the printing process.
I also learned an important lesson about scale versus appearance. I created the details like ribs to actual scale, but they needed to be oversized to look right. It's one of those counterintuitive truths about miniature modeling: sometimes reality needs a little exaggeration to look realistic.
Then came the miniatures. Oh, the miniatures. I got completely sucked into miniature printing, only to realize just how much time the hobby demands. And here's the thing—the actual printing doesn't require much hands-on involvement. You set it up; press start and walk away. It's the post-processing that devours your time.
Before buying my printer, I had a nagging concern: would 3D printing become a hobby unto itself? Would it consume all my free time if not managed properly? I was right to worry. It absolutely can—and will—if you let it.
Way before my 3D printing adventures, I built the Kingston Creamery kit from South River Modelworks. The main thing I remember? Those resin castings had more air bubbles than a glass of champagne. I am kidding. Not that many, but still quite few. They weren't particularly noticeable at first, but the moment I applied an oil wash, every cavity popped into stark relief. The stone walls looked like they'd survived a shootout. Cue the touch-up painting.
Despite the bubble battle, it was a pleasant build overall. South River Modelworks makes beautiful kits, and I'd love to tackle more of them. But here's where I hit another wall: choice paralysis.
I have several South River kits on my wishlist, with two clear favorites. One is an older plaster kit, the other a newer resin offering. Both call to me. Both would be satisfying builds. Both would take considerable time. Which leads to the eternal modeler's question: Which one? Is having a choice good? Sometimes I'm not so sure. When you have limited hobby time and unlimited options, decision-making becomes its own challenge. Do you go with the classic charm of plaster, or the crisp detail of modern resin? Do you choose based on difficulty, display potential, or simply which box art speaks to you that particular day?
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some oil drums to redesign and a decision to make about plaster versus resin.
