For the first 15 years, hobbyist 3D printing was an extreme sport for the few.
The RepRap project (and the unjustly almost forgotten Fab@Home) pushed 3D printing technology to heights previously out of reach. It popularized it among people who were not employees of industrial R&D departments, research labs, or other highly specialized fields.
It was a project whose idea was painfully simple and at the same time almost messianic: a 3D printer capable of printing parts for itself.
Open source, open hardware, community, fellowship, revolution.
Ordinary people assembled machines from threaded metal rods and plywood. They calibrated the bed for half an hour before every print. They debugged firmware. They replaced thermistors.
They spoke about retraction and flow rate with the reverence others reserve for wine or car engines.
Except they weren’t really “ordinary people.” They were makers. Early adopters. And to some extent - fanatics.
But - it must be emphasised - without them there would be nothing.
They built the foundation. They wrote the code. They tested thousands of parameter combinations. They smashed into the wall with their heads so others could later walk through a door.
Yet they were also closed within their own bubble. For a long time, 3D printing was a conversation among the initiated. If you didn’t know what Marlin was, if you didn’t understand why nylon hates moisture, if you couldn’t replace a nozzle yourself - then you simply weren’t one of them.
Your 3D printer doesn’t work? That’s because you’re a poor operator. A 3D printer is only as good as its operator!
