3D Printing in the classroom

One of our 3D printing areas in my school. Two Prusa Mini+ that see near constant use.

Before going any further, you should know I have been a huge fan of personal 3D printing for over 18 years. My opinions may be biased by my general love of tinkering, playing and making - and this may influence where I think this technology belongs in D&T departments. 


I had used 3D prints and 3D printing services for several years before splashing money for my own little machine in 2008 There were few options back in the Wildwest days, none of them could be described as cheap. I opted for the Makerbot Cupcake, a plywood mash-up for open-source ideas and questionable build-quality. The machine itself only had a print volume of 80mm x 80mm x 120mm. Small. Also, as this was before 3D printing had become popular, the choice of filament was limited to ABS. Not only is this a tricky material to 3D print in a machine without an insulated chamber, it also had a terrible smell.


All the entry-level machines came in flat-pack DIY kits, with dubiously sketchy build instructions. I assembled my machine over a few evenings, fettling some parts and remanufacturing others as I went. This was prior to having my own workshop at home, so most of this machine was put together at the kitchen table. Bryony was less than pleased with having her kitchen invaded by my toys - I had crossed a line onto her turf. 


After assembling the machine, and spending an inordinate time cable-managing miles of wiring, the machine fired into life with no drama.  After installing the firmware (something that didn't come preconfigured in 2009) and installing a slicer, immediately I was 3D printing.

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My first 3D print was the letter 'B' with a hole at the top. This was a rather pitiful attempt to justify my kitchen disruption to Bryony by making her a keyring. I was crestfallen by her withering stare as I presented her gift.   It dangled sadly from my fingers, a lumpy blue ABS blob that only vaguely resembled the letter B if you were feeling charitable. The hole wasn’t centred. The layers looked like a topographical map. The whole thing smelled faintly of burnt plastic. Bryony’s expression said everything: you’ve ruined my kitchen for this.


​But something important happened in that moment. I’d taken an idea in my head, pushed it through CAD, sliced it, and held it in my hand minutes later. It was crude, imperfect, and objectively ugly — but it existed. That feeling, the immediacy of it, is exactly why 3D printing belongs in every Design & Technology department.


Over the years, the machines have changed beyond recognition. Print beds are bigger, materials are safer, slicers are cleverer, and the smell of molten ABS no longer permeates your clothes for days. But the educational value hasn’t changed. If anything, it has become more essential.


One of the biggest shifts 3D printing brings to a classroom is the ability to iterate properly. For decades, we’ve told pupils that design is a process, not a single attempt — but the reality was that materials were expensive, time was tight, and pupils usually got one shot at a final model. With a printer humming away in the corner, that changes. Pupils can prototype early, test ideas, refine them, and try again. They learn that a design isn’t “wrong” — it’s just the next step towards something better. And when a pupil tweaks a radius or adjusts a tolerance and sees the physical result an hour later, that’s real engineering thinking taking root.


It also transforms how pupils understand CAD. Instead of following a set of steps to produce a shape that looks vaguely like the teacher’s example, they start to understand why constraints matter, why a wall thickness can’t be 0.2 mm, why overhangs fail, and why tolerances aren’t just numbers. The printer becomes the brutally honest critic that teachers sometimes can’t be. If the model is wrong, it simply won’t print. Pupils learn quickly — and independently — because the feedback is immediate and unforgiving.


Another quiet benefit is how it levels the playing field. Not every pupil is confident with saws, chisels, or the pillar drill. Some freeze the moment a practical task begins. CAD and 3D printing offer a different entry point: safe, precise, undoable. A pupil who struggles with hand tools can still produce high‑quality outcomes. That confidence often spills over into other areas of the workshop.


And then there’s the simple fact that 3D printing expands what’s possible. There are forms, mechanisms, and assemblies that pupils simply cannot make by hand, no matter how patient or skilled they are. Interlocking parts, complex geometry, lightweight structures, biomorphic shapes — these become accessible. Pupils start designing like real engineers, not like people limited by a coping saw and a glue gun.


All of this matters because the world pupils are entering is built on digital workflows. Engineering, product design, architecture, manufacturing — they all rely on CAD, additive manufacturing, and an understanding of how digital intent becomes physical reality. Giving pupils hands‑on experience with that process isn’t a gimmick. It’s preparation.


And, perhaps most importantly, it’s fun. Pupils love watching a machine bring their ideas to life. Teachers love it too. The workshop becomes a place of experimentation again, not just controlled production. That sense of wonder — the same feeling I had holding that terrible ABS keyring — is what keeps creativity alive in D&T.


After eighteen years of tinkering, teaching, failing, fixing, and printing everything from gears to gadgets to questionable keyrings, I’m more convinced than ever: 3D printing isn’t an add‑on. It’s a core tool for modern Design & Technology education. It empowers pupils, deepens learning, expands possibilities, and brings joy back into making.

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If that’s not worth a bit of kitchen disruption, I don’t know what is.