Does accepting free products change how honest a review can be?

One of the quiet but powerful forces shaping modern hobby YouTube is the rise of free review products. Rulebooks, miniatures, paints, tools, and even entire games are regularly sent to content creators in exchange for coverage, often with the promise of an “impartial” review. On the surface, that seems harmless, even helpful. After all, it lets viewers see new products without having to buy them first. But beneath that surface sits a much more complicated question: Does accepting free products change how honest a review can be?

In this video, I explore that tension from the perspective of a historical tabletop wargamer and miniature painter. Over the last few months alone, I’ve received more than a dozen offers of free products to review, including three different 3D printers, despite never having used one on the channel. I turned them all down, not because they weren’t generous offers, but because they would have pushed the channel away from what it’s actually about. Accepting a free product doesn’t just mean opening a box; it means committing time, energy, and creative focus to something that might only be there because it costs nothing.

That’s where the real danger lies. Free products don’t automatically make someone dishonest, but they can quietly distort priorities. They can pull creators toward what is being offered rather than what they genuinely want to explore. In a hobby built on long projects, deep dives, and slow creative work, that shift can be damaging.

The video also looks at the other side of the argument: are reviews of things we buy ourselves really more objective? Paying for a product doesn’t remove bias; it just changes it. We all want our purchases to feel justified, and that can colour how we talk about them. Whether something is free or bought, what really matters is transparency, context, and a willingness to talk about both strengths and weaknesses.

Throughout the discussion, I argue that trust in the tabletop and miniature painting community doesn’t come from pretending money and freebies don’t exist. It comes from being honest about them. Viewers deserve to know whether something was bought, gifted, or part of a larger collaboration so they can judge the opinion for themselves.

If you care about historical wargaming, hobby YouTube, and the future of honest reviews in our niche, this video digs into a topic that affects us all, whether we realise it or not.

Painting Challenge XVI: Soviet BA10 Armoured Car & T26 tank

This week I present a couple of armoured vehicles for my Winter War Soviets, both finished with a rough, field-applied whitewash over the standard Soviet green. This was very much a leap of faith for me. After assembly, I got the models fully painted, decaled, and weathered to the point where they looked “done”… and then deliberately smeared white paint all over them like a vandal. 

There are plenty of established whitewash techniques out there, but I ended up bodging together my own. I mixed white acrylic paint, distilled water, and airbrush flow improver in roughly equal parts. The flow improver is the unsung hero here: it reduces surface tension and stops the paint from pooling or beading. What you get is a milky glaze that needs two or three coats, depending on how heavy you want the finish. I hand-brushed it panel by panel, deliberately avoiding raised edges and high-wear areas like hatches and crew access points. The aim was that hurried, uneven, already-wearing-off look you see in historical photos. 

 

The BA-10 armoured car was developed in 1938 and produced until 1941, making it the most numerous Soviet heavy armoured car of the pre-war period, with over 3,300 built. This is the earlier BA-10 variant, descended from the BA-3 and BA-6, using the GAZ-AAA chassis and sporting improved armour up to 15mm on the front and turret. It was meant to be replaced by the BA-11 in 1941, which would have had a diesel engine and a more advanced armour layout, but the war rather rudely intervened. The BA-10 soldiered on in Red Army service until 1945, and a number were captured and pressed into Finnish service during the Winter War (at least 24 that are known of).

The T-26light infantry tank needs little introduction. Developed from the British Vickers 6-Ton, it became one of the most prolific tank designs of the interwar years. More than 11,000 were built across an eye-watering 50-plus variants, including flamethrowers, engineering vehicles, self-propelled guns, artillery tractors, and armoured carriers. Early versions had twin turrets with machine guns in each, but this is the 1939 single-turret model with the 45mm main gun, a coaxial machine gun, and an additional rear turret MG. By 1939, its armour was already starting to look thin against modern anti-tank weapons, but sheer numbers kept it relevant and deadly through the Winter War. Once again, captured vehicles were hastily repainted and used by the Finns to defend their homeland, many in service right through to the end of WWII. 

Both models are from Rubicon, and they were a pleasure to build. The BA-10 can be assembled with or without the over-tire tracks, while the T-26 kit gives you enough parts to build one of several variants on the same chassis. The instructions for each kit are very clear, but as with any plastic kit, patience is the key to success. I enjoyed making these so much that I have now bought a couple of GAZ-AA trucks from Rubicon to carry my infantry in. Gotta give Ray’s Finns something to shoot at during his Motti attacks after all. 

Why I still Blog after 16 years

This Blog, BigLee’s Miniature Adventures, recently turned sixteen years old, which is a slightly alarming number when you realise it means I’ve been writing about toy soldiers on the internet for well over a decade and a half. In that time, almost everything about how we use the internet has changed, and so has how we share our hobbies. I now spend far more of my creative energy making YouTube videos than writing long blog posts, yet the blog is still here, quietly ticking over in the background. That isn’t an accident. It’s a choice, and one I’ve become more certain about as the years go by.

When I first started blogging in 2009, it felt like everyone in the hobby had their own site. You could bounce from one wargaming blog to another for hours, discovering new projects, painting styles, obscure rule sets, and historical periods you’d never considered before. At its height, my own blogroll listed more than six hundred other wargaming blogs. It felt like a vast, friendly convention hall, where everyone had set up a table to show off what they were working on. There was a real sense of continuity too; you could follow someone’s hobby journey for years, watching their skills grow and their interests shift.

That world has undeniably thinned out. Many of those blogs have fallen silent, some have vanished entirely, and others are frozen in time, their last post dated years ago. Part of that is simply life getting in the way. Blogging takes time and energy, and hobbies are often the first thing to be squeezed when work, family, and other commitments pile up. But it’s also about the wider changes in how we use the internet. Social media and video platforms offer faster, easier ways to share content. You can post a picture to Facebook or Instagram and get instant feedback with almost no effort. Compared to that, writing, formatting, and maintaining a blog can feel like hard work. So why bother?

For me, the answer lies in what blogs offer that those faster platforms don’t. A blog is a personal space. It’s one person’s voice, one person’s journey, laid out over time. It allows for depth and reflection in a way that short posts and scrolling feeds rarely encourage. When I write a long article about a project, a rule set, or even the hobby itself, I know that anyone who reads it has chosen to slow down and engage with what I’m saying. The audience might be smaller, but it’s often more invested.

There’s also the matter of permanence. Social media is designed to move on quickly. Yesterday’s post is buried by today’s, and within a week it might as well not exist. A blog, on the other hand, builds an archive. Articles written years ago can still be found, read, and used. I regularly hear from people who’ve discovered an old tutorial, battle report, or opinion piece of mine and found it helpful long after it was written. That kind of longevity is something I value deeply. It feels like leaving behind a trail of breadcrumbs for fellow hobbyists to follow.

The blog is also a record of my own hobby life. When I look back through the archives, I see not just finished projects but abandoned ones, experiments that didn’t quite work, and ideas that evolved over time. I can watch my painting improve, my interests shift, and my understanding of the hobby deepen. It’s a bit like an old campaign journal: sometimes cringeworthy, often messy, but full of stories and memories that would otherwise be lost.

That doesn’t mean I’m stuck in the past. Moving into video creation has been a hugely positive change for me. It allows me to reach more people and have more immediate conversations. But the blog still plays a role in that wider creative ecosystem. It gives me space to expand on ideas, share extra images and resources, and host the kind of long-form writing that doesn’t always fit neatly into a video format. In that sense, it isn’t competing with YouTube; it’s complementing it.

Blogs may no longer be the fashionable centre of the internet, but they are far from obsolete. They’ve simply found a quieter, steadier place. For hobbyists who care about recording their work, sharing knowledge, and building something that lasts, blogging remains a powerful tool. Sixteen years on, BigLee’s Miniature Adventures is still doing exactly what I hoped it would when I first started: capturing my miniature adventures as they happen, one post at a time.

And as long as I’m painting, gaming, and thinking about this strange, wonderful hobby of ours, I don’t see any reason to stop.

Painting Challenge XVI: Winter War Soviet MMG's & Mortar Teams

Fresh off the painting desk are two new Medium Machine Gun teams for my Winter War Soviets, and they’re wonderfully chunky little beasts. Each team is manning the PM M1910/30, the Russian take on Hiram Maxim’s immortal design, mounted on the distinctive wheeled Sokolov carriage. With its broad stance, solid shield, and unapologetic industrial look, this is a weapon that doesn’t mess around and dares the enemy to disagree.

The story of the gun itself is a fine example of Russian pragmatism. The Maxim had already proven its lethality across the world, but the Soviets refined it into something brutally reliable. The M1910/30 update improved sights, strengthened components, and standardised production for a Red Army that expected to fight in appalling conditions. The Sokolov mount, complete with gun shield, reflected lessons learned the hard way: crews needed mobility, stability, and at least a sporting chance of not being immediately shot while doing their job.

Then came the Winter War, where theory met the indomitable Finns. In the forests and frozen lakes of the Karelian Isthmus, these Maxims were often dug in low, their wheels partially buried or removed altogether to reduce silhouettes. Crews camouflaged shields with whitewash or snow-covered cloth, and firing positions were carefully sited to dominate narrow approaches through woods and villages. Ammunition had to be kept warm to prevent stoppages, and gunners learned to balance sustained fire with the brutal reality of freezing metal and exhausted men.

Also completed this week is a Soviet light mortar team. The main Soviet 50mm mortars used in the 1939/40 Winter War were the RM-38, RM-39, and the more common RM-40, all part of a series developed for infantry support, though they were complex and proved underpowered because the shell contained less high explosive than some hand grenades. They had a maximum range of around 800 meters, but the effective range was much shorter, generally around 100-400 meters. Later in WWII the 50mm was phased out in favour of heavier models such as the 82mm, which had a much more useful maximum range of 3000 meters. 

Painting these teams really drove home how central weapons like this were to Soviet tactics during the conflict. They’re not flashy units, but they’re the backbone: defensive anchors, ambush enablers, and morale breakers all rolled into one oil-soaked package. On the tabletop, they’ll do exactly what the real ones did, lock down ground and punish movement.