From Tokyo Debugger to Helsinki Game Dev: My First Autumn on a Specialist Permit

When I stepped off the plane in Helsinki with two suitcases and a job offer, the air felt almost shockingly clean—crisp in that way that makes you aware of your lungs. I’d accepted a role at a mobile gaming studio I’d admired from afar, trading Tokyo’s neon buzz for Helsinki’s low skyline, trams, and an ocean of autumn leaves. I worried about the dark, the language, and whether I’d fit into a new team halfway across the world. I also really wanted to know the answer to a very specific question: how do you not faint in a Finnish sauna?

Getting Hired, Getting In

The interview process was a four-stage sprint: a code test focused on gameplay systems, a pair-programming session, a chat with a designer about live-ops and monetization ethics, and finally a culture interview that was less about pizza parties and more about how we handle disagreement. The offer came with a promise to sponsor Finland’s specialist residence permit and help with the “fast track.”

The specialist permit turned out to be the smoothest immigration experience I’ve had. I submitted everything on Enter Finland (Migri’s portal): employment contract, degree, passport scans, resume, and a letter describing my “special expertise” (gameplay systems engineering, with five shipped titles). The salary threshold mattered for the specialist category—my offer met it, and the studio had done this for other hires, so they knew what to upload.

I did biometrics at the Finnish Embassy in Tokyo, and because I used the fast-track route, I received a D visa for entry while the residence permit decision and card followed. The total time from submission to approval was about two weeks. The decision included a Finnish Personal Identity Code, which is the magic number you need for almost everything here.

A week after arrival, I registered my address with the Digital and Population Data Services Agency (DVV). Then I applied to Kela (for social security) and visited the tax office (Vero) for a tax card so my employer could withhold correctly from day one. My studio’s HR guided me through the order: DVV first, then tax and Kela. Pro tip: bring your passport, residence permit, employment contract, and rental agreement everywhere for the first month.

Banking was the only slow patch. Finnish banks take Know-Your-Customer rules seriously. Having the residence permit card and the identity code helped, but it still took a couple of appointments and patience. Once the account was open, I got “strong electronic identification,” which unlocked a lot of online services.

Finding a Home Base

My first two weeks were in an Airbnb in Kamppi, where I could walk to the office and pretend I was a local by mastering the building’s recycling bins (more categories than I’ve ever seen, and Finns are serious about them). For a long-term rental, I used Vuokraovi and Oikotie. I ended up with a one-bedroom in Kallio—cozy, creaky wooden floors, tram outside, and a communal laundry and sauna in the basement that you book by slot.

Rent was €1,250 per month, two months’ deposit, plus electricity and internet. Utilities have been reasonable—mobile plan around €20, internet €25, electricity varies with usage but not outrageous. My apartment came with a weekly sauna booking on Thursdays at 20:00. I had never owned a sauna hour before; it made me feel like I’d unlocked a new adult DLC.

First Days at the Studio

At the office, I found the hallmarks of Helsinki’s gaming scene: small autonomous teams, flat-ish hierarchy, and an almost reverent respect for focus time. We do a daily standup, but nobody micromanages. If you need to go heads-down for three hours tuning a gacha drop rate or refactoring a state machine, you do it. Meetings are purposeful and end on time.

Lunch is a ritual. Many places offer a lounas buffet—soup, salad, a main, coffee—for around €12–€14. My company subsidizes meals through a benefit card, which makes eating well feel like a perk rather than a tax on your time. People actually leave work at a decent hour. I had to recalibrate from “always on” to “be present, then go home.” The burn-out bragging I heard so often in Tokyo is a non-starter here. The culture is quietly proud of balance.

English is the default at work. I started Finnish classes twice a week through a provider the studio pays for. “Moi” (hi), “kiitos” (thanks), and “anteeksi” (sorry/excuse me) go a long way, as does a smile in the elevator. Finns are direct in the best way: they say what they mean, and silence isn’t awkward. It’s… respectful.

Autumn Settling: Ruska, Rain, and Routines

This first autumn has been a revelation. There’s a word for the fall colors—ruska—and in September the parks look like they were painted with honey and fire. The air is damp more days than not, and when the North Sea wind picks up, you learn immediately why everyone’s jackets are “technical.” I invested in a good rain shell, waterproof shoes, and a reflective clip (heijastin) for my bag. It gets dark earlier each week, and Finns take visibility seriously.

Transportation has been easy. The HSL app covers trams, buses, metro, and commuter trains. I bought a 30-day AB zone pass for around €70–€75, and I bike when it’s not brutal out; lights and a helmet are non-negotiable, and apparently studded tires are common in winter. Trams glide like they’re designed to lower your blood pressure. No one’s yelling. People give space. It’s civilized in a way I didn’t know I needed.

On weekends I explore markets—Hakaniemi for fish and berries, Hietalahti for vintage—and cooked my first mushroom risotto with chanterelles bought from a pop-up stand. Grocery prices are fine if you avoid constant impulse buys; Lidl is cheapest, S-Market and K-Market are everywhere, and for Japanese comfort I go to Tokyokan for the essentials. Stronger alcohol is only sold at Alko, which still feels novelty to me, like a grown-up candy store where the sweets are locked up.

Helsinki Design Week is happening now, and wandering the exhibits made me feel like a kid who slipped into the adult table. Minimalism here is not empty; it’s intentional.

Sauna, Team, and Not Fainting

My first team sauna was at Löyly, the wooden, Instagram-famous place by the sea. It’s swimsuit-friendly and mixed-gender, so I didn’t have to confront my modesty on day one. Etiquette is straightforward: shower first, sit on a towel, be quiet, and throw water—löyly—on the stones with respect. The shock is not the heat; it’s the cold plunge. I squealed. I didn’t know my voice could do that. The second round I whispered “löylyä lisää,” and someone smiled like I’d said a secret password.

At home, I tried my building sauna. It’s nude and single-gender during the usual times. Nobody cares about your body, which turns out to be incredibly freeing. After a few weeks, I noticed I slept better on sauna nights. The ritual punctuates the week, like a comma that makes the sentence of your life make sense.

Healthcare and Practical Stuff

I had an occupational health check my second week—very standard here. My studio’s plan covered quick appointments when I strained my wrist during a game jam (don’t program on the floor, future me). After Kela approved my application, I received the Kela card for public healthcare access. For day-to-day things, apteekki (pharmacies) are easy to navigate; staff explain patiently, and many speak English.

Taxes are straightforward with the tax card. You can track everything in OmaVero online. Yes, taxes are higher than in Japan, but you see where it goes: libraries that are palaces, trams that run when they say they will, and the safety net that lets people make creative choices.

Community: Finding People in a Quiet Country

I was afraid of loneliness here, but the gaming community is vibrant. IGDA Finland’s Helsinki meetups are low-pressure: lightning talks, beers, job leads, and the kind of conversations where people nerd out about event-driven architecture or ethical monetization without a trace of cynicism. I joined a weekly board game night I found on Meetup, and a language café at a library where we swap vocab and stories.

There’s a Japanese-Finnish group that organizes dinners; we bonded over okonomiyaki experiments and a long discussion about whether salmiakki is candy or punishment. Work colleagues invited me to a cottage trip where we grilled makkara, played Mölkky, and watched waves under a sky that refused to turn fully black.

Preparing for the Long Winter

Everyone I meet has winter advice. My current plan:

• Vitamin D daily once October hits.
• A bright light lamp on my desk for mornings.
• Layers: merino base, wool socks, no cotton against the skin.
• Commit to outdoor activity—cross-country skiing in Central Park when the snow comes, or just brisk walks even when it’s grim.
• Keep social anchors: Monday coding dojo at the office, Thursday sauna, Saturday coffee at my corner cafe, and a Sunday phone call home no matter the time zone.

Finns call a certain stubborn resilience “sisu.” I’m not claiming it yet, but I can feel the outline of it when the rain comes sideways and I keep walking anyway.

Costs and What I Wish I’d Known

Rough budget, for anyone curious (your mileage will vary):

• Rent (1-bedroom in an inner neighborhood): €1,100–€1,500.
• Transit 30-day AB pass: around €70–€75.
• Lunch out: €12–€14; coffee: €3–€4.
• Public sauna: €10–€20.
• Utilities: mobile €20, internet €20–€30, electricity depends but not scary unless you crank the sauna every night.

What I wish I’d known:

• Apply early, upload everything cleanly to Enter Finland, and respond quickly to any requests in the portal.
• Book DVV appointment as soon as you land; slots fill up.
• Banks may require multiple visits; don’t take it personally. It’s the process.
• Buy a reflective clip. At 4 PM in November, you are basically a shadow without one.
• Silence is not rejection. It’s a cultural comfort zone. Ask once, then give space. People will come through.

Reflection and Advice

Moving at 32 felt different than it would have at 22. I have routines, preferences, and a very specific way I make my miso soup. But Helsinki has made room for all of it. The gaming industry here does not feel like an echo chamber—it feels like a workshop, humming, curious, and unafraid to slow down if that means doing it right.

If you’re considering this path:

• Say yes to the specialist permit and the fast track; it’s efficient if you meet the criteria.
• Ask your employer about Finnish classes and relocation help; many are willing.
• If you can, time your arrival for early autumn: you’ll catch the light, find your rhythm, and be ready when winter taps your shoulder.
• Don’t measure your integration by your fluency. Measure it by small wins: your first sauna without panic, your first joke that lands in a new language, the first time the barista recognizes you.
• Keep something from home in your kitchen. Mine is shichimi togarashi. It’s nice on everything, even rye bread.

Six weeks in, I can’t claim I’ve “become Finnish,” but I’ve become more myself—calmer, more deliberate, and unexpectedly fond of quiet trams and Thursday sauna. I still squeal in the cold plunge, but now it sounds like laughter.

Best wishes from Helsinki,