You’re staring at a pile of bolts. Your hands are covered in grease, the sun is setting over a pixelated Finnish lake, and you just realized you forgot to tighten a single 7mm bolt on the camshaft gear. Now the engine is a hunk of useless iron. This is the reality of My Summer Car, a game that hates you, yet somehow, thousands of people—myself included—can’t stop playing it. It isn't just a vehicle simulator. It’s a grueling, beer-soaked survival test set in the rural wasteland of 1990s Finland.
Honestly, calling it a "game" feels like a bit of a stretch sometimes. It’s more of a lifestyle choice. Developed by Johannes Rojola (Amistech Games), it launched into Steam Early Access back in 2016 and has remained there, stubbornly refusing to polish its rough edges because those edges are exactly why it works. Most simulators want you to feel powerful. This one wants you to feel the crushing weight of a permanent death save file after you fly through your windshield because you forgot your seatbelt.
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The Brutal Reality of the Satsuma AMP
The core of the experience is the Satsuma AMP, a car based heavily on the real-life Datsun 100A. You don't just "buy" this car. You inherit a rusted-out shell and several crates of loose parts.
If you've ever worked on a real car, you’ll recognize the pain. You have to manually bolt every piece together. We aren't talking about clicking a "repair" button. You have to pick up the wrench, select the right size—usually a 10mm or 12mm for the big stuff—and scroll your mouse wheel to tighten every individual nut. If you miss one? Your wheel falls off at 100 km/h. Or worse, your engine catches fire in the middle of a dirt road, miles from your house, with no phone reception and a bladder that is dangerously full.
Survival in My Summer Car is a constant balancing act. You have to manage hunger, thirst, fatigue, urine levels, and stress. The stress mechanic is particularly "Finnish." You lower it by smoking cigarettes or spending time in the sauna. It’s absurd. It’s brilliant. You find yourself cursing at the screen because you ran out of sausages, but then the engine finally sputters to life for the first time, and the sense of accomplishment is genuine. It’s a high no other game provides.
Why the Physics Engine is Your Worst Enemy
The physics are janky. There, I said it. But it’s a specific kind of jank that adds to the stakes. Because the game calculates the physics of every loose item in your car, a stray beer crate can literally launch your van into orbit if it clips through the floor geometry.
You learn to respect the physics. You learn that driving the "Gifu" sewage truck into town is a high-stakes mission that requires actual planning. If you tip that truck over into a ditch, your career as a septic tank cleaner is effectively over. You’ll be walking home through the woods in the dark, hoping the local drunk, Pena, happens to drive by in his small green hatchback to give you a lift.
Pena is a menace. He drives like a maniac. But in My Summer Car, he’s often your only lifeline when your main project car is sitting in the garage with a blown head gasket.
The Cultural Nuance of 1990s Finland
What most people get wrong about this game is thinking it’s a parody. It’s not. It’s a love letter to a very specific era of Nordic culture. Everything from the "Euromarket" shopping bags to the late-night radio shows feels authentic to anyone who grew up in that part of the world during the 90s.
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The game captures the isolation. You are a teenager whose parents have gone on vacation to Tenerife, leaving you with a house, a garage, and a lot of free time. The landscape is beautiful in a bleak, low-fidelity way. The way the light hits the trees during the "White Nights" of summer is surprisingly evocative.
- The Jobs: You make money by delivering firewood, pumping septic tanks, or brewing kilju (sugar wine) to sell to the local drunkard, Jokke.
- The Law: If you get caught speeding or driving under the influence, the fines are based on your income. You can actually end up in the perma-death prison if you don't pay your tickets.
- The Customization: You can order parts from a catalog, wait days for them to arrive at the post office, and then realize you ordered the wrong carburetor.
It’s a slow-burn experience. You can't rush it. If you try to speed-run building the Satsuma, you will fail. The game demands patience and a literal understanding of internal combustion engines. You have to tune the valves. You have to adjust the fan belt tension by ear. You have to check the spark plugs.
Dealing With the Permadeath Factor
Most players turn permadeath on. It’s the "intended" way to play. This means if you die—and you will die, whether it's from a high-speed collision, dehydration, or being stung by a nest of wasps in a junked car—your save file is deleted.
This creates a level of tension that modern AAA games are terrified to implement. When you’re driving back from the store with a trunk full of fluid containers and groceries, every turn is a gamble. You find yourself leaning forward in your chair, squinting at the dirt road, terrified of a stray moose or a rogue AI driver.
Technical Depth and the Modding Scene
While the base game is deep, the community has taken it to another level. Because the game is built in Unity, it has a massive modding scene on platforms like Nexus Mods. You can find everything from high-quality texture packs to entirely new vehicles.
There’s a "MOP" (Modern Optimization Plugin) that many players consider essential because the game's internal logic is notoriously heavy on the CPU. It’s a testament to the game's cult status that people are willing to write complex optimization code just to help a game about fixing a Datsun run at a stable 60 frames per second.
The creator, Rojola, has been working on a sequel called My Winter Car. The hype for it is massive, but the original remains the gold standard for "hardcore" simulation. It doesn't hold your hand. It doesn't have a tutorial. You either figure out how a distributor works, or you walk.
Actionable Insights for New Players
If you’re just starting your journey in Peräjärvi, don’t try to do everything at once. Focus on survival first.
- Check the Garage: All your starting tools are in the blue cabinet. Organize them immediately. Losing a 10mm wrench in the grass is a legitimate disaster.
- The Van is Key: Your uncle owns the blue van. You need to wait for him to be home to borrow it. This is your primary transport for groceries and parts until the Satsuma is road-legal.
- Read the Manual: There isn't an in-game manual, but the real-life Haynes manuals for old Datsuns are shockingly accurate for this game.
- Buy the Fire Extinguisher: Buy it before you even try to start the car for the first time. Engine fires are common, and they will destroy your progress in seconds.
- Watch Your Fluids: Brake fluid, clutch fluid, coolant, oil, and gasoline. If any of these are leaking, find the loose bolt. There is always a loose bolt.
My Summer Car is a masterpiece of niche game design. it's frustrating, ugly, and occasionally broken, but it captures a sense of place and accomplishment that "polished" games can't touch. You don't just play it; you endure it. And when that engine finally hums without exploding, it’s the best feeling in gaming.
To truly master the game, stop treating it like a racing title and start treating it like a mechanical engineering project. Join the community forums, look at wiring diagrams, and for the love of everything, don't forget to put the oil plug in before you pour in the expensive racing oil. You'll thank me later.
Once you've managed to get the Satsuma through the inspection at the Lindell inspection shop, the game shifts. You aren't just a mechanic anymore; you're a participant in the local rally. But getting there? That's a journey of a hundred hours and a thousand mistakes. Keep your beer fridge stocked and your wrench set close.