This is the first part of a two-part review of Prince of Persia (2008) and the “Epilogue” (2009) downloadable content. There are spoilers, but you already knew that. Taking UbiSoft Montreal’s intentions at face value one should be able to review both as a complete game, but I don’t think it would be fair to the intent of the original…but I’m getting ahead of myself.

When I finished Prince of Persia (2008), I was left feeling incredibly disheartened. The game’s ending made me question what I had been spending the last seven hours trying to achieve; it basically undoes everything you have been setting out to do for the entire game. But I did not feel frustrated; rather, I felt the ending was necessary – and the game brilliantly makes you a willing participant in this sequence of events. It does not give you a choice because it is something that you know, deep down, needs to be done. Prince of Persia is not an action game. It is barely an adventure game. It is a roleplaying game without the choice and the number crunching and the inventory management. You are given the role of the reluctant hero, thrust into a situation that clearly requires significant physical and emotional investment, and ultimately tasked with making a decision that has but a single response.

As a storytelling device, Prince of Persia excels. In fact, if this was a review for an interactive storybook, Prince of Persia would be the best and most beautiful interactive storybook of 2008, The End. But it is not. It is a video game.

As a video game, Prince of Persia leaves me wondering whether this is yet another milestone on the road towards the future of video games that I have come to dread. It leaves far too much out of the hands of the player, and instead relies on a few button presses to initiate the marvelous acrobatic moves that take place on screen in the march towards an inevitable conclusion. Prince of Persia manifests every video game enthusiast’s complaint about linearity and player freedom. And because it is so overt, it is identified as the greatest fault committed by this game.

Should Prince of Persia be held to a different standard because it simply illustrates what we all know is true about video games that rely on narrative? The way it showcases the story as the main driver behind the action is no different than the most linear of first person shooters, but there is a degree of skill involved in running whatever gauntlet a FPS would present. Prince of Persia is flexible in its controls, easily forgives failure, and yet when it tries to offer complexity in the form of Player-initiated exploration and a structured combo system for combat, they are in such sharp contrast as to be superfluous to the game’s design. Prince of Persia is in constant struggle with what is expected of it, and what it wants to achieve. And the game ultimately suffers for it.

It’s obvious from the beginning of Prince of Persia that Assassin’s Creed (2007) was a big influence on the Prince’s movements. Taking what they learned from the previous Prince of Persia Trilogy, they created movement animations in Assassin’s Creed that make traversing the dusty streets of Jersualem an acrobatic yet completely natural exercise.

It’s strange, then, that movement in Prince of Persia feels so inhibited, as if the freedom of movement was scaled back to suit the game’s unwavering linear progression. The fluidity of movement is still there, but jumping and running through Prince of Persia feels like bouncing off the walls inside a glass box.

At first, the game captures some of the appeal of the previous Trilogy, in the way that it slowly teaches you how the Prince can wall run, swing from bars and columns and scurry along ceilings. But the variation in movements are revealed in the first map, so that all future obstacles bear an uncanny resemblance to what has been seen before. And the Powers obtained after collecting lightseeds – abilities that feel like they should open up the game – are just extensions of the Prince’s isolation from the environment.

Under analysis, Prince of Persia reads like a continuous Quick Time Event ^[1]. There are on screen instructions if you want them, but survival is just a few timed button presses away. There aren’t many combinations to remember, and there is evidence in plain sight as to how each obstacle should be approached. There is no pressure for perfect execution of these maneuvers because you can’t actually die. Elika, the Prince’s companion throughout the game, is there to save him.

I didn’t hate the game for this, because it allowed me to enjoy the artistry poured into dressing up this game, and the free-flowing banter and backstory that takes place between the Prince and Elika. But none of it is required to proceed. It’s just there. You’re walking the garden path right along with them.

With such a limited range of movement, one would expect that exploration is permitted to make use of these environments. And despite the obvious care and detail that went in to constructing them, the environments impose the same constraints.

The dark god Ahriman is on the loose, and the land is plagued by Corruption. Setting off on their adventure, the primary objective of the Prince and Elika is to relieve this corruption by cleansing four different areas in the unnamed kingdom that provides the setting. But you don’t have to heal these lands in order: UbiSoft Montreal has given the Player a choice as to how they complete this objective. Which was a mistake.

UbiSoft Montreal took control from one area (the core mechanics of the game), and placed it into another (the game’s flow of narrative) unnecessarily. The game is trying to tell a story, and by allowing the Player to control the narrative it makes the design of key plot points and encounters impossible. It simply confirms that the game’s designers were not even confident in their own philosophy for the mechanics: freedom, but not really. The Player may feel like they have a choice in the matter, but the ultimate destination will always be the same, so why even allow this choice if it’s going to make telling a continuous story impractical? It’s the same reasoning that the designers of Medal of Honor: Airborne used to make it seem like their FPS was “open” by allowing a free drop at the beginning of each mission. And yet passing the first few checkpoints you find yourself still inside the corridors of a first-person shooter. What’s the purpose, except to hijack all meaning from the words “freedom” and “choice” in game design?

It’s frustrating, then, to be presented with such beautifully crafted environments that cannot be fully experienced. This is distressingly evident once the Boss characters from each map are defeated, which removes the corruption and creates light seeds that must be collected. At every wall vertex and unscalable cliff, the words “How do I get up there?” always found their way into the reaction to these intentional obstacles. Dejected, there remains only one choice: go where you’re told.

On each wall or cliff face, there are obvious wear marks showing you where to proceed. When they aren’t leading to the Boss characters, they lead to light seeds. These paths inscribed in stone leave nothing to the imagination. Even as the Powers of Ormazd are granted over the course of the game, the Seals related to each power are the only way they can be used. Flying through the air like a button on a string, you’re still a tourist in this world.

And yet there is nothing to hold the player back, or to slow progression. Each level is only moderately challenging to get through, with the biggest task overtaking the Boss characters at the end of them as they increase in power and ability. What few puzzles lie in wait are of the turnstile- or lever-pulling variety, and provide little more than a break in what is already a leisurely stroll throughout the game’s world.

You can’t die, so even in the limited exploration that is necessary to collect light seeds there is no risk. Elika saving the Prince from death is a mechanic that gives purpose to the Prince and Elika’s relationship, but like Ninja Blade ^[2] comes across as the ability for the Player to correct his mistakes instantly, and not be forced to learn from them. This extends to the combat system, which can be elaborate if the Player decides to learn the combinations and time them correctly. But there is no incentive to do it, as simply bashing enemies with the sword when the buttons flash on screen and rolling to avoid corruption is sufficient.

Nevertheless, the constant direction by Prince of Persia feels like a respite from the typical overstimulating action of its contemporaries. It presents a form of play that allows the player to take in their surroundings, with a series of forgiving button combinations that do not require their full attention. They are just constantly admiring the surroundings from a distance.

So are we merely bearing witness to Prince of Persia’s world, and the two fearless companions as they leap and fly and careen through it?

Prince of Persia’s primary function is to tell a story. It had me in its grasp for the game’s duration, and made me think there is still hope for real storytelling in video games. It is a story of friendship and sacrifice, but told in a meaningful and completely natural way. The fact that I could see all this from the limited conversations I was subjected to – I rarely pressed the button that initiated more dialogue – is an accomplishment for UbiSoft Montreal. It’s a welcome change for someone who grew up with the disposable commentary between shooting galleries or the text riddled with spelling mistakes printed in some grubby instruction manual.

The relationship between the Prince and Elika is not romantic. Rather, it is a platonic bond that is strengthened by their need to see to each other’s safety. They also have a mutual respect for each other’s abilities: the Prince is valued for his plucky optimism and ability to surmount the obstacles they are faced with, and providing the brawn to defeat each Boss character. Elika, on the other hand, is respected for her otherworldly powers and choice to only use them when necessary, and her dedication to the preservation and restoration of her people. The relationship unfolds as best it can as the game progresses, given the Player’s ability to explore each map in any order.

The bond that develops makes the ending of the game completely acceptable: over the course of their adventures it’s made exceedingly obvious how much is owed to Elika by the Prince; she ensures his safety without question. It is only natural that he wants to do his part to save her, despite the consequences. That I was able to accept this plot conceit, means that the game has succeeded on that level.

So where does the “game” part of the experience emerge? The endgame is a foregone conclusion; it’s obvious how this story will resolve itself, and yet the player keeps going, thinking in the back of their mind that perhaps there is another way to resolve the conflict. The Prince himself says many times how they should just abandon their mission and start a new life away from the corrupted lands they are trying to save, since it keeps proving to be too big for the two of them to handle. And yet they continue, because the very least they can do is try.

It’s that same attitude that is reflected in the entire game: the constant desire to do more, to do something different, to make use of the environment that is on display. Maybe there is another way to scale that wall, or get across the chasm. But, like the story of Prince and Elika, there is a prescribed path that must be followed.

Prince of Persia is never sure about the level of interaction it wants from the Player. Providing freedom to explore the maps in any order, yet providing only meager means to move through them. Revealing a compelling narrative, yet permitting the Player to assemble it in any sequence. There never seems to be a comfortable compromise between telling a story and engaging game design, without resorting to hotbuttons and only moderate changes in difficulty to ensure the pacing of the story is maintained.

Prince of Persia struggles with the Boss encounters that close off each map. Each of them has a history, explained through dialogue as the Prince and Elika visit the different areas they are guarding. However, because each area can be played in any order, this back story cannot be told in succession to give a more representative picture of how each of these adversaries fits in the history of the world, and their role in the fall of Elika’s people. Therefore, there is no building towards a climax; instead, we are constantly reminded that Ahriman is our main objective^[3]. The evil presence is just there, permeating every facet of the corrupted world, and yet the encounter with him is probably the most uninteresting aspect of the entire game.

Since there are only a few enemies scattered at random in each map, it raises the importance of these Boss encounters. And because you’re fighting the same four bosses in each of the main areas, the game arbitrarily assigns a few new wrinkles to their attacks and defenses, but no real increase in difficulty. These encounters become less and less enjoyable as you make your way to the end of each of the main areas – the repetition makes the Boss characters merely obstacles that must be overcome, like a chasm full of pillars or hard to reach handhold in a cliff face. This repetition does nothing more than underline the predictable – and safe – essence of the experiences in the game.

To compensate, Prince of Persia creates a fairly complex combo system that involves timing and positioning. This context-sensitive combat becomes even more pronounced when the hotbutton events flash on the screen. In this manner, combat in Prince of Persia is completely detached from the movement system. The movement system should be more complicated – much deeper than the combat system. Prince of Persia’s environments are meant for exploration, yet the limitations in movement reduce any complexity in that regard. And combat is based on an unsatisfying system that degrades into button mashing on prompt simply because it works instead of thinking ahead and stringing together combos.

The inadequacy of the combat system culminates in the final confrontation with Ahriman, where you don’t even use it. You are simply charged with dodging giant fists and the black tide of corruption crawling up a wall you must run across. This is in stark contrast to every other boss that was faced in direct combat. There is no satisfying finish, there is nothing in the encounter that hadn’t been done in the rest of the game many times over – as simply navigating the terrain! The encounter could have been a closing movie and would have still produced the same effect.

Which is why I’m disheartened. I don’t think Prince of Persia is a good game. It was the vehicle for a story I had to see through to completion. A video game should not get a free pass because of its story. It is a game, first and foremost.

By removing the relative complexity of the typical third-person action game and Prince of Persia’s progenitors, it is essentially creating one massive Quick Time Event. No real control is ever held by the player, and yet the game tries so very hard to make this interesting. And while this philosophy isn’t such an egregious transgression as Ninja Blade, this new Prince is setting a very dangerous precedent.

Challenge and complexity should never be completely sacrificed. What better way for a Player to appreciate the story than if they must earn it? The Story can effectively be used as a reward. I don’t want to watch my video games; I want to interact with them. I want to explore the world that has been so meticulously crafted; not allow it to be limited to a backdrop. I want to ask the question “how do I get up there?” and be allowed to answer it. I want to control the resolution of events, or at least be presented with the convincing illusion I can do something about it. I want to play.

So when the Prince does what we all expect of him at the end of Prince of Persia, there is a presiding feeling of accomplishment: the Prince’s destiny was fulfilled, as he repaid the debt to Elika the only way he knew how. But there is also regret: this achievement is predetermined, and like every other person who will play this game receives the same outcome to these events. You turn the page, and it reads like it does for any other.

Prince of Persia does not hide the fact that the Player has left no mark on this world. Like the indelible scratch marks on the walls of the many canyons and structures that have been traversed, Prince of Persia remains untouched by the actions that have led to its completion. And as the world falls into ruin once more, they are left wondering with foolish hope if the next Prince will have better luck in averting these circumstances.