Threaded through the rhythmic combat, wall-running and puzzle-solving of 2008’s Prince of Persia is an ongoing dialogue between its protagonists, the wise-cracking vagabond known colloquially as ’the Prince’ and the Princess Elika, heir to a decaying realm and a temple which for a thousand years has sealed away the dark god Ahriman. Yet the Tree of Life which sustained Ahriman’s bonds is broken, shattered by Elika’s grieving father.
Together the Prince and Elika delve into the ruins of her city in an attempt to heal the land, seeking to repair Ahriman’s prison before he can escape. As they face the obstacles in their path they bicker, they joke, they tell stories of their vastly-different lives. The Prince hides behind a mask of bravado, of seducing pretty girls in the marketplace, of wandering wherever the wind takes him and seeking his fortune in forgotten tombs in the heart of the desert, while Elika’s life - despite her memories of how glorious the rubble they now scamper through once was - has been one of duty. Even as her people lost faith and drifted away, she’s held on to one central tenet of belief: for the sake of the world, Ahriman must never go free.
While optional, these conversations are a core gameplay mechanic. Just as there is a button on the controller assigned to Attack, and another to Jump, there’s another specifically reserved to Talk. It’s through dialogue that the Prince encounters Elika’s determination to do the right thing at any cost, to be the hero of her story despite his exhortations to just walk away. Surely someone else can save the world without Elika risking her life? Through dialogue Elika mourns her shattered kingdom, weaving stories - as one would at a wake - of a childhood spent amongst its verdant gardens, gleaming towers and proud people. Through dialogue, the Prince’s carefree facade begins to slip as he struggles to support Elika, their quest becoming ever more perilous, and learns of her untimely death and resurrection.
Her father betrayed everything she held dear to return her to life, in exchange for Ahriman’s freedom, and Elika makes no secret of the apocalypse her father’s grief threatens to unleash. Ahriman “will take everything else that remains. He will swallow cities, devour the land. There is nothing that can stop him.” Unless she can heal the damage her father has done there will be no hope of survival, no deus ex machina to rescue them from certain doom. There is no putting this djinn back in the bottle: once he escapes, Ahriman will consume the world.
One by one Elika and the Prince conquer Ahriman’s lieutenants, face down corruption and death, and through the healing of the land they draw close. Despite their differences they grow to understand each other, respecting each other’s talents and viewpoints even when they disagree. Beneath his arrogance the Prince is no cardboard cut-out: his perspective noticeably shifts over the course of their journey as he grows more conscious of his role in Elika’s destiny, and despite the opportunity to walk away and resume his life, he chooses to stay, to help Elika finish her quest and save the world. Yet in their moment of triumph he realises the truth, that the Tree of Life was shattered to bring Elika back from the dead. To seal Ahriman away once more, Elika must give up her life, as she’s known all along.
Too slow to prevent her sacrifice, the Prince can do nothing more than gather her lifeless body into his arms and lay her atop her mother’s tomb. The conversation is over. Yet Ahriman whispers temptation in the Prince’s ears, to undo all that has been done. To make the same pact Elika’s father did. One life, in exchange for the world.
He has a choice to make.
There is another conversation, one which Elika and the Prince remain unaware of even as their words lead them into love. All the tales spun through the ruins of Elika’s home, all the memories shared, the philosophies and mythologies and subtle moralities laid bare are parts of a wider dialogue, between Prince of Persia and you, the player. You’re the one pushing Talk, the one who wants to hear more, and the narrative repays your curiosity by enrapturing you in a tale of ethical ambiguity, of dark gods and a noble family estranged by death and duty.
And once it has you under its spell, the narrative makes you complicit to their debate. The characters’ conversations are founded on big questions: what is the value of a single human life? What does it mean to love someone enough to respect their desire to do what’s right, even if the path they walk will surely end in death? The narrative lays out its arguments through dialogue, asks you to hear both sides of the story and allow your preconceptions to be challenged. It offers no answers, no absolute authority, demanding that you think for yourself. Is free will intrinsically superior to adherence to duty? What about when the world is at stake?
At the last, when the Prince lays Elika’s body upon cold stone, these are the questions which must inform his choice.
No, not his. Your choice.
Except there is no choice.
The fading echoes of Ahriman’s power whisper in the Prince’s ears, and the Prince decides that the only possible outcome is to repeat the actions of Elika’s father. There is no conversation, no debate. Elika is dead, and the narrative is no longer listening. There is no option to respect Elika’s wishes and return to the desert, leaving her destiny fulfilled and Ahriman once more imprisoned for a thousand years.
Despite everything that came before, the narrative decrees that the Prince values Elika’s life above the continued existence of the world, and you - as the Prince’s puppetmaster - are forced into carrying out its will, or else switch off the power, leaving the Prince eternally standing guard over Elika’s tomb. With each sacred tree you shatter, you undo hours of progress, until at last your sword lashes out at the Tree of Life itself.
Even with Elika returned to life, the conversation is dead. The Prince has betrayed her just as utterly as her father did, and she cannot bear to look at him. He carries her into the desert as the credits roll, and Ahriman rises from his thousand-year confinement to destroy the world. And hers is not the only betrayal. The narrative entranced you with discussion and argument and open-minded consideration of conflicting viewpoints, but at the crucial moment it denies you the choice it promised, and instead railroads you into the worst possible outcome.
There are no happy endings here. Ahriman is free to devour the world. Elika lives, yet has nothing to live for, her mother dead, her father corrupted into a sick caricature of mourning, and her destiny denied by the Prince’s deliberate sabotage. She can never forgive him - there is no forgiveness for such a profound betrayal, especially when committed in the name of love - and the affection which blossomed between them can do nothing but shrivel into a broken-hearted memory. It’s a twisted mockery of the ’love conquers all’ trope, one where ’love’ involves rejecting every principle your beloved held dear, dooming both your nascent relationship and the world.
You could perhaps argue that the Prince we were introduced to at the beginning of the story - the cocky rogue stumbling through a sandstorm in search of a donkey laden with gold - might have considered that choice, yet through his interactions with Elika, he becomes someone else. He may disagree with her dedication to duty, but he learns to respect it. More crucially, he’s no idiot, and the repercussions of his actions have been discussed in considerable detail. When a dark god offers you your dreams in exchange for the world, unthinking obedience is the wrong call.
Player choice is certainly not a prerequisite for a satisfying story, but here its absence is palpable, as if removed at some late stage in development. Not only do the protagonists discuss choice and destiny in considerable depth, but the Prince’s decision is distinctly unsatisfying for all parties except Ahriman himself. In a 2009 interview with 1up.com Prince of Persia’s producer, Ben Mattes, said: “I think story driven games that have multiple endings are a mistake, because then you don’t know what the real story is.” Yet the ‘real story’ that remains feels unfinished, the narrative heavily foreshadowing a moral choice which never comes and a denouement in which Elika’s sacrifice is permitted to save the world.
We can only surmise whether it was a decision made in anticipation of a sequel which never came, the result of top-down intervention from Ubisoft management, or a creative compromise to make the most of a finite development budget. It may well be pertinent that the Epilogue DLC released shortly afterward is a direct continuation of the story, requiring Elika to be alive for you to overcome its increasingly elaborate skate-parks. Yet in living up to its name, the DLC does little to advance the story. Our protagonists’ easy conversation never rallies, reduced to the Prince’s increasingly-shrill demands that Elika must be some form of mystical saviour who can still fix everything, and Elika reprimanding him in turn for undoing everything they achieved together.
Whatever the reason, the conversation is over. While controversial in many ways, Prince of Persia succeeded where so many narratives fail, in crafting an evocative world, portraying a convincing relationship, and daring to ask meaningful questions.
Until you dare to answer. Then Prince of Persia doesn’t want to know.