The Making of Prince of Persia: Journals 1985-1993

by Jordan Mechner

  Introduction

  I started keeping a journal in college, and kept it up for several years afterward. During those years I created my first games, Karateka and Prince of Persia, on an Apple II computer.

  It was the start of a journey that would see my shape-shifting prince transform into a modern video game hero, LEGO minifigure, and even Jake Gyllenhaal in a summer blockbuster movie. But in 1985, he existed only as a few scribbles on a yellow-lined pad. In my old journals I recorded his birth pangs.

  Rereading these notebooks twenty years later, reliving the creative, technical and personal struggles that brought the prince into being, I thought others might find them of interest. So I began posting daily entries on my website at jordanmechner.com, as a “developer diary from the past.”

  The response has been more than I hoped for. The old journals seem to resonate not only with game developers, but with writers, artists and creators of all stripes, some of whom weren’t born yet in 1985.

  Here it is — the first “Making of” Prince of Persia. I hope you enjoy it.

  Note: In the interest of accurately portraying the ups and downs of this period of my life, over twenty years ago, I’ve resisted the temptation to edit out statements that today I find embarrassing, cringe-inducing, or flat-out wrong. Please understand that the journal entries reflect my state of mind when I wrote them, not what I think now.

  Jordan Mechner

  “Do I Really Want to Make Another Game?”

  May 6, 1985

  [New Haven] Picked up my Mac from Technical Services; they’d run it for a few hours without crashing, so they just packed it back up again. On the way back I bought a surge suppressor at the Coop. Hope that takes care of the problem.

  Wrote my two-page Psych paper. Now there’s just one lone Music exam between me and the rest of my life. I practiced by trying to transcribe the beginning of Raiders. It’s hard, even with Music Shop to test my work out on.

  Dad called. Billboard’s top-ranked program for this week is, indeed, Karateka. That’s Step Two in my convincing myself of this. Step Three will be when I see it for myself.

  May 7, 1985

  I’m done.

  I’m done with Yale.

  The music exam was pretty tough — I blew the dictations — but, hey, I did my best. I might get a B in the course. After the exam I spoke to Dwight and Tom, in a whisper because a lot of people were still writing. They wanted to know what I’d be doing next year.

  “Write computer games,” I whispered.

  I bought Billboard. Karateka is indeed number one. Me and Madonna. Yow.

  May 10, 1985

  Dinner with Bill Holt at Whistler’s. He brought me up to date on what everybody at Broderbund is doing. He also asked me about my summer plans. I said I was thinking about doing another game. He said Gary would love to have me back.

  So, I figure I’ll fly up there around the middle of July, stay with somebody for a while, see if I can get a new project lined up. I’ll call Gary on Monday and tell him.

  Note: call — not write. Gary — not Ed. Writing to Ed hasn’t worked for me too well in the past. He’s a Busy Man. I have a feeling they don’t use letters much out there, anyway.

  Bill suggested I ask Gary, not Ed, to pick up the tab. “If your dad ever disowns you,” Bill said, “I think Gary would adopt you.”

  I’m psyched to Return to Marin.

  Lunch with Jeff Kleeman. Afterwards, he came over and I recorded the score to Vertigo for him. I’ll look him up in L.A. this summer. Also, jogging this morning, I ran into Mike Saltzman and Eve Maremont.

  May 14, 1985

  Stopping by the post office after jogging, I found the letter from Ed I’ve been waiting for for nearly two months. I was amazed at how happy it made me. It didn’t say much — basically, just “sure, come on out” — but it lifted a weight off my chest, one I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. I am going out there in July. And I’m seriously looking forward to it.

  The issue of who pays hasn’t yet been addressed, but I think they’ll probably agree to pay for my ticket. If not (don’t tell them this), I’ll go anyway.

  Dad had a useful insight on my upcoming negotiations with Broderbund. My position should be: I don’t need an advance, or a salary, or a guarantee that they’ll publish the program when it’s finished. I’ll take all the risk. I just want the highest royalty rate I can get. And the pressure to negotiate the contract should come from them, not from me.

  May 17, 1985

  Breakfast at Naples with Dwight Andrews. We talked about computer music.

  A pleasant surprise: Got my first royalty check for Karateka, for $2,117. 2,000 units sold in April. The advance is now paid off.

  May 24, 1985

  The Baccalaureate address was pretty good. Giamatti always brings a lump to my throat when he does his routine about a liberal arts education and learning for learning’s sake.

  The Class Day exercises boasted a very funny routine by a pair of senior stand-up comics, and a good speech by Paul Tsongas. The thrust of it was that one should maintain perspective as one strives to Get Ahead in life; material gains are empty; nobody wishes on their deathbed that they had spent more time on their business.

  Friday must have been ninety degrees, but like a fool I wore a jacket and tie under the heavy black gown. Boy, was I sweating. The procession to Old Campus was a very big deal; we took a rather circuitous route through the New Haven Green, where we stopped and waited in a long line while the band and the President’s party paraded by. We doffed our caps to Giamatti as he passed. Ward, Larry, and Dominic whistled Elgar and Sousa marches to keep from getting bored. Larry had fun with the parasol he’d brought along.

  Our parents snapped picture after picture as we passed. We smiled and basked and kept moving. It all seemed unreal. Filled with an ocean of chairs, packed with people, approached by an unusual route through gates that had always been locked, the Old Campus felt like no place I’d ever been.

  Once we got in our seats, we were graduated almost before we knew it. A hymn, a prayer, and then, suddenly, one-thousand-some-odd “IN NUMBER,” we were graduated “as designated by the Dean.” And it was over.

  June 4, 1985

  [New York] I turned 21 today.

  Irv Bauer dropped by. We chatted for a couple of minutes. He congratulated me on being a boy wonder and asked me what I had in the works. I told him I was writing a screenplay.

  “It’s a hard business,” he said. Then he said: “I’m going to give you a gift.” He thereupon recommended James Agee’s two books On Film. I thanked him profusely. I guess I’m supposed to buy the books myself.

  I saw Aviva off (to Australia via LaGuardia) and went to see Jules and Jim.

  June 5, 1985

  A cold, drizzling day. I was a little grouchy, I guess because I’m feeling confused and indecisive about my future. Kay from Broderbund called and told me it’ll be OK for me to stay at Dane’s place. I booked a flight to L.A. and S.F. on July 5th. So everything’s set. Except –

  Do I really want to write another game? Can I do that and write screenplays at the same time? Can I write screenplays at all?

  I played the Gremlins soundtrack to evoke last summer and get me psyched about movies. It worked. Tomorrow I’ll write something.

  The Commodore version of Karateka must be out, because I got a copy in the mail. Shrink-packed and everything.

  June 15, 1985

  C
hris Columbus must be a happy guy. Steven Spielberg latched onto him and now Chris is cranking out fun movies one after another. I loved Gremlins. I liked Goonies. A lot.

  I’m glad I’m going to San Rafael in two weeks. I think I’m going stir crazy. My social life here is zilch. I never do anything. I’m turning into a lump.

  I’m not crazy about the prospect of sitting down to write another video game and getting up a year later. But it would be good for me to live in Marin and work at Broderbund. Meet new people. My own place, my own car. Get around. Yup — I’m set on that.

  July 4, 1985

  [L.A.] Staying with Robert Cook in Huntington Beach. Beach party last night with his family and about 500 other people. We talked about computer games, movies, and our future.

  Today we drove into Westwood and saw St. Elmo’s Fire. The first movie I’ve ever seen about people my age, i.e., just out of college. Usually it’s either the summer after high school, or freshman year in college. It’s refreshing to see these actors who’ve been playing 17-year-olds for the past five years get a chance to act their age.

  Karateka is #2 on Billboard’s bestseller list.

  July 5, 1985

  Robert is all psyched up to do a new game now. My presence seems to have that effect on him. Me, I’ve been having serious doubts about doing another computer game.

  On the one hand, if I live at home for much longer I’ll go stir-crazy. What I need is a place to go. Friends. Work. Moving to Marin and doing another game for Broderbund would give me that.

  But it would take time away from screenwriting. In the time it’ll take me to do a new game, I could write three screenplays. And… the games business is drying up. Karateka may make me as little as $75,000 all told, and it’s at the top of the charts. There’s no guarantee the new game will be as successful. Or that there will even be a computer games market a couple of years from now.

  July 10, 1985

  [San Rafael] It was fun walking into the Broderbund offices and seeing everybody. Had lunch with Gene Portwood and spent a couple of hours sitting around his office with Lauren Elliott and Gary Carlston, talking about ideas for my new game. David Snider showed me the Amiga — wow! — and Chris Jochumson showed me Mac Print Shop.

  Broderbund’s doing well. Print Shop is doing insanely well. I’m almost convinced I want to move out here and do another game.

  After I write my first screenplay.

  July 16, 1985

  Danny Gorlin took me to his house to show me Airheart, which, a year later, is now double hi-res. He asked for feedback.

  It had the same problem it did the last time I saw it. Small detailed objects against a black background. It should be cosmic, mind-boggling; people should look at it and say “I can’t believe I’m seeing this on an Apple II.” But the truth is, right now, it doesn’t look especially impressive.

  I said: “You’ve gone the honest, hard-to-program, hard-to-represent route at every step. You need to put in some cheap effects so people will notice the expensive ones.” I offered a bunch of suggestions. He was listening, but I could tell he really wanted to believe it was almost there and he could be finished in a month.

  Danny’s sunk a lot of time and money into this. I’m worried. Technically, it’s a wonder, but the universe he’s chosen to represent with this awesome piece of programming is so exotic that I’m afraid people won’t respond to it. It’s what Gene Portwood calls “an effect in search of a game.”

  July 17, 1985

  Gene and I came up with a setting for the new game before lunch. Ali Baba; Sinbad. It’s versatile, familiar, visually distinctive, and — in the video game field — hasn’t been done to death.

  Robert, Tomi, Steve and I had dinner at Acapulco. The waitress wouldn’t believe I was 21, because my New York learner’s permit didn’t have a photo on it. “You could have written this yourself,” she said. So Steve ordered a Margarita, then pushed it across the table to me. I was on my third sip when the manager came by and whisked it away from me with a curt “Thank you.” He was so steamed, even after that, he had to come back to the table and give us a lecture.

  What gets me is that they charged us for the drink.

  July 18, 1985

  Driving me to the airport, Tomi said:

  “I think you should pursue screenwriting. Go for it.”

  I was surprised and asked her why. She said that Broderbund is a really nice, warm, friendly place to work, but for programmers it’s actually not that great a deal. The older ones, like Chris and David, are starting to get scared, because programming’s the only marketable skill they have, and it’s a young man’s game. The new crop of kids coming up are willing to work harder and cheaper, and don’t have girlfriends or families yet to cut into their working hours. And nobody knows how long the games market will be around, or what it’ll be like next year.

  I never would have thought of it quite like that.

  August 28, 1985

  [Chappaqua] One of those rainy late-summer days. Woke up at 11:30, drove Mom into town and back.

  Finished that letter to Ed Bernstein at Broderbund. I needed to come up with some kind of storyline, so I just wrote something off the top of my head. I sealed the letter and mailed it.

  Then a strange thing happened. I started getting images in my head of the characters: The Sultan. The Princess. The Boy. I saw the scenes in my mind as if it were a Disney movie. So I wrote up a scenario — churned it out in an hour. It came out pretty well, I think. It’s just similar enough to Karateka, but more plausible, more intricate, and most important, more humorous. Gene will love it. Maybe the back story could even be written up and illustrated, like a comic book, and published with the game.

  My night thoughts lately have been along the lines of: “Do I have it in me to do another computer game? Is this what I want to do? Can I do it? What if the code-writing part of my brain has atrophied? Will I fail ignominiously? Should I just turn to screenwriting full-time?”

  Today made me feel better.

  August 30, 1985

  Another good day on the game. (Screenplay? What screenplay?) I’m getting to the point where I want to rush out and buy a video camera, a VCR and a digitizer and get to work.

  Atari Karateka arrived FedEx. It looks great, sounds awful. Dad and I spent the day troubleshooting the music. It should be OK, but nowhere near Commodore quality.

  I’m unutterably happy that I’m getting psyched up for this new game. It fills me with joy and confidence in the future.

  Then again, maybe feeling good doesn’t necessarily mean that what I write is good. Maybe the best stuff is produced out of blackest despair. Or maybe not.

  September 24, 1985

  I passed my driving test, despite hitting the curb while parallel parking, failing to check the rear-view mirror, stopping at a green light, and having trouble getting the key out of the ignition. So now I’ve got a driver’s license. Scary, isn’t it?

  Got a letter from Ed. He waxed enthusiastic about the new game and proposed they fly me out to discuss terms “as soon as it’s convenient.” How cool is that?! (Sorry, Mom, Dad… can’t make dinner. Gotta fly out to California for the weekend. Business. You know how it is.)

  September 25, 1985

  The Diners Club VCR and video camera arrived. It’s scary to have $2,500 worth of equipment I don’t own and can’t afford. David and I (mostly David) spent the day fooling around with it. It’s a fantastic piece of technology, but I’ll breathe easier when it’s out of the house.

  I feel so dishonest.

  October 2, 1985

  Last night I was kept awake by anxiety about the new game. All the detail I’m gonna have to put in… it just seems so daunting. How did I do it for Karateka? I can’t remember. I’m not sure I can do it again.

  The Doubt is still ther
e in the back of my mind. It talks to me from time to time. “Jordan!” it says. “What are you doing? You’re taking a step backward. You want to be a filmmaker. It’s time to move on! You brought the Apple-computer-game thread of your life to its climax a year ago. You caught the industry just before it started to die, before you started to lose interest in games yourself. Now you want to do ‘just one more game’… why? Timidity! Fear of breaking loose! You’ll waste a year, man! If you’re going to try for Hollywood, now is the time!”

  “Shut up,” I say, and Doubt grumbles and crawls, for the moment, back into its hole.

  October 17, 1985

  I ought to videotape David this weekend, because I have to return the camera by Tuesday. Problems with using David as a model: By the time I figure out what additional footage I need, he’ll be 3,000 miles away (and probably several inches taller).

  Ed Bernstein called back. “I get the feeling I’m supposed to make you an offer,” he said. “Why don’t you make me a counter-offer?”

  I wondered how you can make a counter-offer when there’s been no offer to begin with. But I said: “No advance, no salary, and a 20% royalty. That would be my ideal.”

  He came right back with: “My ideal would be no advance, no salary, and a 15% royalty.”

  I hate negotiating with people I like. My impulse is to be nice. I don’t want them to think I’m greedy. On the other hand, I want as much money as I can get.

  This morning I sat in the sun and reread My Side of the Mountain. It got me thinking about how far removed from nature my life is. Staring at a computer screen all day. Fast food, fluorescent lights. I’m only 21; my eyes should be bluish-white, instead they’re bloodshot.

  The yen to wander is still in me. It’s not dead. Thanks, Jean George.

  October 20, 1985

  Videotaped David running and jumping in the Reader’s Digest parking lot. It’ll do for a start.

  Negotiating

  October 23, 1985

  Ed said there was no way he could go above 15%. I said OK. I’ll draft a contract and send it.