Vanishing Culture: Preserving Gaming History

The following guest post from legendary software designer Jordan Mechner is part of our Vanishing Culture series, highlighting the power and importance of preservation in our digital age. Read more essays online or download the full report now.

In 1993, I was trying to learn everything I could about the 1914 Orient Express, to help our team recreate it accurately in The Last Express (the game I did after Prince of Persia). We were dumbfounded when the French railway company SNCF told us they’d dumped most of their pre-war archives for lack of warehouse space in the 1970s. The train timetables, floor plans and photographs we coveted had gone to landfill.

Watch a demo trailer for The Last Expresshttps://archive.org/embed/The_Last_Express-Trailer

Like most kids of my generation, I grew up assuming that things like books, video games, music and movies, newspapers and magazines, once published, wouldn’t just disappear. If I ever wanted to revisit that 1981 issue of Softalk magazine, or read The Manchester Guardian‘s front page the day World War I broke out, surely some library somewhere would have a copy?

In reality, cultural artifacts are findable only so long as someone takes on the active responsibility to preserve, catalog and share them. Once gone, they’re gone forever. Historical oblivion is the default, not the exception.

That summer of 1993, as a last resort, we placed a classified ad in a French railway enthusiasts magazine: “Seeking information about 1914 Orient Express.” One issue later, our phone rang.

The voice on the other end proposed that we meet in their club, in the basement of Paris Gare de l’Est. We passed through a glass door marked “No Access” to discover a cavern of rooms filled with vintage railway posters, books, and the biggest working model train set I’ve ever seen. Our informants—a pair of retired French railway employees—were waiting. 

We explained what we were looking for, and what SNCF had told us. A glint appeared in the two gentlemen’s eyes. The elder of the pair leaned forward. “They think they destroyed the archives,” he said. “We took ‘em home. We’ve got ‘em.”

Resources
Play The Last Express, preserved at Internet Archive and emulated in the browser.
Play Prince of Persia, preserved at Internet Archive and emulated in the browser.
Learn more about Mechner and his body of work at https://www.jordanmechner.com/

If you’ve played The Last Express, you know that they came through for us. Our Smoking Car Productions team in San Francisco was able to spend the next four years creating a faithful interactive 3D recreation of the historic luxury train, thanks to two trainmen in Paris who’d preserved a part of their company’s legacy that management didn’t consider worth saving.

Thirty years later, The Last Express has in its turn become a relic. The cutting-edge 1990s technology we used to model and render the train is now antiquated, like 1890s steam engines. Today, retro-computing enthusiasts, academics, online libraries and archives volunteer their resources to curate and preserve games like The Last Express, and the documents and artifacts that contain the behind-the-scenes stories of how they were made.

Sadly (but unsurprisingly), it’s rare for game development studios and media companies who own the underlying materials to prioritize preservation of their legacies any more than the SNCF did in the 1970s. Old server backups are routinely deleted. Internal information about a title’s development is often unfindable a decade later even if management asks for it.

As a game developer, I’ve been in the rare and fortunate position of being able to archive and share source code, assets and development materials from many of my games. One reason is that my publishing contracts let me keep the copyrights (unusual even in the 1980s, almost unheard of today). In 2012, the Strong National Museum of Play agreed to receive a large pile of cartons that were taking up significant shelf space in my garage. When I turned up a long-lost box of 3.5” floppy disks containing Prince of Persia’s 1989 source code, a team of experts descended on my house with a carful of vintage hardware to extract and upload it to github. Wired magazine sent a reporter and photographer to cover the event. Few game studio employees can expect such privileged treatment.

Play Prince of Persiahttps://archive.org/embed/msdos_Prince_of_Persia_1990

A more ordinary course of events is exemplified by the abrupt closure of Game Informer magazine in August 2024. Its website with three decades’ worth of industry coverage disappeared overnight from the internet—removed by its parent company, GameStop, with no advance warning to the magazine’s subscribers or even to its staff. In this case, a robust network of game fans and journalists (and the Wayback Machine) quickly sprang into action to archive past issues. But similar erasures happen constantly around the world, largely unnoticed by the public. Game studios, local newspapers, and other companies disappear every week, taking their history with them.

The Internet Archive’s recent removal of 500,000 books from its online library, after being sued by a group of big publishers who called scanning and lending their books piracy, is now the subject of an ongoing court case. The decision (which may come down to the U.S. Supreme Court) will have a major rippling impact on future preservation efforts and online archiving, including within the video game industry. 

As a lifelong author, game developer and graphic novelist who makes my living primarily from royalties, I understand publishers’ desire to control and profit from content they own. But all of the games and books I’ve created were made possible by what came before—including other games, books, movies, and history I could access when I needed it, thanks to archivists and librarians. Their work is unsung, and often unpaid. I’d like to see it unpunished. Having benefited so much from their efforts, it’s painful to me as a creator to see them under attack.

I believe in fair use, and I fear for a society in which our ability to document and preserve our history (including books and games we’ve purchased) is effectively hamstrung and blocked by large companies seeking to expand their control of digital platforms. For these reasons, I’m firmly on the archivists’ side. 

I can’t help thinking that if the SNCF employees who took home those file boxes of train floor plans and route maps in the 1970s were to do the equivalent today—scan and upload them to a vintage railway enthusiasts’ website, say—they might well find themselves hit with a takedown notice and legal threats. Theft of intellectual property, violation of non-disclosure agreements, conspiracy to commit piracy. In today’s climate, I wouldn’t blame them for hesitating, or for letting their employer consign that history to oblivion.

The little corner of our world to which I’ve dedicated my working life—making video games, books and graphic novels—is just one small niche. But it depends on, and is connected to, all the rest. I hope that the French railway enthusiasts’ club still exists. I hope GameStop allows the readers and former staff who treasured their magazine to preserve its legacy without interference. And I hope the Internet Archive wins their case.

About the author

Jordan Mechner is an American video game designer, graphic novelist, and screenwriter. He created Prince of Persia, one of the world’s most beloved and enduring video game franchises, and became the first game creator to successfully adapt his own work as a feature film screenwriter with Disney’s Prince of Persia (2010). With game credits including Karateka, The Last Express, and Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time, he is considered a pioneer of cinematic storytelling in the video game industry. Jordan made his debut as a graphic novel writer/artist with the autobiographical Replay: Memoir of an Uprooted Family (recipient of the 2023 Chateau de Cheverny prize). His graphic novels as writer include the New York Times best-selling Templar (with LeUyen Pham and Alex Puvilland), Monte Cristo (with Mario Alberti), and Liberty (with Etienne Le Roux).

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