Once in a blue moon, a game comes along that silences the keyboard-shaped pitchforks and unites gamers across the board. The last time we saw that kind of consensus was Elden Ring in 2022; now, we have Blue Prince. In an era where players often silo themselves into genre camps or console allegiances, this game feels like a rare, shared experience we desperately needed. Blue Prince is a first-person roguelike puzzle game set in an ever-shifting manor. It seems simple, but spend just a little time with it, and the complexity creeps in. It nearly drove me insane (in the best way possible): I was scribbling makeshift maps on my iPad and lost track of time as I dumped nearly 40 hours into it.
What makes Blue Prince so addictive is the balance it strikes between structure and mystery. You start in a seemingly quiet room in a strange, regal manor. There’s no tutorial, no glowing breadcrumbs, no over-explaining. The only instruction is to find the elusive “Royal Room” within 400 in-game days. Every time you open a door, you’re allowed to pick from a limited selection of cards that represent possible rooms to attach. Each one changes the layout of the house. The mechanic is elegant but devious—you feel like you’re in control, until the manor decides you’re not. What starts off as playful curiosity soon morphs into something far more intense. You begin keeping mental notes, real notes, full-on diagrams, and spatial theories as the game’s rules become opaque. Some rooms loop in bizarre ways. Others hide information behind riddles or visual cues. Occasionally, the manor punishes you with outright deception. It’s not about trial and error—it’s about obsession. That’s when Blue Prince reveals its true genius: it becomes a psychological puzzle. You’re not just solving the house—you’re trying to out-think a game that knows you’re trying to out-think it.
One of Blue Prince’s most powerful tools is its restraint. Visually, it’s not flashy. The manor is rendered in a stylish, lo-fi aesthetic—clean lines, moody shadows, and an eerie color palette that makes the space feel both lived-in and timeless. Each room oozes character. You might find a sun-drenched conservatory next to a pitch-black corridor, or a warmly lit lounge adjacent to an office strewn with cryptic notes. The contrast keeps you off-balance. It’s never outright horror, but there’s always the sense that something is just a little…off. The audio design complements this perfectly. Sparse piano notes echo through the halls. Doors creak open with unsettling weight. Sometimes, silence is used to disorient. Other times, a faint whisper or rumble reminds you that the house is alive in ways you don’t understand. The vibe is something between Mist, Amnesia, and Return of the Obra Dinn. It’s not trying to scare you, but it does want to haunt you.
There’s technically a story in Blue Prince, but it’s buried in the very walls of the manor. You don’t get cutscenes or exposition dumps. Instead, you gather fragmented clues through documents, environmental storytelling, and the behavior of the house itself. There’s talk of lineage, a lost heir, and a curse—but nothing is handed to you. The narrative is a jigsaw puzzle scattered across timelines, rooms, and cryptic phrases. It’s the kind of storytelling that rewards curiosity and patience. You’re not reading a story; you’re uncovering a conspiracy that may or may not exist. The titular “Blue Prince” remains just out of reach, both literally and metaphorically. Is he a ghost? A metaphor? A goalpost you’ll never reach. The game never tells you—and that’s the point. The story shapes itself around how you choose to explore. If you dig, you’ll find meaning. If you don’t, the house will still quietly exist without you.
Blue Prince is effective as a roguelike because it uses failure as education. When you “lose”—whether by reaching the time limit or backing yourself into an architectural corner—you’re not frustrated. You’re enlightened. Every failed run gives you more insight into how the manor operates. You learn what rooms to avoid. You begin to decipher recurring patterns. You even start to manipulate the rules, bending the house to your will… until it bends you back. There’s no combat, no health bar, no traditional “game over” screen. And yet, I felt more tension in this game than I have in most survival horror titles. Every room matters. Every decision is permanent. You can’t brute force your way through Blue Prince. It’s a mental chess game, where the house always gets the last move.
After my first couple of hours, I thought I had the gist of Blue Prince. After ten hours, I realized I had been completely wrong. By hour twenty, I had notebooks filled with drawn layouts, theories about non-Euclidean room behavior, and questions I couldn’t stop chasing. By hour thirty, I stopped thinking of it as a game and more as a ritual I performed every evening, hoping the house would reveal just one more layer. That level of engagement is rare. And it’s not because Blue Prince gives you flashy rewards or dopamine hits—it’s because it respects you. It assumes you’re smart, observant, and driven. And if you are? The payoff is unlike anything else I’ve played in years.
Blue Prince is not for everyone. If you want a fast-paced thrill ride or a neatly wrapped story, you won’t find it here. What you will find is a game that dares you to slow down, pay attention, and embrace uncertainty. It’s one of the most intellectually demanding games I’ve ever played, but also one of the most satisfying. The manor doesn’t just test your puzzle-solving skills—it challenges how you approach games, space, and even narrative logic. It’s hard to say exactly what Blue Prince is. A puzzle game? A roguelike? A psychological mystery? In truth, it’s a bit of all of them—and also something else entirely. It doesn’t care what label you give it. It simply exists, quietly, waiting for you to step through the first door.
Score: 10 out of 10
Reviewed on PlayStation 5