Why the Writing in Assassin’s Creed 2 and 3 Stands Out as the Series’ Best

There’s a distinct turning point in the Assassin’s Creed saga that still stands out vividly to me. It occurs early in Assassin’s Creed 3 when we see Haytham Kenway gathering his crew of supposed assassins in the New World. Everything seems aligned: Haytham carries a hidden blade, echoes the charm of Ezio Auditore from past games, and has been playing the hero’s part by freeing Native Americans and confronting British redcoats. Yet, it’s his utterance of the phrase, “May the Father of Understanding guide us,” that shatters any remaining illusion—revealing that we’ve been siding with our arch-enemies, the Templars, all along.

This twist captures the full potential of what Assassin’s Creed could be. The inaugural game hinted at a fascinating premise—identifying, connecting with, and ultimately eliminating your targets—but fell flat on narrative depth with both Altaïr and his adversaries lacking distinctive traits. Assassin’s Creed 2 made a leap forward by introducing the iconic Ezio, though it didn’t quite polish his rivals as well, notably with Brotherhood’s Cesare Borgia feeling underdeveloped. It wasn’t until Assassin’s Creed 3, during the backdrop of the American Revolution, that Ubisoft devoted equal attention to both the hunter and the hunted, creating a seamless narrative journey interwoven with gameplay that remains unparalleled.

However, in recent years, despite the RPG-era of Assassin’s Creed being generally well-received, there’s a growing sentiment of a franchise in decline. The reasons for this perceived downturn are varied. Some critics point fingers at the increasingly fantastical plots where players battle mythological entities like Anubis and Fenrir. Others aren’t thrilled with Ubisoft’s addition of romance choices, or, as in Assassin’s Creed Shadows, the use of real historic figures like Yasuke, the African samurai, as protagonists. Personally, while I have a soft spot for the Xbox 360/PS3-era games, I believe the decline stems from a drift away from the rich, character-focused storylines, which now seem submerged under the weight of a vast open-world format.

Over time, Assassin’s Creed has expanded its original action-adventure recipe, weaving in RPG and live service elements like dialogue options, XP progression, loot crates, and intricate gear customization. Although these installments have grown in size, they’ve paradoxically felt hollower in essence, not just due to the overwhelming side-quests but also in the quality of storytelling.

While games like Assassin’s Creed Odyssey offer a wealth of content compared to Assassin’s Creed 2, they often feel superficial. The illusion of immersive choice can backfire as sprawling narrative trees can dilute the quality and focus that the series once excelled at. Earlier scripts were concise, allowing characters to emerge strong and defined, rather than being spread thin to accommodate player-induced behavioral swings.

This dilution is palpable in the sense that the characters come across as less believable, designed more by algorithms than by a human touch, unlike the deeply resonating narratives of the Xbox 360/PS3 era. Consider Ezio’s impassioned “Do not follow me, or anyone else!” or Haytham’s poignant exit soliloquy to his son, Connor. It was writing like this that elevated the games to something special.

Modern entries stick to a clear-cut good-versus-evil narrative between Assassins and Templars, missing earlier nuances. In Assassin’s Creed 3, every defeated Templar forced Connor—and the player—to reevaluate their convictions. It’s revealed that the Templars believed they could prevent the genocide of Native Americans, and even Haytham questions George Washington’s aspirations, revealing deceptive complexities that leave players pondering long after the game ends.

Reflecting on the series, it’s clear why Jesper Kyd’s “Ezio’s Family” theme from Assassin’s Creed 2 resonated so much. The emotional core of experiences like Assassin’s Creed 2 and 3 was character-driven, encapsulated in melancholic scores that transcended their historical settings. Although I appreciate today’s expansive games for their scope and visual prowess, there’s a part of me that yearns for a return to the focused, intricately woven stories that captured my heart initially. Unfortunately, in an industry tilting towards massive open worlds and ongoing single-player updates, the odds of this happening seem slim.

Tim Brinkhof is a freelance writer with a focus on art and history. He is an alum of NYU’s journalism program and has contributed to platforms such as Vox, Vulture, Slate, Polygon, GQ, and Esquire.