Summary
Box art has always been more than just a way to sell a game. At its best, it’s a preview of everything players are about to step into—a snapshot of a world, a vibe, or a feeling. Some covers are loud and chaotic, while others pull players in with eerie silence or melancholic beauty.
And then there are a few that linger long after theplayers are done with the game. These are the kind of covers that players still think about years later, the ones that feel like they belong in an art gallery as much as they do on a shelf.
The cover forLimbodoesn’t scream for attention. It whispers. A quiet monochrome canvas with little more than a silhouette of a small boy and the spindly, terrifying legs of a spider reaching toward him from the shadows. It’s minimal in every sense, and that’s exactly why it works.
Inside the game, this spider is one of the earliest andmost disturbing threatsthe boy encounters, and its presence on the cover feels like a warning. But the real genius of this artwork lies in its emotional pull. It evokes a sense of dread without relying on gore or violence. Just shapes and lighting. It sets the tone for the rest ofLimbo’s atmospheric puzzle-platforming, where death is never far behind, and safety is more of an idea than a reality.
The cover became instantly recognizable when the game launched in 2010, with its stark, dreamlike visuals standing in complete contrast to most games of the era. It’s since been cited in discussions about how indie titles shifted the perception of what kind ofstories games could tell, andLimbo’s cover led the charge before a single puzzle was even solved.
There’s something both nostalgic and oddly melancholic about the originalKingdom Heartscover. Sora, Kairi, Riku, Donald, and Goofy are all seated together on a gothic-looking tower, gazing up at a heart-shaped moon in a cloudy night sky. It’s not action-packed. No one’s swinging a Keyblade. But the image hits harder than most cinematic posters because of what it represents: togetherness, longing, and the weirdly beautiful blend ofFinal Fantasyart styleand Disney whimsy that onlyKingdom Heartscould ever pull off.
The heart-shaped moon—officially called Kingdom Hearts in the lore—isn’t just pretty sky filler either. It’s central to the game’s plot, connected to the light and darkness within hearts, worlds, and characters. Having it hang above the characters like a glowing beacon of mystery ties the game’s theme of searching for connection into the artwork itself.
Designed by Tetsuya Nomura, the cover’s composition gives each character a distinct place in the frame, reflecting their emotional distance and growing tensions in the story. Riku’s slightly detached pose, Sora’s relaxed slouch, and Kairi’s thoughtful gaze all say more than dialogue ever could. It’s rare to see a game cover that captures tone, lore, and character arcs in one static image—butKingdom Heartsnails it.
Of all theResident Evil 4covers released across platforms and regions, there’s one that manages to be more haunting than any other: the red-tinted one with shadowy trees and a chainsaw-wielding figure lurking in the distance. No Leon Kennedy. No zombies lunging at the viewer. Just trees. And the faint suggestion that something—or someone—is waiting.
This cover is almost surreal in how understated it is for a series known for chaotic action. But that quiet tension? It reflectsResident Evil 4’s shift from traditionalsurvival horrorto something more psychological, where even open daylight couldn’t promise safety. The man with the chainsaw in the background isn’t just a generic threat either. That’s theDr. Salvadorenemy type, responsible for some of the game’s most brutal deaths, and the source of many players’ nightmares the moment they heard that revving noise.
The red filter adds to the sense of unease, making the trees look like they’re soaked in blood rather than bathed in sunset. And the negative space—intentionally vast and empty—pulls the viewer’s eye right to the lurking figure, making it feel like he’s watching back. It’s subtle horror design at its best.
This one’s pure attitude. John Marston stands front and center, a sawed-off shotgun extended toward the viewer, and a look on his face that says he’s not interested in talking things out. The red and beige color palette feels dusty, hot, and dangerous—just like the frontier itself.
The composition feels almost like a vintage film poster, but with just enough grime and grit to stay grounded in the world ofRed Dead Redemption. Players who’d been following Rockstar’s reputation already knew this wasn’t going to be a story of simple cowboys and outlaws. This was about redemption, violence, and the death of an era. And Marston, with his weather-beaten face and heavy eyes, carried that weight before players even loaded their first save.
This artwork was plastered across buses, billboards, and store displays during the lead-up to release, and it worked because of how direct it was. No elaborate symbolism, no distant landscapes—just a man and a gun. And somehow, that was all it needed.
Link stands at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a sprawling Hyrule that stretches out beyond the horizon, bathed in morning light. It’s not just pretty—it’s aspirational. This is the moment before the journey begins, the kind of scene that makes players want to pick up a sword and run toward the mountains.
What makes this cover special is how much it mirrors the gameplay philosophy.Breath of the Wildis aboutfreedom, exploration, and the quiet beauty of nature. There are no enemies in sight, no dark forces looming. Just a boy with a sword and a view that seems to go on forever.
The pose Link takes—back to the viewer, surveying the land—is almost identical to the view players get during the game’s Great Plateau introduction, a clever nod to what comes next. The clouds, the colors, the far-off volcano, and even the way the light breaks through the sky all speak to a game that’s less about fighting and —shrines, memories, secrets, and maybe a little peace along the way.
The originalDoomcover is the stuff of metal album legend. Doom Guy, front and center, blasting away at demonic hordes while standing atop a mound of corpses, muscles bulging, shooting a storm of bullets at demons. It’s testosterone, horror, and absurdity all rolled into a single frame.
Illustrated by Don Ivan Punchatz, who ironically never played video games, the image draws heavy inspiration from pulp science fiction and horror comics of the 70s and 80s. But it didn’t just look cool—it set expectations. This was a game thatwasn’t interested in subtle storytellingor careful pacing. It was about surviving Hell with a shotgun and a bad attitude.
The composition is chaotic in the best way. Doom Guy is surrounded, but unmoved. This wasn’t just any fight, it was the fight that would cost mankind everything if it was lost. And even after decades, that box art still stands tall as one of gaming’s most iconic power fantasies.
