Faustus' Noteworthy Video Game Boxart Collection

In response to an invitation by Neg in his magnificent Noteworthy Video Game Boxart Collection, I offer my selections. But because only four of the games that I'd choose to include in such a Top 10 actually have reviews that can be linked to, I've chosen instead to give due credit to the work of one celebrated Japanese development studio. It's just three games (so a Trilogy as opposed to a Collection), all of which are works of genuine art in themselves and for which a convenient review already exists. I'm referring to the games of Team Ico.

The first of them is from ICO (2001) itself – the original Japanese/European PS2 box art, that is, not the abomination that unlucky gamers in NA got. LINK

Similar to Neg's chosen favourite, it isn't wholly original. Well, kind of... It was painted by the game's lead designer, Fumito Ueda, but in the style of another artist, namely Giorgio de Chirico, a famous Italian surrealist painter who's credited as founder of the 'scuola metafisica' (metaphysical art) movement.

The interplay between light and shadow within the deceptively simplistic (but no doubt studiously considered) colours that gave De Chirico's work such vibrancy is recreated perfectly in Ueda's homage. It has the same brooding and baleful quality, with shadows that feel like they're moving imperceptibly within the motionless architecture. If you've played the game, you'll probably understand immediately why I say that the duplicitous feeling accompanying the shadow work is such a defining aspect of both gameplay and box art.

The two figures, dwarfed by the surrounding structures, nevertheless become the ultimate focal point for the eye. There's not a lot of detail to them, you might not even notice at first glance that one of them has horns, but there's something about the pair that suggests closeness, interdependence, and, at a stretch, even love. Regardless of how much actual detailing is or isn't in the brush strokes, the underlying feelings of the artist are sublimely realised.

There's one other feature present that I can't mention, because of spoilers, but which is hugely important to the emotional impact of the game's ending scene.

A few years back some portions of the gaming media seemed obsessed with debating the 'video game as art form' concept; without wanting to reignite that situation, my feeling is that art can be many things, individually or all or once. It can be an expression of intent or a visual representation of a feeling, whose boundaries in both cases are limited solely by the artist’s own imagination. It can be an attempt to depict an ideal, an abstract concept that’s rooted in belief.

When I say that ICO is not merely a game but also a work of art, it allows for all of those definitions, and more. ICO is art with an evolving context, one that's defined by both the game's designer and the game's player, inherently static yet able to change in tone and timbre with each individual playthrough.

Overall, Ueda's bold, surrealist painting encapsulates everything that's special about ICO, and may well be my favourite video game box art, ever.

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ICO's successor, Shadow of the Colossus (2005), is a very different kind of game to its predecessor and thus got a very different style of boxart.

Not as conceptually ambitious as the other two games, SotC's (PS2) art takes one defining feature of the game that it represents and goes large with it, literally; the artist (alas, whose name I don't know) chose to have the colossus occupy about 60% of the available space. The creature is so prominent that the letterer had little choice but to place the text onto the subject, interfering with the composition by dropping it somewhat indignantly over the creature's midriff. (Weirdly, the PS4 remaster of the game did the same thing with its text, despite being a different image entirely and having more room to work with.)

In contrast to the immense height and width of the creature, the image has a rather flat depth of field. I'm guessing it was chosen to complement the limitations of the game's wispy draw distance, but it arguably lessens the dramatic impact of the colossus, which is at odds with the desired effect. The creature's left hand (right side of image) is in the foreground, while its other hand is further back, but the stylistic lack of depth doesn't convey how much of a reach it would have. Another example is the birds; although likely far in the distance, it seems like the giant could reach up and pluck one from the sky.

The Brobdingnagian subject shares space with the game's playable character, who's tiny in comparison. It's a David and Goliath scenario, suggesting a gallant hero who'll stand steadfast in the face of impossible odds. The ambiguous truth of the game is that Wander (the horse-rider) may not be such a gallant hero, but, in all fairness, I can't imagine how that fact could've been conveyed.

My final criticism is that the beauty and stillness of the vast landscape, which is such an integral part of the game's personality, is unrepresented. SotC isn't a traditional 'action' game, like the above illustration may suggest, it's a contemplative journey that's punctuated with awe-inspiring boss-like battles.

While I feel that SotC's art is the weakest of the three evocatively, if viewed simply as a first impression it successfully communicates the herculean nature of the task ahead. Furthermore, because the true beauty of the game is the reflective feelings that it stirs in the player, many of which will be unique to each individual, in reality the box art achieves more after the game has been played, by way of functioning as a trigger/reminder of those things.

NOTE: the image used above is not the only one that SotC got. It's perhaps regional differences, I don't know, but some have Wander in the bottom left, while others have a more pleasing brown tint, as opposed to the green.

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And last but not least the third game, The Last Guardian (2016). 

A well-chosen frame can add a complementary finishing touch to an artwork, but TLG's unnecessary white border not only cheapens it, it reduces and confines it. I acknowledge that the foreground overlapping its border in a few places may be seen as a commentary in itself, but the overall feeling would've been better served with no barriers, or, if a frame was deemed necessary by whosoever had final say, placed outside of the image, not forced into it.

The depiction of the creature captures a worthy sense of scale and grandeur, as you’d expect, but also the gentleness, inquisitiveness and strangeness of the cat-bird-dog, which is an altogether more masterful achievement.

I adore the strange but compelling compositional balance; the positioning of small and large figures — moving from left to right, how the eye is trained to do in Western culture* —  feels comfortable. The two foreground subjects on opposite sides are like two halves of an immense balancing scale.

And while the game has no immediate or overt references to Egyptian mythology, I can't escape the notion that the artist took inspiration from it, specifically the 'Feather of Ma'at'. In order to enter the Egyptian afterlife a person's heart was placed on one side of a golden scale. On the other side was placed the white feather of Ma'at, goddess of truth, justice, wisdom, the stars, law, morality, order, harmony, the seasons, and cosmic balance. If the heart was lighter than the feather, symbolising that the owner's heart was not weighed down with earthly sin, then the soul of the deceased was deemed worthy and permitted entry to the joyous Field of Reeds.

How is any of that relevant to the game? I can't say, because it would be spoiler, but I assure you that it is (or can be said to be, at the very least).

Look into the mists in the background and you'll see long-pillared walkways, a recurring feature in all three Team Ico titles. And lower down, there's a peculiar entanglement of symbols suspended precariously on age-old ropes; they too have a part to play, adding to the mystery that you (the player) are a central part of. Note, also, that birds make yet another appearance.

*I wonder did it give a different feeling to people in Japan, seeing as how they're taught to read from right to left.

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To finish, I want to comment briefly on the fonts used in each game's titling:

ICO's isn't particularity striking or memorable, but the horn motif is a central part of the game's mystery, so it can be said to draw from its source in an obliging way, at the very least. When I named it my favourite video game box art, I was thinking specifically of a version of the key art sans text. If you'd like a copy of it, perhaps for printing or wallpaper, you can grab it HERE (png file).

Aside from the unpardonable positioning of SotC's font, overall it's actually rather fitting. It has a 'carved from solid stone' effect, reminiscent of an epic Hollywood movie poster; e.g. Ben Hur (1959); and King of Kings (1961). And it has a sense of titanic scale, like the font of the equally prodigious El Cid (1961). It serves the same function on the box as it did on the Hollywood movie posters: it suggests something indelible and immense, something that even the elements and time working in tandem have been unable to erase, thus far.

TLG's is the most traditional, but perhaps also the most successful. It's thin and elegant, like a typeface one might use to report facts. It appears to be old and worn, suggesting that it's endured through time because of its dependability. There's something about TLG's font that makes me want to trust it, which is an important theme of the game itself. It's the same colour as the frame that I expressed contempt for, but that just shows the range of feelings that a single colour can achieve within the same image. (I know that white is technically an absence of colour, but I'm not going to get philosophical about it right now.)

Having studied each piece of key art in turn for this post, I now want to replay the games in the order they were released. That's successful box art!