So ya wanna build a custom chip bag? Not just any crunch-container, but a siren-wrapped flavor crypt that makes folks stop mid-bite and mutter, “Holy jalapeño, who designed this beauty?” Strap in. Things get crinkly.

• Invent a backstory, not a label.
   Don’t just name your chip “Salt & Vinegar” like a sad deli sign from 1993. Imagine it’s a noir detective. Or a disco outlaw. Give that bag a soul, a scandal, a mysterious past. Branding’s dead—storytelling wears the crown now.
• Ditch raster, ride the vector dragon.
   Nobody wants to zoom in and see pixel vomit. Raster images blur like smeared mascara at 2AM. Vector? Crisp like frost on morning windows. Use it. Worship it. Treat JPGs like they owe you money.
• Colors? Speak in flavors.
   Red slaps. Yellow hums. Matte black whispers secrets in upscale accents. Every hue screams something primal—use that primal scream wisely. Nobody trusts a bag in gray-beige unless it’s smuggling contraband granola.
• Avoid “office printer chic.”
   Don’t just slap an Avery label on a foil pouch like your aunt does for garage sale snacks. That’s lazy. Expand. Bleed your colors off the edge. If it doesn’t look like it was printed in a fever dream, you’re not tryin hard enough.
• Two fonts, max—or risk typographic anarchy.
   Mixing six typefaces is like putting ranch, ketchup, and syrup in one bite. Nasty. One bold. One regular. Maybe italics if you’re feeling fancy and reckless. That’s it. No more.
• Proofread like a caffeinated goblin.
   Nothing kills cool like a typo in “cheddar”. Trust me, once printed, that bag’s mistake becomes a permenant punchline. Double check, then hand it to someone who owns a red pen and zero chill.
• Fake a nutrition panel and make it fierce.
   You’re not FDA-approved? Who cares. Build a custom facts panel anyway. Make it legit. Helvetica. Lined up tighter than a Marine’s boots. Sprinkle in absurd numbers if you must, just don’t skip this step.
• Pick a texture like it owes you rent.
   Glossy says “I party with glitter.” Matte says “I read poetry and eat chips slowly.” Holographic? That’s another level—snack rave territory. Your bag’s feel should match its attitude.
• Add a barcode just because.
   Maybe it scans. Maybe it leads to a weird SoundCloud link. Either way, it tells people this bag could be sold on Mars. Adds mystery. Adds weight. Adds “don’t throw me out just yet.”
• Seal it like it’s top-secret.
   Heat seal. Zip closure. Velcro if you’re deranged. Point is—don’t let that bag flop open like a sad lunch. Closure = confidence. Even if it’s party favors for your cousin’s third wedding.
• Get reactions before you mass-produce.
   I once designed a chip bag that looked like a bandage. Didn’t know till my nephew cried. Show your design to real humans. Kids, cranky friends, your mailman. If they don’t flinch, you’re good.
• Mind the fold-crinkle-curse.
   Designs vanish into the abyss where the bag folds. Your cute mascot? Gone into the Bermuda triangle of chip packaging. Keep the goods in the “safe zone” unless you like tears.
• Name your flavors like they’re mixtapes.
   “Cheese” is a snooze. “Explosive Queso Meltdown” is an event. Go weird. Go emotional. Make ’em feel something before they even open the pouch.
• QR codes = modern treasure maps.
   Drop one on the back. Link it to your story, your startup, or your grandma’s salsa blog. Doesn’t matter. People love scanning mystery boxes.
• Let chaos kiss your corners.
   Break rules. Doodle in margins. Put your dog’s face on it. Just don’t be beige. Beige gets buried. Color outside the lines, and if someone squints at your bag and asks, “Why?”—you’re halfway to legendary.

Final Spill of Crumbs

Chip bags? They’re pocket billboards. Snack-toting pieces of mood. If yours blends in, you’ve already lost to the guy selling jalapeño dusted ghost bites in chrome ziplocks down the street.

So pour some weird into your wrapper. Smuggle in soul. And when someone tears it open, let the experience begin before the first crunch.

If you want a template to mess with, or a mockup so good it should be illegal, holler—I’ve hoarded a few over the years.

Just promise me one thing: don’t make boring bags. Not now. Not ever. Check out more here.