Remember back in high school there was always that one kid who could somehow grow a full and luxurious beard? He always looked so mature, and interesting, and somehow more respectable. He was our de facto leader, the one true teen, blessed with the rich, rugged whiskers of a Brian Blessed or a Tom Selleck. While the rest of us made do with a paltry patch of lip fur - we still looked like late stage foetuses, regardless - this one kid was leaping way, way ahead of the curve. So, why am exactly I talking about this? Well, for a start, I owed Mr. Blessed a favour, and secondly - moustachioed adolescents just so happen to be the perfect metaphor for games that look light years ahead of their competition.

They may exist on the same hardware, but they're anything but equal - these are the gob-smacking, eyebrow raising, fist-pump inducing titles that looked so good they were very nearly next-gen, no new hardware required. Feast your eyes on these.

Egad, do you even remember what the Game Boy Color looked like? All those garish hues and simplistic sprites, swirling around the screen to the sounds of a Nokia 3210 begging for death. Doubtless New Nightmare was intended to be different - more immersive, and far darker than anything the GBC had previously witnessed. And different it certainly was - different from good, - but while the game itself was absolute grade-A human manure, New Nightmare's visuals were a cut above its handheld contemporaries. Squint and you might even mistake it for a GBA title... almost.

Ah the Atari Jaguar, the overzealous hare to Ninty's turtle and Sony's, err, turtle… and maybe Sega's turtle too. The point is that the Jag took a great big early jump into supposedly next-gen gaming, only to wind up losing the race in short order. Whether by ill luck or poor planning, Atari's final console found itself performing a weak, over-hyped, half-generational leap at a time when the rest of its competitors were revving up for the full double jump. It was the Dreamcast of its day, only without the great games and lasting legacy of warm, gooey feelings.

Yet despite its rapid obsolescence, Atari's machine did manage to produce one outstanding looker. It may not seem like much today, but at the time of its release, AvP was damn near the diamond-standard in home console visuals.

Seeing slick 3D graphics emanate from your humble SNES must've seemed like pure witchcraft back in 1993. The machine itself was already some two years old by that point, and the standard was seemingly locked in. Oh sure, later games would continue to look better and better (the SNES was a particularly cocky console like that), but the kind of total, seismic shift entailed by Star Fox's release was a ludicrous advancement, regardless.

The game didn't even require one of those ultra faddish stop-gap peripherals to play. No Sega CDs here, oh no. Star Fox's technical wizardry all occurs inside of the cartridge itself, newly kitted out with the powerful Super FX chip. For a more modern comparison, imagine buying an Xbox One title that suddenly started throwing holograms across the room, firing off game-appropriate scents, or making you a cup of tea. That's how wildly unexpected this baby was back in the early '90s.

As remarkable as Star Fox's appearance may have been to the comparative cavemen of the 1990s, DK's SNES outing was almost even more impressive. Not least because Rare achieved it all without the aid of the aforementioned Super FX. Instead the studio bet big on the relatively 'simple', hitherto underutilised technique of pre-rendering its art in 3D, before importing it into the game. The resulting title boasted some of the most extremely detailed graphics of the era, with the likes of Killer Instinct and Abe's Oddysee later following its lead.

Unreleased and largely unknown in the west, Tobal No.2 represented Square's efforts at a competitive fighting title during the genre's most proliferate period. Despite being bundled with a demo of the hotly anticipated Final Fantasy VII, Tobal No.1 fared poorly enough in the region that it effectively put the kybosh on No.2's Western release. Too bad, because the game itself looked eyeball-blastingly fantastic - or at least it did at the time. Fluid animations, semi-rounded edges, somewhat recognisable faces - it's practically the holy grail of PSOne-era design.

It seems the name Naughty Dog and the term 'visually spectacular' oftentimes go hand in hand. That's because the fine folks behind Crash Bandicoot are absolutely, positively bonkers when it comes to wringing out every last drop of potential from Sony's home consoles.

When it came to creating Crash, the team did everything from writing a new programming language to completely ignoring Sony's memory restrictions. In many ways the game was a completely custom job, and one that even internal Sony programmers were unable to repeat. Crash co-creator Andy Gavin wrote all about it - it's a fascinating read.

Conker's foul-mouthed tirades may have won him a great many admirers, but don't let that fool you - this scatologically-minded squirrel was no one trick pony. Rare's resident rascal also boasted some of the slickest, most lushly textured visuals of the entire 5th generation. Yes, he may have appeared late on in that cycle, but the visual difference between his game and, say, Super Mario 64 remains truly remarkable.

'Boobs'. There, I've just about summed up the entire advertising campaign for Fear Effect 2. Luckily, the game itself isn't quite so shallow, though it remains just as aesthetically pleasing. Where other games of the era were content to model a crumpled up dustbin and call it a face, both Fear Effect and its sequel gave us actual human features, albeit in a slightly stylized form - mixing FMV backdrops with smooth cel-shaded characters.

It’s no exaggeration to state that Fear Effect 2 could've easily passed for a PS2 title. Hell, it still looks good enough to be mistaken for a modern indie hit today. So, how on earth did developer Kronos accomplish this titanic feat? Perhaps through some sort of arcane ritual? Nope, they just shipped the thing on 4 full-to-bursting discs. That's four times the chances of your idiot uncle using one as a drinks coaster. No wonder they called it fear effect.

Poor old Dreamcast, you simply peaked too soon. Much too strong for the 5th gen, much too weak for the 6th. Though you might have had a chance, I suspect, if it weren’t for the poor fortune of facing off against the single most successful console of all time. Curse you PS2, and all of your brilliant games!

Still, the Dreamcast had plenty to recommend it, including the Shenmue series, a pair of ambitious open-world adventures boasting some seriously impressive visuals. Packed with colourful crowd scenes and vibrant environs that feel truly, uncannily alive, Ryo's epic tale looked every bit as revolutionary in 1999 as its 'real-life' RPG gameplay felt.

So beautiful, yet so cruel - Ninja Gaiden Black is the veritable cheerleader of the video game landscape. Smooth as silk and a joy to behold, if not always to play, (y'know, because it's so darn hard) - Black looks more like an Xbox 360 launch title than an original XB game. The very fact that its PS3 port (known as Ninja Gaiden Sigma) looked a little shoddier for the switch should speak volumes about just how pretty this original effort was.

Early Xbox fanboys certainly had their work cut out for them as far as the all-powerful PS2 was concerned. Sony had the sales - roughly 6 times that of the Microsoft machine - the lineage, thanks to the PSOne, and the vast majority of both the timed and non-timed exclusives. Yes, Halo was great, but not enough to compete with the likes of God of War, Gran Turismo, Final Fantasy et al. The one solitary area in which Xbox aficionados could be certain of victory was in regards to graphical performance. Xbox games just looked better, and titles like Splinter Cell: Chaos Theory were instrumental in proving it.

Detailed environments, smooth animations, and a quality of lighting unheard of on home consoles of the day made Chaos Theory the poster child for the Xbox's visual supremacy. It also didn't hurt that the game's PS2 port utterly paled in comparison. Of course, what most fans neglected to mention is that the game looked better than just about every other Xbox game too…

One of the single best ways to help a game stand the test of time is to try and eschew 'realistic' graphics in favour of a more artistic approach. Cel-shading - or 'the art of drawing big black lines around everything', because screw you high school art teachers - remains one of the most popular means to achieving that end.

2003's Dark Chronicle (aka Dark Cloud 2 in the states), stands as testament to the success of this method, looking just as good today as it did during the latter parts of the PlayStation 2's heyday. Though not as smooth as similarly styled Valkyria Chronicles, the titles remain a fair sight more comparable than any other '03/'08 pairing you could mention. Just ask the likes of Jedi Academy and The Force Unleashed, or Devil May Crys 2 and 4.

This spot could just as easily have been filled by Silent Hill 4, another gorgeously gory title that somehow managed to look like a million blood-soaked bucks. So, If that's your preferred option, I say go wild. Run with the antelope, sing it in the valleys, scream it from the highest mountain top. But for me, Silent Hill 3 looks just a smidgen better.

Whatever the case, neither title has any business whatsoever working on a PS2. It's quite simply stunning what the developers were able to achieve here. Ultra smooth textures, believable character animations, icky schlong monsters. This game has it all!

As visually striking today as it ever was, Okami represents further proof that a strong art-style can and will endure the test of time. Where other, more 'realistic' games quickly become little more than running sight gags - i.e. "I can't believe we used to think this looked good" - Okami and its ilk remain just as vital as ever.

Sure Capcom may have opted to give it the whole HD treatment later down the line, but in truth the game barely needed it. When viewed on a proper, standard-def CRT TV, Okami positively glows, marrying cel-shaded design - there it is again - to ink wash-inspired visuals. There's little more that needs to be said here, other than to perform that weird kissing gesture that cartoon chefs are so fond of. Bellissimo!

Black certainly isn't the prettiest game on this list, though that's largely by design. Few 6th generation titles nailed the grim and gritty aesthetic quite so well as this. What's even more surprising to note is the sheer level of attention being paid to destructibility, one of the game's biggest features and a major drain on resources.

With so much processing power being set aside for crumbly biscuit physics, you'd think the rest of the game's graphics would suffer. Not so, in fact they're some of the best on the platform. It seems the lesson here is a simple one: Don't compromise on anything ever, and everything will work out just fine. Just don't apply that to marriages. In every other respect, you're basically good.

Here's a rare example of a cross-platform title where the old-gen outing looks better than the new. Odd I know, and partially a matter of taste, but there are a few good reasons why this might've occurred. For one, the older system was far better understood than the then-cutting edge Xbox 360. With the game likely being made for the former and ported to the latter, there wouldn't have been many opportunities for true enhancement.

As such, the 360 title appears overly bright and blurry, representing a clear case of a studio throwing fancy effects at a game in the hopes of making it look somehow 'newer'. Still, that's one mighty fine looking Xbox game. Well done, you old geezer.

Proponents of the 'size doesn't matter' debate, look no further than this all-time great. Squished onto one of the GameCube comparatively tiny discs, Resident Evil 4 still managed to look a thousand times better than its eventual PS2 port. A few blurry textures aside, this is a title that could've shown up in the early days of the Xbox 360 and no one would've batted an eyelid.

This, of course leads to the obvious conclusion that the game was actually developed many years into the future, before being sent back in time as reward for our good behaviour. Cheers Capcom.

It's no secret that the longer a development team has with a console, the more power it's able to procure from it. Games at the end of a cycle simply ought to look better than those at the start, where the pressure to go cross-platform and get to grips with some new-fangled technology tends to weigh heavy on the developer. Normally, these visual improvements emerge at a steady rate, eventually reaching a plateau of sorts during the mid-point of a PlayStation or Xbox's life cycle.

Halo 3 represented its series' starting point on the 7th gen. Halo: Reach therefore was its plateau - a modest improvement all around. Except, of course that it wasn't, for after wresting control of the franchise from long-time developer Bungie, 343 Industries set about sacrificing every goat it could get its hands on in order to summon up the sheer level of black magic necessary to produce Halo 4. It may not be 8th gen, but it's damn close enough for a game operating on 2005 hardware. Sumptuous stuff.

Alright alright, let's just get this one out of the way good and early: The Last of Us: Remastered looks a whole lot nicer than this initial effort. I suppose that's kinda the point. And yet for my money the game's PS3 incarnation already looked as good, if not better than most 8th-gen experiences. The whole thing just looks so… soooo… well, I don't know exactly, I guess it defies description. No amount of swooning superlatives could hope to do it justice, and so I'm just going to go ahead and coin a new one myself - 'fansplanshish'. The Last of Us for the PlayStation 3 looks absolutely fansplanshish. Go ahead and jam it in your eyeholes.

Never have I been more sure of the Apple/ Satan relationship than after seeing this stunner in action. How else do you explain the sheer visual majesty on display on a smartphone screen? There can be little doubt about it. Some poor, unfortunate intern definitely wound up on an altar in order to make this happen.

The problem with adding a smartphone game to this list is that the format's generations don't tend to last so long or mean as much. Saying that Infinity Blade looked next-gen therefore doesn't really accomplish a great deal. Still, it's quite an achievement, and a clear winner over the medium's usual fare. When everything else looks like Angry Birds, Infinity Blade may as well be the second coming.

There, that should minimise the deluge of 'But you for got about Game X, you idiot!' in the comments. But it won't, will it? Have at it, I can take it.

One of the best ways to tell a game you love it is to play on the hardest difficulty. It's a show of commitment, a sign of willingness to learn the in's-and-out's of a game in exchange for an engrossing challenge that'll blister your thumbs and rattle your brain. And only a select, dedicated few ever attempt such a feat - let alone succeed. Just look at any global achievement or trophy rankings if you don't believe me. Hell, most players don't typically finish the game in question, regardless of difficulty.

Each entrant on this list has accomplished something most players never will. They stand alone, stoic and proud, having faced horrors and surmounted challenges that have destroyed so many others. But where do you fall within these hallowed halls? Nearly every game out there either has some crazy achievement to unlock or is just innately difficult. Which one rises to the top as your crowning gaming achievement?

Ninja Gaiden is like a Shakespearean romance: beautiful, but cruel and unfair and with a really horrible camera system. Maybe that analogy doesn't work. Point is, Ninja Gaiden isn't just hard because of its unrelenting, swarming enemies and overpowered bosses. It's fundamentally broken - and staying with a broken game is diamond-on-diamond hard. Keeping track of Ryu Hayabusa’s jumping, spinning frame as he runs along walls means the slob on the camera gets left behind, clipping and pin-balling against the environment, trying its best to keep up. Learning the camera’s limitations is just as gruelling as mastering the actual game - how and when to block, exploiting enemy patterns, and budgeting my spend in the shops. Coming out of a fight with an inventory full of potions was a symphony of controller, man and game, with each playing its own movement.

Getting all of this right (or at least learning the technical limitations) was beyond satisfying, and there are parts of this game that are forever burned into my cortex. This was complete mastery, a stubborn, defiant 'up yours' to a gremlin - the sodding camera - that threatened to tank one of the greatest action games ever made. I loved you, Ninja Gaiden, but what should I have expected? The course of true love never did run smooth.

The Game Gear version of Sonic 2 is insane. It's identical to the already-tough Master System version, only there's one crucial difference: the zoomed-in viewpoint. This may make Sonic big and detailed, showcasing the 8-bit handheld's power, but it also makes it impossible to react to anything ahead of you. Maybe Sonic Team forgot during the conversion that 8-bit Sonic 2 also features one of the most ludicrous spring sections in any game ever. Single springs, hundreds of feet apart. No way to see them coming. With insta-death in-between. That's probably why you can rack up countless extra lives in Green Hill Zone. You really need them.

So I actually 'learned' Sonic 2. The exact cloud tiles under which lay an invisible spring to reach a Chaos Emerald way up in the sky. How many microseconds I had to release the d-pad in order to scrub enough speed to reach the next platform in Green Hill's boss level. The sequence of pipe direction changes to beat the boss. I did it all, got all of the Chaos Emeralds, finished the secret level and saved Tails. Can I do that today, some 23 years later? NOPE.

"What," I hear you cry, "the game where you play as a small, sticky blob? The charming LittleBigPlanet-alike where you build the soundtrack as you collect little happy notes?" Yup, that’s the one. The one with Death Mode. The practically impossible Death Mode that must be completed in its entirety in order to gain a shiny platinum trophy. And I wanted that trophy. Badly. So badly that I think, somewhere in the darkness, part of my brain is still playing Sound Shapes.

Twenty unique mini levels unlock once you’ve completed the main campaign. The goal is to collect a number of randomly placed notes within a time limit, dodging various deadly hazards: 20 notes in 30 seconds, 19 notes in 37 seconds, you get the idea. There’s no way to cheat, and no tips. It's just you and your thumbs. Facing death over and over again, I reached a zen-like state. I would do levels 50 times in one sitting. And yes, I won in the end. My last level was Aquatica: a hell spawned combination of underwater flight and spinning blades. I don’t think I could even speak when it was over.

While it may not be a full game, BioShock Infinite's Clash in the Clouds DLC is definitely the hardest stand-alone dollop of game I've ever played. While its baseline goal is pretty simple - clear a given stage of all enemies to advance, rinse and repeat - in a fit of unquenchable achievement thirst, I decided to attempt the Blue Ribbon Challenge.

For those who haven't heard about this study in gaming masochism, it works like this: every stage has a Blue Ribbon condition, where you're rewarded with a bit of colorful digital fabric for abiding by a specific handicap. Sometimes it's easy ("Defeat all enemies with the shotgun"), sometimes it's tricky ("Defeat five enemies with a single Devil's Kiss blast"), and sometimes it's so punishing and exact that you'll want to rip your hair out and eat it because you've gone a bit over the edge. We're talking challenges where you have to make specific enemies kill themselves with a specific move while airborne, or spend ten minutes picking off baddies with environment traps and then lose because two guys shot each other at the last second. Oh yeah, and there's SIXTY STAGES! And yet, somehow, I pulled it off after hours of incredible adversity, ripping victory from the putrid pits of failure. I AM THE BEAST OF AMERICA!

Crushing difficulty doesn't add new variables to Uncharted 2's environmental puzzles, and it doesn't make the wall-scaling, cliff-leaping exploration segments any more death-defying. Actually, that second point isn't entirely true, because you are dead if an enemy catches you climbing that lamppost. Crushing difficulty lets baddies absorb more damage, making fast and frequent headshots essential to your survival, and lets any shmuck with a pistol drop you after a few shots, meaning you either find cover or die outright.

One of Uncharted's common criticisms is that it devotes too much time to stop-and-pop gunfights. I totally agree, but I love Uncharted 2 so much that I still felt compelled to bump up the difficulty and start over every time I finished. Thankfully, Crushing isn't too bad once you learn to always stay near cover, but that final battle / hide-and-seek match with Lazarevic was almost too much - almost. I have a Gold Trophy to prove I could do it, which, according to the timestamp, I earned at 4:19 on a Sunday morning. Priorities.

Imagine if Super Ghouls 'n Ghosts and Rastan had a baby. Now imagine that baby leaping out of its crib, knocking you to the ground, and putting you into a headlock until you blacked out. That aggressive little tyke would be Volgarr the Viking, a hardcore 2D platformer that takes after its brutal forefathers with gameplay that demands your absolute focus. The magnificently bearded protagonist Volgarr takes after Capcom's Sir Arthur in all the best ways, from his weighty, fixed-trajectory double-jumping, to his power-ups (found in hidden chests) that shatter when you take a single hit. If you lose your fire sword and sweet steel shield midway through a level, you may as well jump headlong into the nearest lava pit.

Volgarr's difficulty curve is the best kind: seemingly impossible at first, but full of patterns and predictable enemy movements that you'll pick up on after the first dozen or so deaths. And like a Super Nintendo cartridge with no battery saves or passwords, quitting out means restarting the whole shebang from scratch. Or so I thought, because if memory serves, I finished the game completely oblivious to the fact that you can resume your progress by simply walking to the left at the beginning of each stage. Oh well, still worth it.

This throwback downloadable is one of my all-time favorites, even if it's the most taxing title I've ever completed. The game is agony and ecstasy: the pain of dying dozens, even hundreds of times in the same brutal stage, followed by the joy of finally completing it. Super Meat Boy starts with a modest challenge, then escalates to the point where I'm very close to smashing the controller.

Super Meat Boy's fake-out finale was the moment when I nearly gave up. I spent close to two hours trying to beat what I thought was the last stage, and I was near tears when I beat it. Then SMB goes all Metroid on me, surprising me with an 'escape the exploding stage' challenge. The whiplash of emotions had me cursing the Heavens so loud that I'm surprised my neighbors didn't call the police. It's a credit to the game that I pushed through my rage to ultimately beat the game and about half of the new game +.

"I made it to Shredder in the original TMNT :( But gave up and didn't beat it."

Sophia's story of struggle and loss is a somber tribute to all those who have fallen short of these trying challenges. And, to be fair, we all have more failures than successes in the realm of gaming, but it's those very same failures that make our achievements shine that much brighter. So, what about you? What is the most difficult game (or in-game challenge) you've ever completed? Let us known in the comments below.

For an added challenge on GR+ look up .