You are in the floodplains of South America, 100 million years ago.

The moon, pale and large, offered the only light over the dense, forested floodplain. It was far too quiet. The mid-Cretaceous air was thick with the scent of damp ferns and the musky, pungent smell of huge bodies.

You stood on the edge of a massive clearing, just as a deep, reverberating vibration thrummed through the soles of your feet. It was a rhythmic, slow thud—thump... thump...—before the sound of breaking wood began.

Through the mist, it materialized. It was not just a creature; it was a walking landscape.

The Patagotitan did not run. It moved with a slow, heavy deliberation, a mountainous herbivore moving on four thick, pillar-like legs. It must have been 120 feet long. You couldn't see its head clearly; it was high in the canopy, perhaps 40 feet up, stripping ferns with a sound like a ship’s sail tearing.

Then, it stopped. The massive tail, held high in the night, remained perfectly still. The dinosaur turned, and its long neck descended, bringing its head down from the trees. Its eye, huge and dark, caught the moonlight. It was looking right at you…