I visited the 'world's first' AI art museum. It was dazzling, strange, and more thought-provoking than I expected.

Dataland was founded by media artist Refik Anadol and his partner, artist Efsun Erkiliç.

Google, a collaborator on Dataland, says the museum uses Google Cloud tools to create generative soundscapes, sense visitors' emotions, adjust scents "algorithmically," and respond to human movements.

In a time when the use of AI in art remains controversial, Dataland is the ultimate embrace of it.

My weekday afternoon ticket was $59, and after a group of about 20 of us formed, we were let into the first of five galleries.

"You are standing inside a work of art that is still unfolding," a recorded voice said. "Your presence shapes the world you're about to step into."

We were given two wearable devices: a wristband resembling a watch that tracked movement, temperature, and pulse, and a U-shaped device worn around the neck that emitted scents. Rather than fill the rooms with a single scent, each person would be exposed to different scents on their individual devices.

The visuals were often trippy, ranging from abstract — like a wave of colorful balls that resembled Dippin' Dots — to more literal, like fantastical flower shapes or pink and blue birds fluttering across the screen.

Sometimes the images looked more like the inside of a computer than like nature, highlighting the mash-up of tech and the environment on which the whole premise was built.

In one gallery, visitors could make their own AI art on small, interactive screens. I made strokes and watched as the image on the big screen in front of me morphed into an abstract bird-of-paradise flower that vaguely matched the shape of my drawing.

Visitors interacted with the space, watching their steps and waving their hands to see how the art responded. At one point, the screens went dark, and light circles appeared around each of our feet, displaying our pulse and temperature.

According to the museum, the wristbands track your "skin's electricity" in order to "capture your response to the artwork within." It also tracks your movements through the space, and on one screen, I could see myself, labeled M4 per my assigned wristband, walking along.

One screen showed how each person in the room reacted to the space — I could see the line for me, M4, on graphs that showed changes in my "emotion temperature" and "heartbeat" during my visit.

It was a bit interesting to see my avatar on the screen and realize how long I'd spent in each room, but I wasn't entirely sure what to make of the data, and I wondered if some people might feel a bit weird about being monitored.

I spent about 90 minutes wandering through Dataland. I was occasionally delighted by some of the images. I got a spark of curiosity when I was randomly hit with a new scent — "Is that more woodsy or smoky?" — and the sounds often matched the hypnotizing motions of the images in an interesting way.

It was impossible not to think about the fact that the art had been created by AI. I tend to ask myself two questions when I view a piece of art: How does this make me feel? What is the artist trying to say?

Without the feeling that the art was the direct result of a thinking, feeling human being, it was hard for me to connect with much of it.

The most moving part of the experience for me wasn't AI-generated at all — it was a real recording of a now-extinct Hawaiian bird, calling out for a mate and getting no response.

I spent much of my time at Dataland ruminating on a simple question: What is art? And can it really come from AI?

While the images were often dazzling and I enjoyed parts of it more than I expected, I left with a lingering uncertainty about whether I'd seen art, tech, or a strange new combination of both.